A rare opportunity, a call for abstracts issued by the State Department, on the topic of mutual understanding and cultural context between the United States and Russia, had been sent to me some eleven months ago by an acquaintance of mine at Princeton. He’d stumbled across the RFA while searching the Department of Defense website.

I’d applied for the grant, which had a yearly estimated budget of two million dollars for five years. I’d worked on it tirelessly for three months, fully expecting nothing to come of it other than improved understanding of grantsmanship.

Now, seated in my office, after leaving Anna—her razor wit, thought-provoking conversation, warm bed, and exquisite body—I lost my ability to draw breath for the second time that day.

The award email, wherein the grants manager at the State Department congratulated me and my team, and spelled out next steps—a meeting in Washington, DC, a conference call with our grants administration department, documents needed for the transfer of funds—appeared in my inbox with no fanfare, prosaic in its initial uniformity to any other email.

Yet nothing about this email, or award, or grant, was prosaic. My first thought was to call Anna.

I wanted, more than anything, to share this moment with her. This moment of triumph. This moment of freedom.

But then fear wrestled alongside hope. I struggled to accept the reality and ramifications of this news. Years of living as Sergey Kroft’s son meant I had to ask: did my father have connections at the State Department? And could this be one of his maneuverings?

He was powerful to be sure, but I’d never known him to be capable of this level of corruption. Purchasing and funding an endowed chair at a prestigious university was lightyears from rigging the federal grants system.

Even so, I reached for my cell and hurriedly found Dominika’s number, counting the rings before she answered.

“Luca?”

“Did he make this happen?”

A pause, and then, “What are we talking about?”

“Dad.”

“Did he make what happen?”

“You know what.”

Another pause, and then, “Are we talking about the gala? Because that’s not set in stone, and you would only have to show up for an hour or two.”

I wasn’t aware of any gala, nor would I refuse to attend an event if it were important to my family. “Not the gala, Dominika. The grant.”

“The grant?”

“Yes. The State Department grant.” My heart beating out of my chest, I waited for her answer, the sense that my very life, my entire future hung in the balance did not feel like an overly dramatic estimation.

“Holy crap, are you saying you got the grant?”

“Did he do it?”

“What? No! No, why would he? Oh my God, you got it?”

A gush of air left my lungs and I sunk further into my chair, not prepared to entirely trust my good fortune. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure. There’s no way.” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper, “There’s no way he’d be responsible, even partially. He’s anxious for you to leave teaching, take more responsibility and interest in the family business. A grant like this will cement your career and give you the freedom to go anywhere. He’d never do this. You know he’s just waiting for you to—”

“Move past my rebellious phase,” I finished for her, truth finally penetrating doubt.

“Congratulations, little brother.” Dominika was smiling, I heard it in her voice. “I’m proud of you.”

Her words of praise hit me square in the chest, my throat constricting, but I managed, “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do? Will you stay there? Or take the grant and run?”

I sought out my computer screen, skimming the words of the email again. Reading it this time and in no doubt of its veracity, I had no idea whether I would stay or leave my position.

But I did know exactly how—and with whom—I would spend my evening.

No more waiting, no more restraint. No more cause for caution. The shackles had fallen off, the burden of uncertainty had been lifted. My life was now my own and I was free to give it, and share it, and live it with whomever I chose.

I hadn’t yet determined how best to answer my sister’s inquiry when the sound someone opening my office door fractured my attention.

I glanced up from the email and found her hovering in the doorway.

Anna.

“So, how are you?” The cadence of her voice was smooth, deeper than usual, and the way she said the words made them sound rehearsed.

I immediately hung up on my sister, tapping the red end call button. She wouldn’t like that, and I’d need to apologize later. But for now, I took the extra precaution of turning my cell completely off. I wanted no interruptions, the moment was too momentous.

“Anna.” I stood, intent on gathering her to me and indulging in the perfect feel of her.

But the mischievous glint in her eye and slant to her smile halted my would-be progress. She gripped a large raincoat closed at her chest. The rest of her, the black lining her eyes and the red paint of her lips, the high heels she wore, gradually materialized for me as she shut the door.

