Читать книгу Return Of The Untamed Billionaire - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS NOT the words that made her freeze, because there were many Russians in the audience and she heard that phrase often. No, it was the depth of his voice that made her face lift and her eyes scrutinise the darkness, and for a brief second in an otherwise faultless performance, she was Anya Ilyushin.

The cook’s daughter.

The orphans had all thought her posh because she’d had a parent and had later attended a prestigious dance school where she had learnt not just to dance but to talk well and to eat and walk like a lady. They had not understood that she too had been dirt poor. Before she had boarded at dance school and later during the holidays, she had risen before five in a freezing house and had gone to the orphanage with her mother. There, unlike at home, the kitchen had been warm. Katya would work all day and through till late at night, not just cooking but cleaning and scrubbing and sorting out supplies. Once her mother had put the oats to soak, ready for the morning, they would return to their dark, cold home, ready to do it all again the next day.

Anya had always yearned for the next day. When she was there, she had always looked out for him.

And she was looking out for him now.

Now she peered into the dark of the audience, but he did not call out again. Perhaps she had misheard. Or maybe she was going mad, Anya thought as she made her way back to her dressing-room.

Now she was exhausted and aching.

She sat there at her dressing-room table and fought to concentrate as she was told that soon she would receive the duchess.

‘Who else?’

There were many people who would want to greet her, and Anya found she was holding her breath as the names were read out.

Last year, when she had first played Firebird, Daniil, Roman’s twin, had been in the audience and had come backstage to make sure that it really was her.

She had run to him as for a tiny second she had thought it was Roman, but even before she had seen the scar, her heart had collapsed as she had realised it was not Roman.

She was scared to get her hopes up again.

Yes, she understood that it was imperative that she greet the duchess and she gave a terse nod. Of course one of the sponsors was here and with him his teenage daughter, who wanted to be a ballet dancer too. Anya felt her hands ball in impatience as the list was read out.

‘Who else?’ Anya snapped.

‘There is a gentleman, he says that you would remember him as Daniil Zverev’s twin...’

Anya’s heavily made-up lashes fluttered as it was confirmed that Roman was here, yet he had not directly given his name.

‘He offered his congratulations for your performance tonight. He said that he always knew that you would make it. He asked that I pass on this.’

Anya glanced down and there in the assistant’s palm was the small, thin gold hoop that she had left behind the time they had first made love.

Oh, she remembered coming home that day, late of course. Her mother had asked where she had been.

‘Your earring is missing,’ Katya had said, and then she had seen her daughter’s glittering eyes and flushed cheeks and her mouth and skin inflamed from Roman’s rough, hot kisses and she had slapped Anya’s cheek.

Hard.

And then the other.

Now Anya’s cheeks reddened at the memory of their first time and the bliss that both had found, and now Roman had brought the earring back to her.

‘Tell Daniil’s twin that he can return it himself. You can bring him to my dressing-room after I have greeted the others.’

Oh, she ached to have the pair. Her mother had given her the earrings when she had been accepted into the school of dance.

But, no, it would be a cheat to her heart and it would scald her fingers to take it from anyone other than Roman.

For now she had to line up with the rest of the cast, and as the duchess congratulated her on her performance, she shivered with the hope that Roman was still near. Tatania curtsied deeply and smiled and conversed with the duchess, but her breathlessness was not from awe, but for the potential moment to come.

She greeted others that she had to and accepted their congratulations with grace. She spoke with the sponsor’s young daughter and even gave her a pair of pointe shoes.

Yes, she did all the right things until finally she sat at her dressing table and told the assistant that she was ready to receive her final guest.

She stared into the mirror and saw that the feathers shook in her headdress and her eyes were wide, as if in shock.

She was.

After all these years they would come face-to-face and speak.

Oh, she had seen him once, a couple of years ago, but it had been from a distance and Anya did all she could not to think of that time.

All she could.

There was a knock on the door and she could not stand or turn. All she managed was to call the word Enter in Russian.

And still, as the door opened and then closed behind him, she did not turn.

Her skin shivered just to have him close.

He came into view in her mirror. At first there was just the darkness of his suit and the whiteness of his shirt, but it was enough to let her know that his body was still delicious. Oh, better even, because he was taller perhaps and broader, and as he came and stood behind her, Anya forced herself to look into the mirror and meet his eyes.

