Stefan's head came up then and he grinned, his dark glance regarding Lisaveta with amusement. "You'll have to be more quiet, dushka," he murmured, "or we'll draw a crowd."

"If not for your self-indulgence," she whispered, "the problem wouldn't exist."

"If not for your popularity, Countess," Stefan sardonically replied arresting all movement for a moment, "there wouldn't be a problem."

"I don't have a problem." Her indignant whisper hung for a moment in the darkness.

"Neither do I," Stefan lazily drawled, and just as she was beginning to think she could defy her pulsing needs and gain control over her feelings once again, Stefan moved inside her, setting every intemperate nerve in her body to tingling.

No! she silently disavowed, feeling the first tremulous flutters begin, Stefan's eyes too observant, too knowing. She shouldn't, she mustn't climax, she must resist behaving like a lascivious trollop under that amused insolent stare.

"No-o-o-o," she whimpered against the injustice of her emotions and her peaking ecstasy.

Lisaveta's gratification triggered Stefan's own release. Their passion matched as it had so often in the past, and he fought against responding so exactly to her unbridled sensuality. She was flamboyantly sexual, resplendent in her voluptuousness, and every man reacted to her as he did.

He tried then to restrain himself, to set himself apart from her legions of lovers. He intended to use her for his own purposes, pragmatic purposes; he wouldn't be tempered by her response, and he controlled his prodigal impulses for a moment more. But Lisaveta reached up then to kiss his mouth in unthinking desire as she peaked, her lips soft and sweet tasting as he remembered, and he groaned into their lush resiliency, felt his shuddering climax begin and knew he couldn't stop himself.

"No…" he softly disclaimed as his white-hot lust poured into her.

"No," they whispered in unison as their bodies met in perfect harmony and the universe stood for a suspended moment in starlit brilliance around them.

Short minutes later, tugging the lace ruffles up over her breasts, he patted them lightly in place, shook out the lace flounce on her shoulders and then slid her petticoat and the burgundy silk of her skirt down over her legs. Without expression, he buttoned his trousers and tucked in his shirt while Lisaveta stood in shock and anger, furious at him… and at herself for responding so intensely. Still without speaking, he straightened the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting them to his jacket sleeves as though it mattered with no one in sight, and then with a quiet, "Thank you, Countess," he walked away.

She watched him stroll down to the shoreline and then disappear into the birches bordering the lawn, wanting to strike out at him in outrage, wanting to follow him with a screaming tirade of wrathful indignation, wanting also, unfortunately- disobedient thought-to cling to his arm and say, "Take me with you."

Her feelings were in untidy anarchy, a complicated muddle of wishful fantasy, lovesick yearning and indiscriminate rage. He was too beautiful and self-assured, too sought after and resistant to love. And it was bitter fate that she should want him anyway.

Still warm, with cheeks flushed and pulse pounding, Lisaveta welcomed the sea breeze. Shutting her eyes briefly, she leaned back against the cool granite, letting the sensations of sated passion subside. She shouldn't have been so physically receptive, she thought uneasily; she should have been less susceptible, shown more control and resisted him. Why couldn't she coolly deal with Stefan, save herself the humiliation of matching his need with her own, instead of crying out in delight, clinging to him, wanting him desperately? His motives, though, were never in question, even if hers were disordered and bewildering; his were purely carnal. And while he denied being drunk tonight, she wondered if perhaps he was. How else did one explain his shocking behavior?

But perhaps Stefan lived constantly on the brink of scandal; maybe if she were to ask, Nikki and Alisa would confirm that seizing women in ballrooms and making love to them where all the world might observe was ordinary procedure for Prince Bariatinsky. He did, after all, number Catherine the Great and Prince Orlov among his ancestors, and both had been monumental egos in an era that subscribed to monumentality as a credo. And from all Militza had told her of Stefan's father and mother, they had shown every sign of regarding impulse as a virtue.

And while she might decry the vice of capricious impulse, she in fact had reacted just as spontaneously. Her initial refusal had stemmed from anger. She had wanted him, too, and he must have been aware of her body's response even as she protested.

It was impossible any longer to deny her need of him. She'd proved it, demonstrably, tempestuously, and she might as well confront the truth.

She belonged to the legion of women-ex-lovers, current lovers and future lovers-who found Stefan irresistible.

Chapter Thirteen

Walking through the informal English gardens facing the sea, Stefan found his coachman visiting with the other drivers near the stables and had himself driven to the Yacht Club. Settling into a club chair near the windows, he had a servant bring him a bottle of brandy, watched as the man filled a glass to the point indicated by his finger and then, thanking him with a smile, began drinking. There was no possibility he could sleep tonight, and the liquor might help to mitigate the distasteful sense of affront and self-reproach assailing him.

He shouldn't, of course, have forced himself on Lisaveta.

Yet she had responded like a practiced tart, damn her. How many other men had enjoyed her favors the past few weeks…? The thought of other men touching her maddened and inflamed him, made him resentful, made him covetous.

He hadn't known exactly how he'd proceed once he saw Lisaveta again. He had intended to make love to her and by so doing exorcise his burning need for her, feel nothing but relief and return to Kars, although beneath his pragmatic resolve had been the more realistic possibility that he would, if necessary, bring her back with him.

Since he wanted her still, there was no question now of what to do, only of methodology.

