Kholodov's Last Mistress (12 page)

‘Yes, you know, it’s
fun.
’ She rolled her eyes, trying to keep it all playful even though it took an effort. ‘You know that word?’ she dared to ask and, after a long, tense moment when Sergei stared at her with absolutely no expression at all, he gave her the faintest glimmer of a smile.

‘I don’t think I do. But perhaps you could show me.’

Nearly giddy with relief, Hannah grinned, and Sergei smiled back, taking her by the arm. ‘Grigori,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I’ll take the rest of the afternoon off.’

Sergei felt tension coil through him as he took Hannah from his office. Seeing her there had thrown him, both because it had been unexpected and pleasing. He wasn’t used to such an emotion, a lightening in his heart. It made him feel uneasy. It had taken effort to smile, to say the right thing. At least, he
thought
he’d said the right thing, judging by her smile.

She slipped her arm through his as they walked down to the underground garage. A valet had Sergei’s private car ready and as Hannah slid inside she gave him a teasing look.

‘Do you really need a bullet-proof car to drive around Moscow?’

‘Yes.’ Sergei slid into the driver’s seat and clicked his seat belt.

Hannah, he saw from the corner of his eye, looked a bit taken aback. ‘Why?’

He wasn’t about to tell her all the reasons why, the kind of people he’d known. His past was his own. ‘I am a wealthy man, Hannah. Wealthy men have enemies. And Moscow is not Paris or London.’ He gave her a half-smile. ‘Having been pickpocketed here, you surely realise that.’

‘You can be pickpocketed anywhere.’

‘True enough.’ He drove out of the garage, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, wishing he didn’t feel so tense. Why couldn’t he just enjoy being with Hannah, the way the sunlight glinted off her hair, the sweep of her lashes against her cheek, that teasing smile she’d just given him? Ever since they’d had that wretched conversation things had been difficult. Awkward. And he didn’t like it. ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked, his voice a little too brusque.

He saw Hannah lift her chin a notch, still determined to be cheerful. An optimist at heart, no matter how cynical she thought she’d become. ‘I never did see St Basil’s.’

‘All right, then.’

Half an hour later they were strolling through the famous cathedral, now a state museum, and Sergei felt himself start to relax. He could do this. If they were just going to stare at some statues, he could definitely do this. And he liked the way Hannah smiled at him, the sound of her laughter, the way her hair brushed his shoulder. Just being with her was enough. It could be.

‘Tell me about your childhood,’ she said.

What?
Every muscle in Sergei’s body tightened into a hard knot. ‘Why do you want to know?’

Hannah shrugged, her gaze sliding away from his. ‘I want to know about you.’

Sergei knew he could be overly suspicious, but he felt bone-deep that something wasn’t right here. Hannah wasn’t looking at him, and her question had been studiously casual. He stopped, turned her to face him. ‘Did Grigori talk to you?’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because you’re a terrible liar. What did he tell you?’

She bit her lip. ‘He regretted telling me anything. He—he doesn’t want you to be disappointed in him.’

‘I’m not,’ Sergei said flatly. He’d speak to Grigori later. ‘What did he tell you?’

‘He said the two of you were raised in an orphanage.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes—’

Sergei relaxed a fraction. ‘Well, it’s true enough.’

Her eyes were huge, like violet bruises in her face. ‘What was it like?’

He let out a short, sharp laugh, knowing the sound was unpleasant. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, Sergei—’

‘Look, there were some kind people. They did their best.’ He started walking, quickly, because he didn’t want to talk about this.

‘How long were you there?’ she asked quietly.

‘Eight years.’

‘Eight—’

‘I left when I was sixteen.’ And he
really
didn’t want to talk about that.

She hurried to catch up with him, and as they left the cathedral for the spring sunshine bathing Red Square Sergei felt a deep relief that the subject, for the moment, had been dropped.

She started again that night. They’d had dinner at one of Moscow’s best restaurants, and the conversation over their meal had been light, easy,
fun.
Sergei had enjoyed himself,
felt himself relax once more. Then as soon as they’d gone back to his penthouse and he’d turned to take her in his arms she’d started again.

