Free Behind the Palace Walls by Lynn Raye Harris Page B

the worn leather, wondering how many Voronov princes and princesses had used this very chair she was sitting on.
    Alexei took the chair opposite, and the food began to arrive. There were meat dishes, steamy dumplings, fragrant vegetables and black bread. A dish of black caviar in ice sat to one side, along with flat pancakes she knew were called blini. One of the servants opened a bottle of white wine and poured it into their glasses. Paige started to ask for water as well, but Alexei said something in Russian and a glass of water appeared at her place setting immediately after.
    The waiters filtered out of the room and they were suddenly alone. Alexei lifted his wineglass. “To a fine evening of good food and great company.”
    Paige clinked glasses with him. She took a small sip of the wine, surprised to find it light and refreshing, and smiled back at him. Her pulse thrummed, and she wondered how she would get through this evening when suddenly she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
    It was completely unreal, what was happening to her. She’d been whisked away from Moscow by a Russian prince, flown on his private plane to St. Petersburg and now she was sitting in the beautiful library of his ancestral home and eating a romantic dinner with him. These things happened in movies, or to beautiful models and actresses, but not to hardworking career women like her.
    She thought of Chad and Emma, and pushed away a spear of guilt that notched into her breastbone.
    “You are enjoying the pelmeni?” Alexei asked.
    “Everything is wonderful. But which dish is pelmeni?”
    “The dumplings. The filling is a mixture of beef, lamb, pork and spices.”
    Paige stabbed another. “It tastes amazing. You were right there’s more to Russian food than cabbage.”
    He followed the fork from her plate to her mouth, his gaze lingering while she chewed. She was beginning to feel self-conscious, but then he looked down at his own plate and resumed eating.
    “They were my sister’s favorite,” he said. “It is a recipe from the Urals. My mother made them for us quite often.”
    “I’m sorry that your sister is no longer with you,” she said carefully. And then she wanted to smack herself. Could she have sounded any stiffer? Any more uncomfortable?
    “It has been many, many years,” he replied. “But thank you.”
    When he didn’t say anything else, she felt duty-bound to change the subject. Another tenet of the Southern creed: never make folks uncomfortable, and never talk about upsetting subjects.
    “My mother cooked a mean Southern-fried chicken,” she said lightly. “That was my favorite growing up.”
    He looked at her with interest. “But not any longer?”
    Paige shook her head. “Not since I learned about cholesterol and heart disease. And not since I lost ten pounds once I gave up fried foods.”
    Though she’d probably still be eating Mama’s chicken if Mama were alive to make it.
    “I have never had this Southern-fried chicken before.”
    “If you ever come to Texas, I’ll make it for you.” Polite chitchat was the hallmark of Southern manners. She didn’t expect he would truly come, but she felt obligated to say it.
    He grinned. “Perhaps I will plan a visit.”
    Paige took another sip of her wine. After tonight, the last thing she needed was for this man to come to Texas and see her meager little house. Nor was he likely to do so, really. He was simply being polite in return.
    “Your home is lovely,” she said. “It must have been amazing growing up here.”
    His expression clouded, but then he shrugged. “I did not grow up here, maya krasavitsa. My father died when I was five, and my mother was forced to leave with my sister and me. We were, as you say, persona non grata.”
    She felt she should drop it, and yet she found she could not. “That seems so unfair. Shouldn’t your mother have inherited the property when your father died?”
    He took a sip of his wine. “You would think so, but no.