Expecting His Love-Child
CAROL MARINELLI
Carol Marinelli
EXPECTING HIS LOVE-CHILD
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Anne Marie, Helen, Leanne, Raelene and Tracy
For always being available for lunch x
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
THEY had to be breaking up, Millie decided.
Or rather he was breaking up with her.
To keep her brain from freezing over as she served patrons long into the night at the terribly exclusive Melbourne restaurant, Millie Andrews invented a background for each of the tables she waited on.
And now, as the clock edged past midnight, there were just three tables left.
One was a rather boozy celebratory business dinner, which thankfully, now that the bar was closed, was starting to wind up. The second consisted of a rather strained couple. The lady had duly eaten her way through fish and salad, minus dressing, and was clearly uncomfortable in her very tight black velvet dress. Millie decided she had probably just had a baby and was feeling horribly self-conscious at being out with her very good-looking but extremely passive-aggressive husband—‘You don’t really want dessert, do you, darling?’
And then there was the beautiful pair.
Blonde, svelte and jangling with nerves, a stunning woman was imploring her dining partner to ‘just, please, listen’—reaching for his hand, her throaty voice urgent as her…Millie couldn’t quite make this one out—husband, fiancé…? No neither fitted. Boyfriend? Or just lover, perhaps…? As he sat and listened impassively, utterly unmoved by her desperate pleas.
‘Please, if you would just listen to me—really listen…’
They were too rich to notice or care that a waitress was clearing away their barely touched plates, and Millie’s ears were on elastic as the blonde beauty begged for her chance, her bright, blue eyes glittering with tears as she choked the words out and reached for his hand again. ‘Before you say it cannot happen, just hear what I have to say first…please.’
‘Perhaps you should try listening…’he growled. His voice was accented, deep, low and just divine, but since till then the only words he’d growled in Millie’s direction had been, ‘Rare steak, fresh tomato salad,’ so far she hadn’t been able to place it. ‘All night I have told you no, yet still you persist.’
‘Why do you think I persist, Levander?’
Russian, Millie finally recognised, lingering rather too long over clearing the table. His salad had barely been touched; his steak was only half eaten. If she’d followed protocol, she should have asked then if everything had been to his satisfaction—if, by chance, there was a problem with his meal—but the intense conversation and his mood certainly didn’t encourage interruption, and, given that it was her last night in Melbourne, protocol went where it belonged.
Straight out of the window.
‘You persist because you hope I change my mind. How many times do you have to hear me say it to understand that I never will?’
Even as she backed away, and even though the kitchen had long ago closed, Millie was tempted to offer them the dessert menu. Prepared even to whisk up dessert herself if it meant she could listen on.
They fascinated her.
Fascinated her.
From the second they had walked in she had been entranced.
By him.
As he’d walked through the door, standing tall, brooding and vaguely familiar in a charcoal suit, loosening his tie as his eyes scowled over the room, a low murmur had gone around and every head had turned—especially Millie’s, as she’d tried and failed to place him. Ross, the manager, had raced over and steered them to the most private table at the back of the restaurant, then delivered Millie a quick warning before he dispatched her to take their orders.
‘Nothing’s too much trouble, okay?’
His date was beautiful, yes—on any other night she’d be a fascinating subject—but the glamorous woman faded into insignificance beside her date, because he was…
…exquisite.
As an artist Millie was often asked where her inspiration came from—and here was a fragment of the answer.
Inspiration came in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times. Twelve hours before she left Australia—twelve hours before she headed home for London—her head should be buzzing with “to do” lists. She should be adding up her tips and working out if she could afford the night in Singapore she’d booked en route. Instead she was consumed with this fascinating man—his beauty was, quite literally, inspiring.
His bone structure was impeccable, and his features had Millie’s fingers aching to pull out a sketchpad and capture them: in perfect symmetry, as with all true beauties, his high cheekbones razored through his face, a strong jawline was dark and unshaven against his pale skin. His thick, longish hair was charcoal, not quite black, but too dark to be called brown, and whatever pallet his creator had used, the brush had been dipped twice in the same well—his eyes held the same bewitching hue, only deeper and glossier.