‘What happened after you left the orphanage?’

Sergei swore under his breath and stalked towards the drinks table where he poured himself a double Scotch. ‘Do we really need to talk about this?’

‘I want to understand you—’

‘And maybe I don’t want to be understood.’

He turned back to Hannah, Scotch in hand, and saw how
hurt
she looked. Her face had crumpled as if she was trying not to cry and her eyes were as dark as rain clouds. ‘I thought,’ she said quietly, ‘we were meant to be having a proper relationship.’

Sergei took a deep swallow of Scotch. He intensely regretted ever using those words. What the hell had he been thinking? The problem was, he acknowledged darkly, he
hadn’t
been thinking. Not the way he usually did. ‘That doesn’t mean we have to relive every trivial thing that happened during our childhoods.’

‘Not relive it,’ Hannah corrected, her voice steady and low. ‘But how can we know if anything between us is going to work if we’re not honest with one another?’

‘Honesty is overrated.’

‘Sergei, obviously such a traumatic childhood affected—’

Sergei slammed his glass down on the table, amber liquid sloshing out. ‘Don’t,’ he growled. ‘Just don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t pity me. Pity is the same as violence, just hidden.’

‘I don’t pity you. I’m
proud
of you—’

‘That’s worse.’

‘Why? Sergei, whatever happened in your childhood, you’ve obviously come a long way—’

‘Stop it, Hannah.’ He turned away, unable to bear the compassion
in her violet eyes. It made him feel fourteen years old again, regarded with such quizzical sorrow by the therapists, the couples who wanted to adopt, the people who looked at him as if he were a monkey in a cage. He couldn’t bear it from Hannah. ‘Stop it,’ he said again, quietly. Firmly. ‘There is a reason I don’t talk about that time of my life. It was a long time ago, and I’ve put it behind me—’

‘Have you?’ she inserted quietly, and Sergei’s hands clenched into fists.

‘You’re my lover, not my therapist,’ he snapped. ‘Stop trying to analyse me.’

‘I just want to—’

‘Help?’
He shook his head. ‘Trust me, I’ve had plenty of people who wanted to help over the years. I prefer the people who don’t want to help, who treat you like a human being rather than a charity case. And if you’re going to do the same, Hannah, and try to figure me out and feel sorry for me, then we can end it right here.’ His voice shook with emotion; his body shook too, and he saw from the widening of Hannah’s eyes that she noticed. To hell with it. He was not going to play patient to her do-gooding psychologist, not for one second. ‘Right now,’ he warned in a low, savage voice, ‘I am not interested in
that
kind of relationship.’

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression dark and troubled. Sergei stared back, waiting. It could be her call, if she wanted it to be. But he’d show her the door in the next thirty seconds if she asked him one more damned question about his childhood.

‘I’m sorry,’ she finally said, quietly. ‘You’re right. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll respect that.’

Relief flooded through him, relief that was raw and powerful in its intensity, because even though he would have kicked her out right then he had deeply, desperately not wanted to do it.

He crossed the room in two quick strides and pulled her into his arms, kissing her because he needed the contact, even the closeness, and as her arms wrapped around him he knew she did too.

And finally there were no more questions.

‘H
ERE
we are.’

Two hours south of Moscow Sergei turned the car off a country lane onto a private drive lined with birches and lime trees, the arched boughs above sending dappled sunlight onto the avenue below.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Hannah murmured, and Sergei smiled, seeming to relax a fraction. He’d been so tense for most of the ride, even though they’d chatted about nothing more taxing than the weather. Hannah knew she shouldn’t have pushed last night, shouldn’t have demanded a kind of emotional honesty Sergei wasn’t ready to give. He was right too, she knew. She’d been acting as if she meant to fix him, and she knew that wasn’t what she really wanted.

She’d spent most of the night lying next to him, trying to figure out just what it was she
did
want, and as dawn sent pale pink fingers of light across the sky she’d finally realised. She wanted to love him … if he’d let her. She didn’t let herself think beyond that, or what it might mean for both of them. The realisation, for the moment, was enough.

