One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Strangers When We Meet (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Kholodov’s Last Mistress (#ulink_4f7daeeb-7e1c-5201-9d27-d26a898ab885)

‘Do you want me to kiss you?’

Hannah let out a little laugh. ‘You’re a man of some experience, I should think. Can’t you tell?’

He laughed back, softly. ‘Yes, I can tell.’

She was innocent—even naive, yes—but she knew what was going on. Knew what Sergei wanted … and what she wanted. Hannah wanted him too much to care if she seemed transparent, obvious, eager. She wanted this, but she still would prefer him to take the lead.

And Sergei did just that, sliding his hands under her hair, drawing her closer. She came willingly, even as her heart thudded hard and her head fell back and she waited for the feel of his mouth on hers …

About the Author (#ulink_97d3f9bb-ae5e-5131-a873-4a2e6a6530e9)

KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon

romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since.

She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut, with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com (http://www.kate-hewitt.com)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_70fad543-d032-5d48-a8eb-04d5552c7d54)

SHE was about to be pickpocketed. Sergei Kholodov watched with an experienced and jaundiced eye as three street urchins thrust a bunch of newspapers into the face of the foreign girl. Or woman rather; he judged her to be in her early twenties. With her straight teeth and hair and bright red parka, she was definitely American.

She’d been standing in front of St Basil’s Cathedral, gazing up at the swirled onion domes with a map forgotten in her hand when they approached her, speaking urgently, pushing the papers. He knew how it went. She obviously didn’t. She laughed a little, took a step back, her hands batting the papers, and smiled. Smiled. She had no sense whatsoever.

The kids must have seen that. If it was apparent to him, standing twenty metres away, it had to be utterly obvious to them. She’d been chosen for that reason; she was an easy target. They kept the papers close to her face, surrounding her. He heard her laugh again and say in clumsy Russian, ‘Spasiba, spasiba, nyet …’

Sergei’s eyes narrowed as one of the urchins darted around and slipped his hand into the pocket of the girl’s parka. He knew how quick and quiet you could be when you slid your hand into someone’s pocket, grasping fingers reaching for the solid leather bulk of a wallet, the comforting crispness of folded bills. He knew the thrill of danger and the satisfaction—mixed with scorn—of a successful lift.

Suppressing a sigh, Sergei decided he’d better intervene. He had no great love of Americans, but the woman was young and clearly had no idea she was about to be parted from her cash. He strode quickly towards her, the tourists and hucksters parting instinctively for him.

He grabbed the kid who’d had his hand in her pocket by the scruff of his worn and dirty sweatshirt, watched with grim satisfaction as his feet pedalled uselessly through the air. The other kids ran. Sergei felt a stab of pity for the one he’d caught; his friends had been quick to abandon him. He gave him a little shake.

‘Pokazhite mne.’ Give it to me.

‘Spasiba, spasiba,’ the boy protested. ‘I don’t have anything.’

Sergei felt a hand, gentle yet surprisingly strong, on his shoulder. ‘Please,’ the woman said in badly accented Russian, ‘leave him alone.’

‘He was stealing from you,’ Sergei replied without turning. He shook the boy again. ‘Pokazhite mne!’ The girl’s grip strengthened, shoving his shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but he was surprised enough that his hold on the boy loosened for a mere second. The street urchin made good use of what he surely knew was his only chance at freedom. He kicked out and connected with Sergei’s groin—causing him to swear—and then ran for it.

Sergei drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to block the pain that was ricocheting through his mid-region. He straightened and turned to the woman who had the gall to stare at him with a particularly annoying brand of self-righteous indignation. ‘Satisfied?’ he queried sardonically, in English, and her eyes—a startling shade of violet—widened in surprise.

‘You speak English.’

‘Better than you speak Russian,’ Sergei informed her. ‘Why did you intervene? You’ll never get your money back now.’

She frowned. ‘My money?’

‘That kid you were so kindly defending was pickpocketing you.’