Free Prince Voronov's Virgin by Lynn Raye Harris Page B

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. Times were hard back then, and Mama did not have, shall we say, the right connections. There were those who very much wanted her gone.”
    “But you are here now,” she said, trying to recover from her mistake.
    “It took many years, but yes, I managed to buy the property back.” His ice-gray eyes glittered with an emotion she could not identify. Hate? Rage? Fear?
    Before she could figure it out, his mask slipped back into place. Once more he was the handsome, solicitous Russian prince.
    She stabbed her fork into a pile of greens. “Where does your mother live now?”
    The seriousness never left his expression. She began to get a bad feeling that she’d somehow blundered again.
    “She is in the church you saw when we arrived. As are my sister and my father. I moved my mother and sister here to join him when I took possession.”
    Paige felt her stomach drop. She set the fork down. He’d gotten the family home back, but his family wasn’t here to enjoy it with him. “I’m so sorry, Alexei. I shouldn’t have asked—”
    “How could you know?” He reached for her hand across the table. “They have all been gone a very long time now. But they are where they should be, in the family crypt, and I am happy I could give that to them.”
    She squeezed his hand, her heart going out to him. Though it was no consolation, she wanted him to know that she understood. “My mother died eight years ago.”
    “I am very sorry for your loss.”
    She shook her head. She was messing everything up, failing in her efforts to comfort him. Turning the conversation to oneself at a time like this was unforgivably rude—and not at all what she’d intended. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted sympathy. I just wanted you to know that I