His date was gorgeous—possibly one of the most beautiful women Millie had seen—yet she dimmed beside him. The whole restaurant dimmed a touch, and she wanted to capture that, make him the sole focus—like endless Russian dolls, Millie mused, seeing the germ of the picture she would create in her mind’s eye: him—the biggest most stunning, most exquisitely featured—and the rest—his date, the other clients, the staff, the street outside—ever diminishing objects, growing smaller and smaller till there was nothing left.
‘You are a cold bastard.’ His date hissed the words out, almost spat them across the table. But he didn’t flinch and neither, Millie noted, did he attempt to dispute the fact.
‘It must be hereditary.’
‘So that’s it? After all I’ve told you—you can just sit there?’ Still he didn’t answer—utterly bored, he had the audacity to yawn as she promptly burst into tears. ‘You’re not even going to think about it?’
Again he didn’t answer, and even though Millie still hadn’t managed to pin a label on her as, sobbing yet somehow elegant, the blonde stumbled out of the restaurant, it was clear that whatever her title had been a few minutes ago it had just been superseded. As of this moment she was an ex.
‘She waits now for me to run after her…’ Those charcoal eyes stared up at her, his lashes so thick, his gaze so intense, that for a second Millie’s world stopped.
I’d wait, Millie thought, stunned that he was talking to her, that he didn’t seem remotely embarrassed that she’d witnessed this intensely personal moment.
‘I will sit here for a while longer—hopefully she will get the message and go home.’
‘Or she might ring you on your mobile,’ Millie said, blushing furiously as she did so, because even if it seemed to be idle conversation, as a lowly waitress it was inappropriate to comment. Management’s orders were very clear: she should merely smile politely and move on.
Only she didn’t.
Instead she hovered on the giddy line of propriety. His eyes pinned her, and the impact of him close up, of actually conversing with him, was utterly, fabulously devastating—and he surely knew it. Knew it because instead of looking away, instead of dismissing her, he responded with a question.
‘Would you wait?’
‘Perhaps…’ Her voice when it came was breathy, her shirt suddenly impossibly tight as she struggled to drag air into her lungs, her skin on fire—and not because Ross, her manager, was looking on and frowning at the exchange. ‘Once I’d calmed down, once I’d…’ She didn’t get to finish as, almost on cue, his phone rang. And at that point she crossed the line. Instead of turning and discreetly walking away, instead of heading back to the bar to let him take his call, she stood there, watching transfixed as he picked up his phone with long, pale, slender fingers that had Millie wondering if he was also an artist—wondering if that might be the reason she was so drawn to him.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said, turning off the phone.
‘You’re welcome,’ Millie croaked, her cheeks flaming as attraction fully hit, and she was, for the first time, privy to that unscrupulous face breaking into a smile.
‘Another.’ He gestured to his glass, and Millie was about to say no, that the bar had closed about ten minutes ago. But glancing over to her boss, and seeing him frantically nodding, Millie gave a smile and, slipping away, headed over to the bar.
‘What was that all about?’ Ross asked the second she was within earshot.
‘What?’
‘Come on, Millie, don’t play games with me. What was that cosy little exchange you were having with Levander?’
‘He was just talking.’ Millie flushed, and not just at being caught flirting—even his name was sexy. ‘You were the one who said that nothing should be too much trouble. It would have been rude to walk away.’
‘You know how to handle things.’ Ross shot her a warning look. ‘Do you want me to take his drink over for you?’
‘Of course not.’ Millie shook her head, quickly changing the subject as Ross poured a generous dash of vodka into a glass. ‘Should we get the port those businessmen wanted? They might get upset if they see us still serving him.’
‘The bar’s closed,’ Ross said, placing the drink down for Millie to take over. ‘At least to anyone who isn’t a Kolovsky.’
