Читать книгу The Only Woman to Defy Him - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 6

PROLOGUE

JUST NOT TODAY.

Demyan Zukov looked out the window of his private jet as his plane began its final descent into Sydney, Australia.

It truly was a magnificent view and Demyan owned part of the skyline. His dark eyes located his penthouse then he moved his pensive gaze to the numerous inlets that beckoned as temptingly as a sensual finger. The water was a stunning deep blue and was filled with boats, ferries and yachts that streaked their way through the harbour, leaving long white tails behind them. Always the view both exhilarated and excited Demyan. Always there was the prospect of good times ahead as his plane came in to land.

Just not today.

As he gazed down, for once unmoved by the spectacular sight, Demyan recalled the very first time that he had come to Australia. It had been in far less grand style and certainly there had been no press waiting to greet him. He had entered the country unknown, yet quietly determined to make his mark. Demyan had been just thirteen years old when he had left Russia for the first and last time.

He had sat at the back of a commercial jet in economy, beside his aunt, Katia. As he had looked out the window, as he had glimpsed for the first time the land that awaited him, and Katia had spoken about the farm in the Blue Mountains that would soon be his home, Demyan had scarcely known how to hope.

Demyan’s upbringing had been brutal and harsh. He had not known who his father was and Demyan’s single mother had found herself trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and alcohol. The small support she had received from the government had gone towards feeding Annika’s habit.

When Demyan had been five and his mother had lost her spot at the market, it had been Demyan who had taken on the responsibility of providing for them. Demyan had worked hard, and not just at school. At evenings and weekends he’d teamed up with a street boy, Mikael, and cleaned car windows at traffic lights uninvited, as well as begging tourists for spare change.

When necessary he would rummage through the garbage at the back of restaurants and hotels. Somehow, most nights, there had been a meal of sorts for himself and Annika. Not that his mother had bothered with eating near the end of her life—instead it had been vodka and more vodka as she’d grown increasingly paranoid and superstitious and demanded that her son conform to the rituals that she’d felt kept her world safe.

On her death, Demyan had fully expected to join Mikael on the streets but instead his mother’s sister Katia had come from Australia, where she’d lived, to Russia for her sister’s burial.

‘Annika always told me that you were both doing well.’ Katia was appalled when she found out how her sister and nephew had been living. ‘In her letters and phone calls...’ Katia’s voice trailed off as she looked at the sparse living conditions when she entered their flat, and then she looked properly at her desperately thin nephew. His black hair and grey eyes were such a contrast to his waxy pale skin and though Demyan refused to cry, confusion, suspicion and grief were etched on his face—never more so than at Annika’s burial.

Despite Demyan’s best efforts to ease his mother’s mind by obliging and going along with her many superstitions and rituals it had not been considered a good death. At the burial the two mourners stood silent beside Annika’s grave. The bleak service took place well away from the church and Demyan could almost hear his mother’s protesting screams as the coffin was lowered into unconsecrated ground.

Her final resting place would have been Annika’s worst nightmare.

‘Why didn’t she tell me just how bad things were?’ Katia asked as they walked away from the graveside.

‘Slishkom gorda,’ was Demyan’s flat response as he turned and looked at his mother’s grave. Yes, Annika Zukov had been too proud to ask for help from anyone and yet, Demyan thought bitterly, she had been too weak to change for herself or her son.

‘Things will get better now,’ Katia said, putting her arms around her nephew’s shoulders, but Demyan shrugged her off.

They flew from a harsh St Petersburg winter into an Australian summer. Dark, sullen and quietly grieving, for most of the trip Demyan sat beside Katia, staring unseeing out of the small oval window, yet he was hauled from his dark thoughts by the majestic beauty of the land beneath. He had heard that Sydney had one of the most naturally beautiful harbours in the world.

Now he believed it.

For the first time in a very long time, what he had been told had proved right.

It was like seeing the sun for the first time. It hurt and blinded yet he could not help but look again. Demyan’s heart was still ice, as cold and dark as the ground his mother now lay in, but in that moment, as he approached what was to be his new home, as he saw for the first time the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, he swore never to return to Russia. He would take nothing for granted and he silently vowed that he would embrace each and every opportunity that this fresh start afforded him.

Demyan had embraced every opportunity.

Each and every one.

He had soon learnt to speak English, albeit it with a strong Russian accent. His understanding, though, was excellent, as were his grades. They remained so when he entered university. Study always came first but when he closed his books, when his work for the day was done, then Demyan indulged.