She locked it.

I lifted an eyebrow at her coat. Summer had not yet relinquished its mild breeze to its chillier successor, fall. Nor was it raining.

“I do like the way you say my name.” Her grin widened as she added, “Professor Kroft.”

She gave the impression of one who had arrived with purpose. Anna was up to something.

“I’m not your professor.” Allowing myself to wonder as my stare wandered over the bulky outer layer, my attention dawdled where the coat ended just below her ankles.

Recollections, searing flashes of memory, of Anna this morning, exposed and panting on her bed, assaulted me with wounding force.

Equally overwhelming, the realization that every barrier between us had now been conquered. I’d spent the last month rushing to complete my novel and applying for every grant—no matter how large or small, or aligned to my research area and interests—determined to be deserving of her greatness.

Looking upon her now I realized I would never be deserving of her greatness, her kindness and cleverness and joy. My waiting had been in vain. How does one hope to deserve a star? Or hold it? Or keep it?

You don’t.

The answer is to always seek. To forever strive. To take and cherish when brilliance is offered.

“That’s right, you’re not my professor.” Anna tilted her head as though deliberating my statement, unbuttoning the top button of her coat. “So I guess that explains why we’re allowed to kiss so much.”

“Mmm.” I decided I would take her to dinner. Tonight. Someplace private, quiet. We would celebrate our freedom.

And then I would seduce her.

And I would keep her in bed for several days, attending to her every need. And whims. If Andrei had but seized his chance with Natasha, he might’ve lived a long, happy life, mired in deep, thorough satisfaction.

Anna unfastened the second and third button, crossing to me with measured steps. “But that doesn’t explain why we haven’t done much of anything other than kiss. So, why is that, Professor?”

I didn’t answer, a sensible explanation caught in my throat as she opened the coat, revealing a familiar purple top and her leather pants.

The leather pants.

My mouth watered.

She tossed the coat to the couch. “This is the same outfit I wore when we first met, except—”

I remembered the first time I saw her, how she’d filled these pants, how they’d highlighted every sensual dip and curve. How difficult it had been to concentrate on her words when faced with the glow of her warm, tawny skin, the enticing swell of her breasts, the joyfulness of her smile, the lush fullness of her lips.

“I remember.” Unthinkingly, I rushed forward to intercept her.

Anna chuckled, evading my touch by stepping to the side and lifting a finger between us. “Wait, don’t you want to know what’s different?”

“You can’t run away?” I followed, stalking her as she walked backward to avoid me, skirting my desk.

“No.” She seemed disconcerted—perhaps by my words, or maybe by the look in my eye as I chased her around my desk—nevertheless, she grinned. “My underwear is different.” She reached for the zipper at the front of her pants. “You had no idea last time, but I was wearing my regular old cotton undies. But not this time. This time I’m wearing teeny tiny lace panties and a matching bra.” She showed off a purple scrap of lace at her hip.

My flare of impatience was tempered only marginally by the happy, teasing light of her eyes. Anna was still walking backwards, but had nearly expired her options. With no place left to go, her back connected with the door and she was force to stop.

“So, my point is,” she continued evenly, conversationally, “You can’t ever really tell about a person, just by looking at them. And sometimes that ‘not knowing’ even extends to yourself, based on what you see in the mirror, what your interests are, how you-you-you dress yourself, for example.” She swallowed the last word, stumbling over her sentence as I invaded her space.

Placing my hands flat against the door on either side of her, caging her in, I brushed a light kiss against her lips.

Perhaps I wouldn’t wait.

Perhaps I would take her now.

In my office.

In her leather pants.

Or rather, out of them.

“Luca, are you listening?” Her large eyes were alert and I leaned just slightly away, my stare lowering to her chest. “You don’t know unless you ask, right? Sometimes you have to peel back layers—even within yourself—to get to the teeny tiny underwear, as an example. Do you understand what I’m trying to—oh!”

While she spoke, I’d lowered my lips to her neck, tugged her top and bra strap to one side, and bit her shoulder. She lifted her hands, her fingers dug into my scalp, holding me in place.