The car came around a bend and over a little stone bridge that spanned a gentle stream, and there in front of them stood a stately nineteenth-century country house, with two banks of diamond-paned windows and a tower at either end, the reddish stone gleaming in the spring sunlight.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Hannah said as Sergei parked the car and they both got out. The day was warm and drowsy, and a few lazy bumblebees tumbled through the air, a light breeze ruffling the long grass and wildflowers in front of the house. ‘So,’ she said with a smile, ‘this is your home.’

‘No.’ Sergei shot her a quick answering smile. ‘This is my country house. I entertain here.’ She shook her head, not understanding, and he beckoned her forward. ‘My
home
is a little walk away.’

Sergei easily took both their cases as they walked around the house, the only sound the twitter of birds and the rustle of the wind in the trees. After the frantic pace of both Moscow and Paris, it felt incredibly peaceful. They walked past the landscaped gardens, through an orchard of cherry trees with their tight clusters of little white flowers, past a copse of birches, and then, suddenly, amazingly, they came to a little house.

It was like a fairy house, tiny and enchanted. A little tower poked up one end, and a steep slate roof slanted down the other side, nearly to the ground. A stable door with mullioned glass marked the entrance, and Sergei took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it before beckoning her in.

‘My
dacha.
’

Inside the house was all masculine. A little sitting room had walls of bookshelves and several comfortable leather armchairs, with a woodstove in one corner. The kitchen was tucked into a corner on the other side, with a brick floor and an old-fashioned hearth. Upstairs Sergei showed her a rather luxurious-looking bath—the little house was clearly not without its comforts—and the tower housed a single bedroom with a huge king-size bed and not much else.

It was perfect. Hannah turned to Sergei with a big smile. ‘I love it.’

Someone from his staff had clearly already been there,
getting things ready, for the kitchen was stocked with a variety of food items from milk and bread to champagne and truffles.

‘All the essentials,’ Sergei said with a grin as he packed a big woven basket with a sampling of delectable treats, loped a blanket over one arm, and with Hannah in tow headed back out into the sunshine.

They picnicked in a meadow dotted with wildflowers that ran right down to the glassy surface of a small lake. Above them the sky was a deep and abiding blue, the sun lemon-yellow. The day had turned almost hot, so Hannah slipped off her sweater and, leaning back on her elbows, let the warmth wash over her.

Sergei kept handing her things, a perfect little quiche, a strawberry dipped in chocolate, a tumbler of champagne, until finally Hannah clutched her stomach theatrically and shook her head laughing. ‘I can’t eat another bite, it’s all been delicious—’

He leaned over and swiped a drip of chocolate from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. ‘I can tell,’ he said, and Hannah revelled in seeing him look so relaxed, so at ease. He leaned back on his elbow, his head thrown back, the line of his jaw and throat stark against the sky. He looked beautiful, Hannah thought, with a thud of desire.

‘Do you miss the shop?’

Startled, she considered the matter. ‘I haven’t thought of it once,’ she said, ‘which I suppose says something.’

Sergei slid her a sideways glance; his eyes looked very blue. ‘What does it say?’

She let out a small laugh, although this time the sound held little humour. ‘That it’s a lost cause, like everything else in my life has been.’

He rolled over to face her, touching her cheek, his touch light as a whisper.
‘Everything?’

‘Not everything,’ she conceded then sighed, shaking her head. ‘I know it sounds terribly self-pitying, and it’s not really true. It’s just the way it feels sometimes.’ She picked a pink daisy that had been waving gently in the breeze and began to pluck its petals. ‘I suppose that’s why I’ve been so reluctant to give it up. I didn’t want to feel like a failure.’

‘By the sounds of it, it wouldn’t have been your failure. The shop wasn’t doing well long before you took it over.’