Few could resist his dark brooding looks and the occasional reward of that sullen face breaking into a smile. Sex was always on Demyan’s terms, though; he didn’t want to linger with kisses but what he lacked in affection he made up in skill, though he got bored easily and soon moved on.

Nadia was a brief fling.

A fellow Russian in Australia, it was nice to speak and hear his own language. His brain grew tired after half an hour of conversation in English.

It was just one night, except there were consequences and at nineteen Demyan found out he was about to become a father. He gave up studying and got a job. He was soon in demand, many companies wanting his sharp mind on their books, but even back then Demyan refused to commit to one company—he hadn’t been able to control his mother’s world but he was in complete control of his own.

His riches didn’t come soon enough for Nadia and by the age of twenty-one Demyan was divorced, yet he didn’t consider his brief marriage a failure for Roman, his son, was his finest achievement.

Had been.

As the wheels of his jet hit the tarmac Demyan closed his eyes and tried to block out Nadia’s appalling revelation, yet he forced them open. He was here in Sydney to face things.

It was going to be a difficult visit. The press had found out that Nadia was marrying Vladimir and taking fourteen-year-old Roman to Russia to live.

The Zukovs were the equivalent of Australian royalty and the press did not want to lose this glamorous, fractured family and were goading Demyan with cruel questions that he steadfastly refused to answer.

Demyan was sped through customs and airport security did their best to shield him from the waiting press.

Perhaps they would have been better shielding the press from Demyan, for though he walked with seeming nonchalance and his head held high, behind dark glasses his eyes were scowling. If one more camera got in too close they would have an amazing shot for the late editions because with the mood Demyan was in he could have taken them all down with his hands tied. Demyan didn’t even offer a sharp ‘No comment’ to the questions about Nadia and Roman.

He had no desire to speak to the press when he couldn’t even discuss it with his own son.

How, Demyan tried to fathom, could he possibly tell Roman that he might not be his?

Even thinking it had pain shoot, like neuralgia, through his brain.

‘Dobryy den, Demyan.’ Boris, his Sydney driver, wished him good afternoon, and as they left the pack behind and headed towards home, Demyan called Roman and again got no answer.

Finally, reluctantly, he called Nadia.

‘I want to speak with Roman.’

‘Roman’s away with friends for a few days,’ Nadia said. ‘He wants to spend time with them before we leave for Russia.’

‘No more games, Nadia. I want to spend time with him before he leaves. I am here in Sydney. You are to tell me where he is.’

‘Why don’t we meet and talk about it? I could come over...’ Nadia’s voice lowered and Demyan gave a black, mirthless smile into the phone. If Nadia only knew how cold her attempts at seduction left him, she’d surely save her breath. Less than a month before her wedding, it gave Demyan no pleasure that she would drop Vladimir in a moment.

Demyan could have his ex-wife in his bed tonight if he chose to.

He chose not.

‘I have nothing that I wish to discuss with you.’

‘Demyan—’

He terminated the call, if he hadn’t, he might tell Nadia exactly what he thought of her and it wasn’t in the least complimentary.

‘Take me to a hotel,’ Demyan instructed his driver, unable to face going to his penthouse.

It was no longer a home.

‘Any preferences?’ Boris checked, as Demyan stared out of the car window, watching as summer sped by.

‘When does the new casino open?’ Demyan asked.

‘Not till next week.’ Boris answered, suppressing a smile. Yes, Demyan was back in town! ‘I assume you’re invited?’

‘Of course,’ Demyan said, irritation scratching his throat, because the distraction of a brand-new hotel complex and high-rollers’ casino was, in his current mood, rather tempting. ‘Find a hotel where the presidential suite is free and will remain so for my duration in Australia. Probably a month.’

Marianna, his PA, was based in the United States and would normally deal with any sudden requests from her boss, but Demyan chose his staff carefully and all were versed in his ways, so Boris made a few calls and it wasn’t long before they were pulling into the forecourt of a luxury hotel.

The staff fell over themselves to assist with the unexpected arrival of this most prestigious guest.

A teenage celebrity had that morning vacated the presidential suite and it had already been prepared for the next guest. However, that it was Demyan Zukov arriving ensured that as he swept through the foyer, twenty-four floors up, a multitude of staff were frantically doing their best to ensure that every detail was perfect for Demyan’s sudden arrival.

The door was opened and Demyan stepped in and barely gave his surroundings a glance.

Hotels, however luxurious, were all pretty much the same.

‘Can I get you anything?’ the butler asked. ‘A drink perhaps...’

‘My privacy.’

‘Would you like—?’

