He flinched, uncertainty showing in his expression for a brief moment before his face closed. “You need time to consider it. I understand.”
He stood up, pocketing the ring. “Lights will be going down momentarily for the play.”
The gulf between them was huge, but she didn’t know what to do to bridge it. She couldn’t say yes right then. She didn’t know if it was enough to never hear the words. Did not saying them mean he didn’t feel the sentiment?
Maybe if he’d tell her why he couldn’t say them, but clearly he didn’t want to.
Still. He wanted to marry her. “Tell me why.”
“Why, what?”
Was he playing dense, or did he really not know? “Why you won’t say the words.”
“I made a promise.”
“To who?”
“The mother of my heart.”
Chanel tried to understand. “She doesn’t want you to get married?”
“Of course she does. She’s very eager to meet you.”
“But she doesn’t want you to love me?” That didn’t sound promising.
“She does not want me to use the words to convince you to marry me. It must be your decision entirely.”
“Is this a Ukrainian thing?”
“We are not Ukrainian. We are Volyarussian.”
Unlike their Ukrainian brothers, the Volyarussians had not been subject to Russian rule and loss of identity. Their ties to the old ways of doing and thinking from their original homeland were probably stronger than in the current Ukraine, but she understood what he was saying.
“Okay, a Volyarussian thing.”
“It is a Yurkovich family thing.”
“Your last name is Zaretsky.”
“My parents never gave up legal rights.”
“You could change your name now.” He was an adult. There was nothing stopping him.
He jolted as if the idea had never occurred to him. Then he smiled. “Yes, I could.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe if you agree to share it, I will change my last name to the one of my heart.”
Those words played through Chanel’s mind as the lights dimmed and the play began. She couldn’t follow what was happening on the stage; she was too busy trying to figure out what was going on in Demyan’s mind.
He’d asked her to marry him. He’d as good as told her he planned to, but she hadn’t let herself believe.
She cast one of many glances in his direction, but his attention seemed riveted by the performance. He’d backed off so quickly, given up so easily.
That wasn’t in character for him. Her certainty on that matter pulled her thoughts short. She’d claimed not to know him. He’d said she knew the man he was at his most basic nature. And she’d taken that to mean sexually.
But the truth was she knew him well in a lot of areas. He was a man driven by his own agenda, even ruthless in achieving it. The way he brought her pleasure, withholding both hers and his own until they’d reached the place indicated as much.
Demyan didn’t give up easily, either. He pushed for what he wanted. Like convincing her to try making love while her hands were tied with silk scarves. She’d been leery and unwilling to do it, but he’d convinced her.
And it had been amazing.
Which begged the question: Did he not want her badly enough to fight, or was he sitting in that chair right now plotting how to get her while pretending to watch the actors on the stage?
She was pretty sure she knew the answer and it wasn’t a disheartening one, though it was kind of alarming.
He was plotting, but she wasn’t ready to give him an answer. Which meant she had to orchestrate a preemptive strike to prevent whatever it was he was planning. Probably to make love to her until she was an amenable pile of happy goo who would say yes to anything.
Not letting herself think about it too long and lose her nerve, Chanel scooted off her chair and onto the floor. Demyan’s head snapped sideways so he could see her, proving he was highly attuned to what she was doing.
Definitely plotting.
“What are you doing?” he whisper-demanded.
She knee-walked the couple of feet between her chair and his. “You know, you could have opted for a more romantic setting. This would be easier if you’d had a settee brought in.”
He stared at her, shock showing with flattering lack of artifice on every line of his handsome face. “What?”
“This.” She reached for his belt.
He grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“You’re repeating yourself and I would have thought it was obvious.”
“Here?” he demanded, not sounding like himself at all.
She liked that. Very much.
In answer, she tugged her wrist free so she could undo the buckle on his belt. Once it was apart, she unbuttoned the waistband and then slowly and, as quietly as she could, she began to lower the zipper on his trousers in the darkened theater box.
No one could see her, though there were literally hundreds of people mere feet away.
The backs of her fingers brushed over an already erect shaft and a small laugh huffed out of her.
“What is funny?”
“I was wrong.”
“About?”
“I thought you were over here plotting, but the truth is, you were thinking about sex, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Or were they one and the same?” she asked, realizing belatedly the one did not necessarily preclude the other.
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“We’ve done a lot of things.”
His head nodded in a jerky motion.
“But not this.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I did not know if you wanted to.”
“You decided I wanted a lot of other things I wasn’t sure about.”
“This is different.”
Maybe it was. Maybe this had to come at her instigation. “This is me, instigating.”
“I do not understand.”
She smiled at the confusion in his tone. “Here I thought you could read my mind.”
“Not even I can do that.”
Not even him. She almost laughed. “But you’re not arrogant.”
“CONFIDENT. NOT THE SAME.” His words came out gritty and chopped, not at all like him.
Understandable and welcome in the circumstances.
“No, maybe it’s not.” She worked his hot shaft out through the slit in his boxers, thankful they were made from stretchy fabric. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Do whatever