‘Kolovsky?’ Mille frowned, trying to place the familiar name and hoping he’d elaborate, but Ross just grinned.
‘It’s Russian for money!’
Placing his drink in front of him, Millie was curiously disappointed when he didn’t look up, when he didn’t even give a distracted thanks. Instead he stared across the room and out onto the street, drumming his fingers restlessly. Never had it taken so long to place a drink on a table, to clear away a few stray glasses and wait—wait for him to bring her into his delicious focus, to once again, even for a moment, be the woman who held his attention.
Only he didn’t.
‘You might as well go home, Millie.’ Ross came over as the last of the rowdy businessmen finally tipped out onto the street, but the words she’d been waiting to hear all night didn’t sound quite so sweet now. Despite her tiredness, despite an empty suitcase waiting to be filled and a flight to be caught back to London in the morning, suddenly she didn’t want to go. Staring over at the table, she watched as he leant back in his chair and took a slow sip of his drink. Ross did the same. ‘I might as well get started on some paperwork—he looks as if he’s settled for the night.’
Millie couldn’t help but frown—an extra drink for a special customer was one thing, but for Ross to happily sit and while away an hour or two was unprecedented. This time Ross was only too happy to elaborate. ‘He’s a great tipper—as you’re about to find out.’ He held out a black velvet folder and peeled out an indecent amount of notes, taking his cut and handing the rest to Millie. ‘Looks like you’ll be staying in Singapore after all!’
‘Goodness.’
‘You deserve it. You’ve been a great worker—a real asset to the restaurant.’ He went over to the till and handed her an envelope. ‘There are your other tips and your wages, and there’s a reference in there, too. If you’re ever back in Melbourne, know that there’s always a job here for you.’
More than anything Millie hated goodbyes. Ross wasn’t even that much of a friend, but still tears filled her eyes as she took the envelope. Maybe it was emotion catching up, maybe it was the fact that no doubt she’d never be back, her dream trip to Australia to showcase her art having been nothing but a flop, but for whatever reason, she gave him a small hug.
Without this job she’d have been home weeks ago.
Without this job she’d still be wondering if she might have one day made it.
Like it or not, at least now she knew the answer.
There were a million things she had to do, but instead of turning left as she exited the restaurant Millie turned right, noisily clipping along Collins Street on black stilettos that needed re-heeling, barely even glancing into the exclusive shops as she headed to the gallery for one final glimpse of her work in the window.
And then she saw it. Millie’s head turned so abruptly that she was positively whiplashed as she put a very beautiful face to a very beautiful name.
House of Kolovsky.
The cerulean blue frontage and the embossed gold lettering were familiar the world over—yet so far removed from Millie’s existence that till now she’d barely even given the building a glance. Unable to resist now, though, she teetered forward, gazing into a magnificent window, dressed with ream after ream of the heavy silk that was so much the Kolovsky trademark, with opals as big as gulls’ eggs seemingly casually tossed in—but the effect was so stunning Millie was in no doubt that each jewel had been placed with military precision, along with the tiny lights that were twinkling and catching the fluid colour of the fabric.
Kolovsky was renowned for its stunning fashion collections as well as the fabrics themselves: rich, heavy silks that were supposed to have the same magical effect as opals—capturing the light and even, it was rumoured by devotees, changing colour according to a woman’s mood. Millie had raised her eyebrows in rather bored disbelief when she’d read that in a magazine, but standing with her nose practically against the window, seeing the heavy, fabulous tones and sumptuous attention to detail, Mille could almost believe it. What she was finding rather more difficult to fathom, though, was what had taken place earlier. She had flirted with none other than Levander Kolovsky.
She had seen him before—it was all coming to her now: notorious bad boy, the darling of the tabloids here in Melbourne, his every move, his every comment, his every encounter faithfully and libellously documented.
Millie let out a gurgle of laughter. She’d been flirting with the biggest rake in Melbourne. Just wait till she told Anton!