“Do you know what I wanted to do?” Pulling the top and bra more forcefully to reveal an extravagance of skin, I kissed her again. “When you came here the first time, telling me I gave you nothing.”

“No. What? What did you want?” Her breath hitched. It was a blissful sound, a surrender and an invitation as her body arched forward, connecting with mine.

Pulling her to me while also crushing her against the door, much like I’d done the first time we’d kissed, I let her feel what I’d wanted, what I wanted now.

Her breath hitched again.

“Oh. Okay. Well, we should do something about that.” Frantically, she yanked at my shirt.

My thumbs pushed into her unzipped leather pants and teeny tiny underwear, sliding the pair down and off as she efficiently kicked away her shoes.

“So we’re doing this now?” Anna sounded out of breath.

I captured her wrists as she tried to force my shirt upward and brought them over her head, claiming her lips with a quelling kiss, reminiscent of our first. Transferring both of her hands to one of mine, I reached between her shoulder blades and unclasped her bra, elevating the shirt and sliding my hands beneath, massaging and savoring the full, luscious weight of her in my palm.

She dragged her mouth from mine, twisting her head to the side but holding my gaze, her breathing heavy and excited. “If I’d known all I had to do was wear my leather pants . . .”

I leaned away and absorbed the sight of her, mussed and undone. Her leather pants and lace panties gone, her hands trapped above her head, the teasing yet seductive tilt of her chin.

Gone were thoughts of caution and propriety, leaving only my insatiability for this captivating woman and her desires.

I released her wrists and removed her top, because I needed her completely bare. I captured her mouth and lifted her, carrying her to my desk. With determined movements, she pulled once more at my shirt, lifting it off and away. Her hands were grasping, reaching for me with purpose.

“See now,” she moaned, kissing my chest and trailing her fingertips over my stomach to my belt buckle, “you’re just unfair. Must you be so beautiful?”

I covered her hands, stilling her progress and drawing her eyes to mine. “Lie back.”

“Luca—”

“Lie back,” I guided her to the surface of the desk and unfastened my belt and fly, memorizing the sight of her, as she was now.

Wide, watchful kaleidoscopic eyes; a hint of vulnerability; lush mouth, parted, though she pulled her full bottom lip through her teeth, revealing her uncertainty; her rich, dark tawny skin was a river of silk and velvet; and her hands gripped the edge of the desk as though to brace herself.

Spectacular.

Beyond the feeble capacity of words.

Defying the banality of description.

I stepped between her knees, spreading her wide, bending to brush a feathering kiss along her jaw and the graceful length of her neck. Her hands came to my back, her nails scratching lightly between my shoulder blades as I kissed a wet trail down her body, savoring each delectable inch.

“Oh God, oh God.” Anna panted, releasing me, her hands moving to grip the desk above her even as she lifted her head to watch my progress.

A groan escaped my chest as I finally, finally tasted her. I’d waited too long to repeat this magnificent act, and now I couldn’t remember why. I’d been circumspect and controlled where I should have been deferential. Her body and soul were deserving of worship, never neglect.

Never again.

“Luca!”

“Mmm.”

She reached for me, grasping. “Please. Oh, please. I want you. Please, please, please.”

I kissed the inside of her thigh and she shuddered, her hands frantic now, searching. Lifting her knees until her heals rested on the edge of the desk, I stroked her with my thumb, circling her silken center as I entered her and she yielded to me.

This time when she shuddered, I did as well, the dazzling truth of her body devastating, as all-consuming as she was stunning, stretched out before me, open, bare, bathed in yearning and trust. She glowed with it, all resplendent beauty and surrendering softness.

Our eyes locked, her hands continued searching for purchase, her mouth working to no purpose, parted with gasping breaths. Threading our fingers together, I bent to her, sliding my tongue against hers, mating our mouths in rhythm to our bodies.

I thought I’d been insatiable for her before, but now I knew there would never be an end to it, my appetite for her moans and sighs, or the hot perfection of her body.

“I’m going to- I’m going to—”

Increasing tempo, I succumbed to a most necessary roughness, to which she responded with high pitched murmurings and whimpers of encouragement, her body bowing to mine as she endured my coarse, pounding intrusion.

