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      For MPP

      CHAPTER ONE

       Russian Billionaire Rumored to Be Acquiring Troubled Department Store Chain

      SHE WAS HERE. Roman Kazarov knew it as surely as he knew his own name, though he had not yet seen her. The woman at his side made a noise of frustration, a tiny little sound meant to draw his attention back to her. He flicked his gaze over her, and then away again.

      Bored. The woman was beautiful, but he was bored. One night in her bed, and he was ready to move on.

      Her fingers curled possessively around his arm. He resisted the urge to shake them off. He’d brought her here tonight on impulse. Because Caroline Sullivan-Wells would be here. Not that Caroline would care if he had a woman on his arm. No, she’d made it very clear five years ago that she didn’t care about him in the least.

      Had never cared.

      Once, her rejection had cut him to the bone. Now, he felt nothing. Nothing but cold determination. He’d returned to New York a far different man than he’d left it five years ago.

      A rich man. A ruthless man.

      A man with a single goal.

      Before the month was out, he would own Sullivan’s, the luxury chain of department stores founded by her family. It was the culmination of everything he’d worked so hard for, the symbolic cherry on top of the ice-cream sundae. He did not need Sullivan’s, but he wanted it. Once, he’d been an acolyte at the feet of Frank Sullivan. And then he’d been unceremoniously tossed out, his work visa terminated, his dreams of providing a better life for his family back home in Russia shattered.

      All he’d dared to do was fall in love with Caroline, but that one act had been the same as strapping on wings made of wax and flying too close to the sun. He’d fallen far and fast.

      But now he was back. And there was nothing Caroline or her father could do about what he’d set in motion.

      As if in answer to some hidden command, the crowd parted to reveal a woman standing on the other side of the room. She was deep in conversation. The glow from the Waterford chandelier overhead shone down in just such a way that it appeared to single her out, wreathing her golden-blond head and milky skin in a nimbus of pale light.

      Roman’s gut clenched. She was still beautiful, still ethereal. And she still affected him, which only served to anger him further. He had not expected it, this jolt of remembered lust and bittersweet joy. He stood there and willed the feeling away until he could look at her coldly, critically.

      Yes, much better. That was what he wanted to feel—disgust. Hatred.

      His jaw tightened. She chose that moment to look up, almost as if she’d sensed something was wrong, as if there was a disturbance in her well-ordered circle of friends. There was a crease in the smooth skin over her hazel eyes, as if she was annoyed at being interrupted.

      But then she saw him. Her eyes widened, her pink lips dropping open. She put a hand to her chest, then thought better of it and dropped it to her side—but not before he saw how he affected her. For a long moment, neither of them looked away. She broke the contact first, saying something to the person she’d been talking to, before she turned and fled through a door behind her.

      Roman stiffened. He should feel triumphant, yet he strangely felt as if she’d rejected him again. As if his world were about to come crashing down just as it had five years ago. But that was not possible, not any longer. He had the upper hand now. He was the victor, the conqueror.

      And yet bitterness coiled inside him, twisting and writhing on the floor of his soul, reminding him of how far he’d

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