He would simply have to carry her off, he decided, draining his glass and staring into the clear crystalline bottom. As he had before. And once she was settled in the mountain lodge, she'd be happy and content… as she had before. He would see to it.

Other men had wives and established mistresses; the practice, in fact, was prevalent. And while the inclination to install a confirmed mistress had never tempted him before, there was no reason why he shouldn't.

At this time of night the club chairs were deserted. The gaming tables two rooms away were the site of all activity, the brilliant lights and noisy play removed from the quiet of the parlor fronting the sea. He poured himself another drink and looked out the windows for the first time since he'd come into the room. The slips and docks and pier stretched across the flat horizon. Masts of sailing craft and smokestacks of larger yachts were silhouetted against the moonlight. The breeze had dropped off so the banners on the outside deck only flapped occasionally on their standards; the stars were radiant in the sky.

As he gazed at the tranquil scene and vast sparkling sky, his mood seemed to alter. He was less restless now, perhaps the liquor was taking effect, and the chaos of his feelings was sorted out… a decision made. The Golden Countess was about to be taken off the market-whether she liked it or not.

He hadn't been at the Yacht Club long because the brandy bottle was only half-empty when Nikki walked into the lamp-lit room. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, surveying the large area punctuated with leather chairs and sofas, writing tables, newspaper and magazine racks and silk-shaded chandeliers. His tawny eyes narrowed momentarily when he caught sight of Stefan lounging in his chair near the window, and with purposeful stride he walked over to him.

"I've been looking for you," he said, not bothering with social amenities. He'd been to Stefan's palace on the Fontanka first, and then to several cafes Stefan favored, before thinking of the Yacht Club, and he was irritated and badly out of temper.

"So you found me," Stefan idly replied, not inclined to be chastised by anyone. He knew why Nikki was here, and glowering like some wrathful deity, but the woman was available to the entire city. Surely he needn't bear the brunt of Nikki's censure.

"What did you do to Lisaveta?" Each word was a ground-out challenge.

While cognizant of Nikki's temper, Stefan matched him in his own terse resentment. "Only what, from the sound of it, every other man in Saint Petersburg's doing," he drawled casually, his sardonic expression masking his indignation at her popularity.

"If we hadn't been friends so long, I'd kill you for that remark." Nikki's golden eyes were hostile. "I'll say instead, you're dead wrong."

"Not from what I hear." Stefan hadn't moved from his comfortable pose, the glass of brandy in his hand resting on the chair arm, his eyes only half-open, as if their conversation were of negligible interest to him.

"Your informants are mistaken," Nikki retorted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, his stance vengeful, his Saint George medal and ribbon the only splash of color in the severity of the evening dress. "You could have hurt her."

One dark brow lifted in the studied calm of Stefan's expression. "She didn't appear to be in pain. To the contrary-"

"She's pregnant."

It looked for a moment as though Stefan had stopped breathing, but he quickly recovered and carelessly said, "So?"

Nikki's golden eyes flared like brilliant flame, his features took on the menace many men had seen across the dueling field. "So," Nikki murmured softly, "I understand you're the father, she's my cousin, and I'd like to know what you're going to do about it."

"Can you prove it?"

"I can kill you," Nikki breathed, his voice between a growl and a whisper, "and then it won't matter."

"Perhaps not a satisfactory solution for the lady, though," Stefan replied in an equally soft tone. "Do I understand she wishes to marry me?" His inquiry was insolent.

"She claims not to. She also claims she's not pregnant."

Stefan's brows rose. "And yet you're hounding me."

"She's apparently an innocent, although-" and it was Nikki's turn to raise one dark brow "-I'm sure you're more aware of that than we."

Stefan had the grace to acknowledge his responsibility there but took issue with the timing. "If she's not sure," he went on, no longer lounging, his glass put aside, his dark eyes intent on Nikki, "why couldn't it be someone else's. She's been here nearly a month."

"The girl is chaste as country air."

"Remember to whom you speak." Stefan's drawl was remonstrance.

"Present company excepted," Nikki said, his well-considered gaze taking in the altered posture and attitude of his friend.

"Then why is it," Stefan said, his voice intense with jealousy, "I've heard such contrary rumor?"

Nikki smiled for the first time. "Rumor only. She's flirtatious. Everyone wants her. It doesn't necessarily follow they were successful. And they weren't. Don't tell me," he went on, his mouth quirked in irony, "you deserted your cavalry corps for Lise and her gallants."

"The munitions and artillery are bogged down," Stefan muttered. "We're weeks off schedule. How do I know," he demanded, his tone different now, his dark glance keen, "it's untrue about the other men?" He wanted verification. He wanted assurances. He wanted absolutes, this man who'd lived his own life so differently.

"Because she came home with us every night in our coach and Alisa tucked her in and said good-night. Is my word sufficient against your jealousy?"

"Every night?" Stefan wouldn't so easily relinquish the maddening gossip concerning the Golden Countess.

Nikki gazed at Stefan from under his dark brows, the golden Kuzan eyes almost translucent in the lamp glow, his voice when he spoke significant in its utter lack of emphasis. "Every night," he said.

"She's exactly the same," Stefan said very quietly, trying to sort out the confusion and disarray of his thoughts. "I don't know if I believe you." How could she respond as she had with him and not fuel the rumors and gossip for the exact same reason?

Nikki shrugged. "That's your problem, Stefan. I can't obliterate your jealousy." Stefan's gaze widened.