‘I would like to be left alone. I will call if I need anything.’

As the door closed, for the first time since the news had hit, Demyan was properly alone.

For the first time since Nadia had revealed her foul news, he gave himself a moment to take it all in. He’d been denying there was even a possibility that Roman wasn’t his son, of course. Roman had to be his. Demyan had held him the moment he’d been born, had looked into his son’s eyes and felt love seep into his closed heart for the very first time and had never doubted that Roman was his child.

Demyan had attempted to suppress the news Nadia had imparted in a haze of alcohol and women.

It had almost worked.

It just wasn’t working now.

Despite the hotel staff’s best efforts, as Demyan sought distraction and flicked through the selection of newspapers, there was one detail they had missed— Demyan exhaled as he saw a magazine with both himself and Vladimir on the cover and the quirky question—Who would you choose?

They missed the point entirely, Demyan thought bitterly—Nadia had no choice, even if she occasionally embraced the fantasy that they would one day be a family again, he would never take her back.

Still, the tabloids loved to play their imaginary games. Demyan thumbed through the pages till he reached the article. There was Vladimir, early fifties, extremely wealthy with a stable reputation; the one thing missing in his life—a son.

Then there was Demyan.

Thirty-three, his vast wealth made even Vladimir look poor and his relative youth, combined with dark, brooding looks, meant that in the handsome, rich stakes, Demyan undeniably won hands down.

The negatives?

He didn’t have to flick a page to find out what they were, but he did so anyway. Yes, he was a playboy, yes, he ricocheted across the globe, crashing in hotels, preferably with a casino attached. Yes, he disappeared at times to his luxury yacht and a selection of blondes.

Demyan worked hard and partied harder.

He was single—so why not?

As Demyan read on he saw that for once the press had almost played fair.

Yes, he had a scandalous reputation but that was tempered by his huge success and the fact no one could question that he was a good father and adored his son, and that his debauchery generally remained overseas rather than joining him when he returned to Australia.

Sydney was his base, his home, the rest of the globe his oyster.

But why wasn’t he fighting Nadia? The article demanded.

Why was he letting Nadia take his son to Russia without putting up a fight? Whatever Demyan Zukov put his mind to he seemingly achieved, so why didn’t he demand in the courts that his Australian-born son remain here?

Demyan read on, his gut churning at the questions and suppositions, especially knowing that Roman would surely be reading the same things.

The article was unrelenting. Perhaps Demyan didn’t really care, maybe the father-and-son images had been all for the cameras? Was there a new Mrs Zukov waiting in the wings perhaps?

God help her if there was, the article said.

Was Demyan perhaps weary of the frequent trips to Sydney and now only too happy to let Nadia fully take over the parenting of their son?

Demyan poured a drink and took a gulp and then walked to the window—not to take advantage of the view, more to torture himself with it.

From here he could see his penthouse—he was at eye level with it, in fact. Three stories of luxury yet it was the rooftop terrace that held his gaze now. So many evenings he had spent there with his son and his friends, listening to their God-awful band playing. It was there that Demyan had taught Roman to swim.

Demyan hurled the glass across the room in anger as he tore his eyes from his home.

He could not stand to set foot inside. He wanted it sold, he wanted it gone. There was also the farm in the Blue Mountains, his first home in Australia, that needed to be dealt with too. If Roman went to Russia then there was no reason for Demyan to be here. No reason to ever come back.

Demyan thought about calling his PA to join him here and deal with everything, but decided against it—though he liked her ordered, professionalism, in the bedroom she was getting far too clingy of late. Anyway, this wasn’t business, this was personal. If this was to be his last trip to Sydney then a lot of things needed to be taken care of and, Demyan conceded to himself, it was going to hurt.

Demyan picked up the phone. ‘I need an assistant for a couple of weeks, perhaps a month. Someone who is discreet and used to dealing with real estate.’

‘Of course. When would you like—?’

Demyan interrupted the question; he rarely made small talk.

‘Tomorrow morning at eight.’

Tomorrow he would deal with things.

Tomorrow he would start dismantling his life here and then leave it behind for ever.

There was nothing to hold him here any more.

Demyan headed for the decanter and filled a fresh glass.

What to do with himself this Wednesday night? He would hit another casino, Demyan decided. Tonight he would get blind drunk and, for once, his reputation would join him in Sydney.

Blonde, Demyan thought, inhaling the liquor.

No, brunette, or perhaps a redhead?

Why not all three?

Tonight he would party like tomorrow did not exist.

He took a drink and glanced once again towards the window, to a view that had once soothed him.

Just not today.