“Oh, Luca. Yes, yessss—”

I silenced her cries with a kiss meant to brand, racing towards my own crisis, craving the taste of her on my tongue as I swallowed her moans of gratification. Her once pliant body tensed, pulsing, sending stars into my vision.

And I followed her, my Natasha, my dearest Anna, into shared bliss.

* * *

She wore my shirt and nothing else while we lounged on my couch, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart.

And I knew, very soon, she’d want a shower. The thought brought a smile to my lips.

But for now, Anna was quiet, contemplative. Meanwhile, I wanted her again. Plans swirled, strategies, campaigns and schemes. Soon, we would be in my bed and I wouldn’t let her leave until her voice was hoarse, her body boneless, and her desires thoroughly satiated.

Even then, I would keep her close. I would shield her from cruelty, if she’d allow it. And I’d attend to her happiness so long as my doing so contributed to her pleasure.

“What are you thinking about?” Anna lifted her head, propping her chin with the base of her palm.

“How much I want you.” I pushed her curls over her shoulder, enjoying the texture of the mahogany spirals.

“You just had me, Andrei.” Anna grinned, her gaze cherishing.

“You must know, Andrei will never be satisfied. He will always want more of her. He will forever be wanting to steal her moments and keep her within arm’s reach. Thus is the nature of Andrei’s insatiable hunger for his Natasha.”

She wrinkled her nose, glaring at me with mock suspicion. “Are you saying I can’t satisfy my man?”

I laughed at her tart reply, sliding my hand along her spine to massage and stroke her wonderfully bare bottom.

Her expression cleared, sobered as she snuggled closer, and her voice was so quiet, I saw her mouth form the words rather than heard the sound of them. “Luca, I love you.”

I started, my whole world expanding and contracting in a single instant. Gathering her close, I shifted to my side such that we were facing each other and I kissed her. I kissed her with all the passion and wonder I felt for this remarkable person who’d chosen me.

Unable to keep my lips from her skin, I bequeathed a necklace of kisses to her neck, gripping her body, this body I loved, and had loved. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go.

“Luca?” Fingers twisted in my hair, her voice uncertain.

“I love you, Anna. I love you. I love you.”

She smiled a joyful smile, though her eyes narrowed, “Even though I’m not your kind of nice?”

“What?” Her words confused me—especially in that moment—as they made no sense, and Anna always made sense.

“Even though you’re a world expert on all the impressive things, and I’m just plain Anna?”

Not knowing how to respond to such a ridiculous estimation of her person, I dismissed it. “Your statement is preposterous. Kiss me.”

Her grin remained, even as I recaptured her lips, her palms cradling my face. We kissed until air became a concern, and then I reluctantly bent my head to her neck and breathed her in, her hands now rubbing small circles over my back.

“Well,” she sighed, sounding content, “This has been a very efficacious day.”

“It’s not over yet.”

“Ah, yes.” I felt the grin in her words. “What should we eat? Other than each other, I mean?”

Again, she made me laugh. And this time, she laughed too.

* * *

“If we are not taught how to love, or that we should, then how can we love ourselves? It would be like expecting an infant to fry an egg.”

“Luca.”

“Anna.” I held the door open for her to Jake Peterson’s Microbrewery and she preceded me, administering a wane look as she passed.

But I had a point.

Her statement earlier, that she was not my kind of nice, beleaguered and nagged. She’d said it before, when we were in my family’s penthouse, after I’d submitted to my weakness, my need to see her, and tracked Anna down at her work.

‘I’m not your kind of nice,’ she’d said. The words hadn’t merited my attention, a throw-away line, I’d believed at the time.

But now, after hearing them from her exquisite mouth a second time, I was not so sure.

“You can’t be serious.” Anna turned to the hostess and signaled that we required a table for two.

I murmured, “As a blood infection,” so only she could hear.

“Come on.” She shook her head, but was thwarted in her rebuttal as the hostess motioned for us to follow her into the restaurant.

However, as soon as we were seated side-by-side in our booth and the hostess had left us to examine the menu, Anna leaned toward me, placing her hand on my arm. “Come on. You can’t look for completion with another person. You have to know yourself first.”