Roman was more beautiful than she remembered.

His hair was shorter than she recalled but was still black and glossy. The black eyes that met hers warned her heart to still fear him, for even after all these years he had the absolute power to hurt her again.

She could not recover from losing him twice.

Three times, in fact, but she chose not to go there in her mind.

It would seem that the years of despair she had suffered through had suited him. The man she looked back at was polished and poised and the cologne she now inhaled was heady.

He commanded her senses—he always had, for whether he wore cheap denim or a designer suit, the effect of Roman up close was the same.

Her senses did not point out the differences.

They did not care that the fingers that came to her shoulder were now manicured.

Just his touch had her fighting not to arch her neck, to rub her cheek against his hand.

He was back.

That was all she knew.

And as his hand remained on her shoulder, the contact had her eyes close in the ecstasy of his touch.

‘Brava,’ he said.

‘Roman.’ It was all her voice would allow.

For Roman, just one word was almost too much—hearing his name from her lips, the familiar slight huskiness of her voice, made locked-away memories pour in.

Finding out that his brother had married, that Daniil’s wife had just had a baby, had hit Roman like a fist. Knowing that he had a niece and that his twin was now a father had been difficult and he had fought not to make contact.

He could remember a worker speaking with him on the day of the fight, the last time the four had shared a dorm. Called into the office, Roman had been nonchalant as he’d been used to being in trouble.

‘Daniil is talking about not taking this opportunity unless they adopt you too.’

Roman had sat.

‘They don’t want you.’

Roman had said nothing.

‘Do you remember when you were four and that family took you for a walk?’

‘Nyet.’

‘They were a married couple and were considering adopting the two of you, but they said you were too wild.’

Roman had vaguely recalled something of the kind. They had been taken to a park and he had remembered standing on a swing for the first and only time.

‘Back then we said we would prefer not to separate twins. Roman, Daniil lost an opportunity once because of your poor behaviour. Don’t let this happen again.’

‘Tell him that if he goes, when I am older—’

‘No.’ Immediately the worker had interrupted him. ‘I don’t think you understand the opportunity this is. Daniil will be receiving a private education, he will be given the best chance for a new life. Do you want your twin to have to look out for you? To support you?’

Never.

‘You need to do the right thing by him and let him go for good.’

And he had.

Daniil now worked in London. Roman told himself he was here to purchase a property—that it happened to coincide with Firebird’s return was a coincidence.

In the end he had bought a ticket for tonight’s performance.

Dressed in a black suit, ready to leave his luxurious hotel, Roman had sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the earring and told himself to tear up the ticket.

To not go back.

He had made a vow to himself that he never would.

Yet he had gone to the ballet and watched silently in a box seat. His breath had caught when Anya had first briefly appeared on the stage.

And then again.

He had watched her dance and had ached with pride for all she had achieved.

That little girl who had diligently practised over and over in the kitchen, the teenager who had devoted herself to her dream was now a prima ballerina.

And she could not have made it this far with him.

He knew that for a fact.

Standing to applaud, Roman had meant to leave then, to slip away with the precious memory of watching Anya perform at her peak, but unable to resist he had called out to her. He had watched her face lift and her eyes search for him and he admitted to himself that he had lied about slipping away, for he had brought with him the gold earring that he had found on the floor as he had cleared out his bedsit.

No, he reasoned, for he took it with him everywhere.

Would she want to see him?

Roman didn’t know.

And now Anya asked a question he could not answer properly.

‘Why are you here?’ she said. They spoke in Russian and it had been a long time since Roman had used his native tongue, but he slipped into it with unexpected relief.

‘To congratulate you, of course,’ Roman said. ‘You made it. I always knew that you would.’

He leant forward and Anya breathed in again the heady scent of him and felt his arm brush her bare shoulder as he placed the missing earring on her dressing table.

She picked it up and remembered them at eighteen, lost to the world, wanting only each other.

‘You told me you couldn’t find it.’

‘I couldn’t,’ he said. ‘But when I packed...’

He had packed everything he had into a small backpack and left without even a goodbye.

‘You could have come and given it to me.’

‘No,’ Roman said. ‘Because we would have ended up making love. It had to be that way.’

She couldn’t dispute that they would have ended up making love, neither could she forgive his choice to leave, but that he had kept her earring for all these years meant so much.