‘I know that, but in a way that makes me feel worse. Angry anyway. My parents always hid from me how in trouble they were financially. I’d expect that as a child, but as an adult, when I was meant to take the thing over, and all I found were bills and debts—’ She let out a weary sigh. ‘Anyway, it’s not just the shop. I never finished college, and I doubt I ever will. If I sell the shop, if I’m even
able
to sell it, I have no idea what I’ll do. And—’ She paused, not sure if she could go on, but also knowing that if she ever wanted Sergei to be honest, then she needed to be as well. ‘And so far my one attempt at a relationship—a proper one,’ she clarified wryly, ‘was an unqualified disaster.’

‘I hope,’ Sergei said mildly, ‘you’re not talking about us.’

‘No. Matthew.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘You probably don’t want to hear about him …’ She paused, glancing at him, and although his jaw was tight he smiled wryly.

‘Not really. But go on.’

‘He came into the shop one day a few weeks after—after my trip. He wasn’t from Hadley Springs—he was just passing through on business. He said he was from Albany, but I’m not even sure if that’s true. Anyway, he was very charming, very smooth. Too smooth probably, but he seemed so interested in everything—in me—and I fell for it. I wanted to fall.’ She swallowed, because she’d wanted what she’d experienced that one magical night with Sergei, and of course
she hadn’t found it. Sergei had rolled to a sitting position, his elbows braced on his knees.

‘Go on,’ he said, after a moment, and Hannah had the feeling he knew what she wasn’t saying.

‘It lasted a few months. He never really told me anything about himself, and he never wanted to go out—just stay in the shop and … well …’ She sighed. ‘I was still naive then, I suppose, but I bought into it all, never even thinking about how unhappy I was, and then one day a woman came into the shop …’ She trailed off, the daisy shredded between her fingers, and Sergei finished softly, ‘And it was his wife.’

She let out a shaky laugh. ‘Pretty obvious, isn’t it? I, of course, was utterly shocked. I confronted him the next time he came in, and he said some terrible things. About me. And why he was with me. And what—what had been between us.’ She shook her head, remembering the spite in Matthew’s voice, the scorn on his face. She’d felt so low, so
nothing
, and the realisation that she’d given herself to this man shamed her utterly. Even now the memory stung, wounded. ‘Anyway, I suppose that’s when I stopped believing the best in people. I’d already found my parents’ records, how my mother had had me withdrawn from college, the bills and debts, and it—everything—felt like lies.’

Sergei was quiet for a long moment. ‘And I had something to do with that, I suppose.’

She couldn’t deny it. ‘I was hurt by that night,’ she said quietly, not quite looking at him. ‘You said a lot of hurtful things.’

‘I know.’

‘Why?’ The word was no more than a whisper.

‘Because …’ Sergei was silent for a long moment. ‘I suppose because I was afraid of this.’

‘This?’

‘This. Us. I’m still afraid.’ He gazed at her steadily, his
eyes so very clear, and in their azure depths she could see how honest he was being, and how troubled he was. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added, his tone low and heartfelt. ‘If that helps.’

‘It does.’

‘But it didn’t then,’ Sergei acknowledged, and she sighed softly.

‘No … at that moment the world was a very bleak place.’

‘And now?’ Sergei asked softly.

Hannah stared at him, the blue of his eyes, the faint smile curving his lips, the way the sunlight burnished his skin. ‘I want to believe again,’ she said quietly. ‘Like you do.’

‘Maybe it’s easier than we think,’ Sergei murmured. ‘Maybe we don’t have to be afraid.’ He raised his hands and Hannah saw he’d woven together a daisy chain, amazingly delicate, which he placed on her hair like a crown.

‘How did you learn to do such a thing,’ she exclaimed, reaching up to touch the fragile flowers.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice, although not with daisies. Snowdrops.’

‘Really?’ She shot him a slightly sceptical look. ‘Somehow I didn’t think the women you’ve been with ran to daisy chains for adornment.’

Sergei let out a little laugh, although Hannah thought his eyes looked sad. ‘No, they didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t make chains of flowers for them. I made them for my sister.’