“Yes, I agree. Know thyself. But love thyself? No.”

“You don’t love yourself?”

“I didn’t say that. I merely argue that this post-modern individualism is harmful, that we—Western society—have become lazy in our dependencies and relationships. To say, ‘Don’t attempt to love another until you know what it is to love yourself,’ is imbecilic. We, humans, must be loved first to know how to love in return. This is why we are given families, ideally parents, who will love us, teach us that we are worthwhile, worthy of love and respect, provide a mirror, a reflection of our worth. We must know what love is, what it looks like, in order to give it to another.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” She crossed her arms, glaring at me. “And furthermore, I think I want a hamburger and a milkshake.”

I closed my menu. “I’ll have what you’re having, even though you’re wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, glancing heavenward. “How can you think this way?”

“Think of love, an accurate representation of yourself, like an egg. You’ve never seen an egg, never had it cooked for you, never cooked it yourself, never eaten it. Then suddenly, I give you an egg and ask you to make me an omelet. According to your perspective, you are not allowed to touch the egg until you know how to cook it. But then, how will you learn?”

“I can touch the egg, I just can’t cook it for you. I would have to cook it for myself first. Read about it, take some cooking lessons. Maybe visit a chicken farm.”

“Really? We would put everything on hold—after finding each other, after navigating the magnificent messiness of our journey thus far—so you could take some time to become more self-sufficient?”

“What’s wrong with being self-sufficient?”

“What’s wrong with being vulnerable? With trusting another person to see who you are and love you for it.”

Her eyes narrowed into an imitation of a glare, but her mouth twisted to the side to hide a smile.

I leaned closer, indulging the urge to trace the line of her jaw with my fingertip, then a gentle glide to the base of her neck where her pulse quickened beneath her skin.

“I do not wish for a companion,” my attention was drawn to her remarkable lips, “for an alluring fish from the sea, one of many self-sufficient salmon,” I lifted my stare to hers, finding amusement illuminating her eyes, “or halibut.”

“Are you calling me a halibut? Because I’ve always considered myself more of a bigmouth bass.”

I laughed, keeping my thumb against her pulse point and draping my fingers along her neck and shoulder, “No. You are no fish, nor am I.”

“Than what are you saying?”

I brushed a light kiss against her temple, whispering, “Come as you are, Anna.”

I felt the hesitation in her, the contradiction on the tip of her tongue.

“Come self-sufficient. Come powerful. Or come weak and uncertain. Just come to me. And stay. Trust that you are precisely the right piece, because you are the missing piece—in my life and of my heart.”

“Oh, Luca.” She melted. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of my shirt as her side came in full contact with my chest. She leaned against me and she sighed. “You say the most wonderful things, even if you can’t math.”

At this I chuckled, lifting her chin with my fingers and rationing just one kiss before forcing her to meet my gaze.

“You are flawless to me,” I held her with might and purpose, needing her to feel the veracity of my words, “We fit together like custom pieces from a two person puzzle. And therefore, you are exactly my perfect kind of nice.”

There are three things you need to know about Kat Tanner (aka Kathleen Tyson. . . and yes, she is *that* Kathleen Tyson): 1) She’s determined to make good decisions, 2) She must get married ASAP, and 3) She knows how to knit.

Being a billionaire heiress isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it sucks. Determined to live a quiet life, Kat Tanner changed her identity years ago and eschewed her family’s legacy. But now, Kat’s silver spoon past has finally caught up with her, and so have her youthful mistakes. To avoid imminent disaster, she must marry immediately; it is essential that the person she chooses have no romantic feelings for her whatsoever and be completely trustworthy.

Fortunately, she knows exactly who to ask. Dan O’Malley checks all the boxes: single, romantically indifferent to her, completely trustworthy. Sure, she might have a wee little crush on Dan the Security Man, but with clear rules, expectations, and a legally binding contract, Kat is certain she can make it through this debacle with her sanity—and heart—all in one piece.

Except, what happens when Dan O’Malley isn’t as indifferent—or as trustworthy—as she thought?