Anya wanted to open the small box and put the earring with its partner but she decided to do that once he had gone. She did not want Roman to know just how much she had missed him, so she placed it back down and stood and turned to face him. She was tiny compared to his large frame. Her breathing was too shallow but face him she would, even if it nearly killed her to do so and to see all she had lost.

He looked immaculate.

His glossy black hair was superbly cut, he was beautifully clean shaven and scented with expensive cologne. His suit was exquisite, so much so that she reached up and touched the lapel. His chest was a toned wall of muscle beneath her fingers and she could feel tears pooling in her eyes as she saw a different Roman from the impoverished youth she had known.

His hand came and took hers, at first to remove it, because contact was too much, but then it closed over hers.

Now she lifted her eyes to his and they stared and the years that had parted them seemed to drift away.

No one could move her like Roman and it was the same for him.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

He did not answer when there was so much she needed to know; she could almost feel his reluctance to tell her.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does to me.’

‘I cannot stay long.’ Roman shook his head yet still he held her hand.

‘You could at least take me to dinner—we can talk properly. There is so much to catch up on.’

‘Don’t you have an after party to go to?’ Roman checked. From the shadows he had watched her accept the duchess’s congratulations and had heard the chatter.

Still they held hands, but now their fingers were entwining and their palms were exerting beats of pressure as the flame that had never died started to burn brightly again.

‘I can miss it.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We didn’t do too well at dinner last time, remember?’

A laugh caught in her throat as she remembered the one time they had been in a restaurant together. Roman, trying to make his way as a boxer, had taken her out for a Valentine’s Day dinner, using his winnings from a fight.

Valentine’s Day had still been relatively new in Russia but Anya had wanted to celebrate it.

She had wanted flowers and, of course, chocolate.

Roman had taken her to a restaurant, though.

The first restaurant they had been turned away from as Roman had not had a jacket and tie, and in the other restaurant it had been just as much hell on the inside.

A menu had been handed to him, when he had never known such a thing even existed.

There had been a wine menu too.

He had wanted to give her everything, except he’d had nothing to give.

Nothing.

But he had taken care of her aching body after rehearsals and soothed her panic as she’d prepared for an important audition.

They had lain in his room and talked, they had glimpsed a future, even if Katya had said it would be an impossible one.

And then, without warning, he had gone.

‘You left me...’ She said it with the pain she had felt then and his hand was warm over hers as she jabbed at his chest.

‘Anya, I had to. You would not be where you are today had I stayed’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘But it’s true,’ Roman said. ‘You wanted to get to Saint Petersburg and you did.’

‘You could have come too. We could have got a flat—’

‘It would never have worked, Anya. I could not afford a flat for us and neither could I sit back and say nothing about...’

He did not finish, both knew what he referred to.

Oh, their night at the restaurant had been such a disaster.

They had left and gone back to the small bedsit he’d had and it had been the blackest of Valentine’s Days. Roman had lain there, knowing that he had embarrassed her with his unpolished ways.

No.

Anya had stared at the ceiling, wondering how she might excuse that three-course meal. There had been steak and hren, a horseradish relish that she adored, as well as wine. A large meal, though, was the very last thing she’d needed before such an important audition. She’d known he had spent everything that he’d had. Roman had thought good food would help her tomorrow. Yet it had sat on her stomach like lead and she’d known it would weigh her down.

Once she’d been sure he’d been asleep she had crept to the tiny bathroom and knelt down and done what she’d had to do to make the next day work.

Her shame when the lights had gone on she felt again now.

The row that had followed had been as passionate as they.

‘What the hell are you doing to yourself?’ Roman had shouted.

‘You don’t understand how tough the competition is.’

‘Nothing is worth that! Anya, your mother is wrong to tell you...’

He never got to finish.

Embarrassed at being caught, still trying to save the situation, Anya had jumped to Katya’s defence. ‘She does what is best for me. Roman, you don’t understand families.’

She’d regretted her choice of words so badly because Roman’s eyes had shuttered.

It was the last conversation they’d had.

No, Anya thought, perhaps he could not have sat back idly as she’d done what she’d had to in order to get where she was. She had never made herself vomit since that time. Instead she controlled her portions and worked hard on her body, but few understood the discipline required.

‘Where have you been?’ Anya asked.

‘France,’ he said. ‘Corsica...’