Sister.
When had he last spoken that word? Thought it? He had never let himself, yet somehow now with the sunlight pouring over them he’d wanted to say it. He’d wanted to say it to Hannah. Perhaps it was because she’d pushed him with questions last night, or perhaps because she’d stopped when he asked. Perhaps it was because she had been honest now, or maybe honesty was just an instinctive and elemental part of learning to love. Whatever it was, he acknowledged now,
to his own amazement, that he wanted to tell her. He wanted to be open with his secrets, just as she had been with hers. Even if it hurt. Especially if it did.

‘Snowdrops grew in a corner of the orphanage’s yard. Scraggly little things, the only flowers. But Alyona loved them. I told her it was a sign spring was coming, and she never forgot that.’

Hannah adjusted her flower crown, her expression turning serious. ‘Alyona,’ she said slowly. ‘Your sister?’

‘Yes. She was—is—ten years younger than me. She came to the orphanage when she was just a baby, and she was adopted when she was four.’

Hannah’s eyes widened, shadowed. ‘And what about you?’

Amazing that it hurt, even now. Twenty-two years later. ‘I was too old.’

‘Too
old
? But surely they wouldn’t separate siblings?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s not common practice, no, but this was back when international adoptions were just starting, and things were considerably more lax. I was in a separate facility from Alyona at that point because of our age differences. It was easy for me to be overlooked.’

‘You sound very forgiving.’

Did he? How odd, considering the rage and fear and guilt he’d felt and even nurtured for so long. Sergei shook his head. ‘No, losing my sister has haunted me for a long time.’

‘Overlooked,’ Hannah repeated slowly. ‘Do you mean the adoptive couple didn’t know about you?’

‘No, they knew.’ Sergei swallowed, tasted bile. He’d never spoken of this to anyone, not even Grigori or Varya. ‘They had a therapist come and evaluate me. I didn’t pass.’

‘Pass?’

‘I was too damaged, apparently. So the director said. I’m sure he was quite annoyed that he didn’t get rid of me when he had the chance.’ Tears filled Hannah’s eyes, and they almost
undid him. He couldn’t bear it if she cried, not for him. ‘As a surly fourteen-year-old boy, I wasn’t exactly an appealing proposition. And at least they saved one person.’ He swallowed, remembering Alyona’s pale face, the way she’d lifted her chin when she wanted to be brave. He’d never been able to say goodbye. ‘It was a long time ago, anyway.’

‘I wish I could go back there,’ Hannah said with sudden fierceness, ‘and punch that stupid director right in the nose.’

Sergei laughed; he couldn’t help it. Hannah’s reaction was so unexpected, so honest, and completely without pity. ‘I’ve imagined doing the same several times,’ he told her dryly. ‘Much good it would do me. In any case, orphanages are run much better now, and the laws are better as well. The one I grew up in is actually near here. I’ve made sure it’s much more comfortable than it was, and I visit it personally every time I’m in the area.’

Hannah laid her hand against his cheek. ‘You
are
a better man, Sergei,’ she whispered. ‘A good man. A great one.’

He closed his eyes, tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. He wanted to believe Hannah, but he knew how shocked and horrified she’d be if he told her the rest of his history. His life on the street. His time in prison. Growing up in an orphanage was only the beginning of the sordid story, and he wasn’t ready now to tell it to its end.

Trying to smile, he opened his eyes. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said, and kissed her. The kiss was sweet and soft, a fragile promise. Sergei slipped his hands under the heavy mass of Hannah’s hair and pulled her to him. She came unresistingly, not only with her body but with her heart. He felt her complete acceptance of him, more powerful than any sensual surrender. He deepened the kiss as she pulled him closer, his hands sliding under her shirt, spanning her ribcage, cupping her breasts.

They lay back down on the grass, moving slowly, sensuously,
reveling in this new and deeper intimacy. Clothes snagged, grass scratched, but it couldn’t have been more perfect as they moved together, as one, and the sun shone down on them.

It was late afternoon by the time they made it back to the cottage, shaking the grass from their clothes and trailing blankets and daisy chains.