‘So you did join the Foreign Legion?’ She just stared at his huge hand over hers and tried to hold tears back.

‘Yes.’

Anya knew about the French Foreign Legion because during their precious time together Roman had hinted that it was an option, and so when he had left she had looked into it. Legionnaires were given a new identity, passport and birth certificate.

Their pasts were wiped clean.

And it meant that the soldier you loved so much might die but you would never know.

‘Rather than be with me?’

‘I needed it, Anya. I needed a new start.’

‘So what is your new name?’

Again he didn’t answer her and Anya knew he would not be allowed to reveal his new identity. He should not even be here as visiting the past was strictly forbidden.

‘Roman.’ Anya answered her own question, for he would always be Roman to her. Yes, maybe the details had changed but he was still Roman to her heart. The feelings she’d had for him had never left, now though they heightened.

‘Are you still in the legion?’

‘No.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘Ten years.’

Which would have brought him to twenty-eight, and, given he was almost thirty-two, it meant that there were four years missing.

‘So, why are you here now?’

Because, despite so many promises to himself, he’d been unable to stay away.

‘I had to see for myself that you are okay.’

‘Then you’ll leave?’

‘Yes.’

He had to.

He did not want to complicate her life.

Always he had.

And he had read that she was dating Mika. He had always assumed male dancers were just pretty boys in tights.

His opinion had changed tonight.

‘Anya, I just came to see that you were doing well and it is clear that you are.’

‘Then go.’

Yet he did not.

They stood there, staring at each other, having a conversation, not with their mouths but with their eyes, just as they had in the early days. Then she would look across the sparse dining room and meet his solemn gaze.

Did you miss me? she asked without words.

His eyes told her that he had. They were black, the colour of coal, and they glinted the same way and could make her burn too.

His gaze moved down to her painted mouth and he would kiss her, she knew, because he had taken a tissue from her dressing table and was now removing her lipstick.

And she let him.

Even as he wiped off the crimson to expose the flesh of her lips, Roman knew he should walk away.

What the hell had he been thinking, that he could come and watch her dance and then simply leave?

Not a chance.

They were staring deep into each other’s eyes and their breathing was in the rhythm of the first time just before they had kissed.

Then Anya had come out of the stage door and faced Roman, then a man.

Tonight, though, as she put her hands up to his face, unlike then, he didn’t flinch.

He just felt the soft probe of her fingers explore his face.

Such a beautiful face, Anya thought. High cheekbones, black eyes that were embedded in her mind and the lips that had taken her to heaven would let her glimpse it again now.

‘I kiss you goodbye,’ Roman said.

He did not say, Can I kiss you? Roman had never needed to ask.

His kiss was gentle and it surprised her for his kisses had previously been hot and rather rough. Now, though, he lowered his head and cupped her chin and softly kissed her lips, and they rediscovered each other. Anya’s lips parted and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. They tasted each other, when they had starved for each other, but then he kissed her roughly again.

He pulled her tight into his body and she had never been held as Roman could hold her. He just owned her body and as her tutu was crushed against his suit his mouth ravaged hers.

He took her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that made her hands move to his chest just to feel the strength and the power, never to push him away.

He pulled her harder into him. His hand was in the small of her back, warm and sensual, yet the barrier of the fabric of her tutu briefly halted it from moving lower. It did not perturb him for long, and now his hand roamed her bottom.

Their tongues were mingling, their passion building, and it was a kiss that could no longer be classed as a farewell kiss for their bodies were greeting each other’s again.

She could feel him pressed hard on her stomach, and his other hand now touched her breast, and though they rued the fabric that separated their skin, still it felt blissful. His thumb caressed her nipple and she ached for her breast to be naked in his hand.

‘Tatania...’ There was a knock at the door and she could hear the dresser wanting to come in.

They stopped kissing but still he held her, still he stroked her breast, and they stared into each other’s eyes. She could feel his erection and, more than that, she could feel his body was broader, more primed, and she ached, simply ached for him, for the years he had denied her his touch, his body.

She should tell him to go, and now was her chance to do just that.

Roman knew too that he should leave.

Once, their eyes said.

Just this once.

Their bodies could kiss the other goodbye.

‘I will deal with my costume,’ Anya shouted through the door in Russian. ‘You are to leave me.’

Roman would deal with her costume, Anya knew, as without a word he went and turned the key in the door.

He was back.

For their closing night.