Peeling herself away from the window, Millie allowed herself just one final glimpse. She would have loved to feel her body draped in something so exquisite. Not that she could ever afford it. Millie sighed, picking up her pace and walking the few doors down to the gallery. She could barely afford anything at the moment—which was how a tortured artist was supposed to start, Mille reminded herself. But her usual pep-talk was starting to lose its oomph—cold reality hitting home as she stood on the pavement outside the gallery.
Very soon she wouldn’t be a struggling artist.
Instead she’d be a teacher.
Seeing a light on inside, Millie stood well back, not wanting Anton, the owner, to see her tears as she bade goodbye to her dream.
‘Which one is yours?’ How long she’d stood there staring Millie had no idea. She’d been so lost in her own world she hadn’t noticed someone approaching, hadn’t heard him next to her. Only now that he was, every nerve sizzled with awareness.
‘That one.’ Millie pointed to a tiny oil painting with a shaking hand, wondering what his take would be. It was a field of flowers and grass, every blade smiling, every flower wearing a different expression, and in the middle was a wooden child bearing no features—it was quite simply her favourite piece, evoking for Millie such emotion and memory that it would truly break her heart if it ever did sell. Yet it was the one she had hoped would launch her career.
‘Were you on drugs when you painted this?’
‘No.’ Millie let out a little laugh, not just at the question but at the pronunciation. His English, though excellent, was laced with a heavy dash of fabulous accent, and that he could make such an offensive remark sound somehow sexy was certainly a credit to him.
She glanced over at him. His face was at the window, and he was peering at her work with a frown. For an artist it was actually a compliment—someone trying to fathom her work, instead of a brief, cursory glance and then on to the next one.
‘My brother’s autistic—when I was younger I remember the doctor explaining to me that the reason he didn’t cuddle or kiss or show affection was because of the way he saw the world. The clouds, the trees, the grass and animals were in his eyes just as important as us—to him, people were the inanimate objects. That’s me.’ She pointed to the frozen lifeless object in the middle, waited for his comment. For an age it didn’t come. He was looking, really looking, at her picture.
‘I knew a child once—he screamed if he had to go to bed. Not just screamed…’ Slate eyes turned to hers and Millie was lost. ‘Every night it was as if he was terrified. Do you think to him the bed was real? That perhaps he thought he would hurt it…?’
‘Maybe.’ Millie was flustered, wondering who he was referring to, wanting to know more. But it didn’t matter anyway. The fact that her work had provoked such thought, a memory, such a question, was reward enough in itself. ‘I don’t know, but I guess it’s possible.’
‘And may I ask the name of the artist?’
‘You may. It’s Millie.’ She smiled. ‘Millie Andrews.’
‘Your accent?’ He frowned just as Millie had when trying to place his. ‘England? London?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘A working holiday…’ Millie gave a rueful smile. ‘I go home tomorrow.’
‘Shame.’
She’d been flirted with on many occasions, but never so blatantly and never by anyone so divine.
‘Millie?’ He pondered on her name for a moment. ‘I am not familiar with that. Is it short for something?’
‘Do we have to go there?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Millicent.’ She winced. ‘My parents must have been—’ She didn’t get to finish. Anton was frantically waving in recognition as he came to the window, gesturing for her to come inside. It would have been rude to say no, to shake her head and carry on this delicious conversation. So, extremely reluctantly, she turned to bid Levander goodnight.
Clearly he had other ideas. As the door opened, instead of walking away, instead of concluding their time together, he blatantly extended it, moving to the door, then stepping back to allow her to go first, his hand taking her elbow. It wasn’t just his boldness that startled Millie but the contact itself—the firm, warm, incredibly male contact that had her more flustered than she cared, or rather dared to admit.
‘Ready for the off?’ Anton’s effeminate voice rang out as he scooped her into a hug, but it lasted about point three of a second. He dropped her like a hot coal as he clapped eyes on her companion.
‘My, my, Millie. And I thought you were supposed to be working tonight.’
‘I—I am.’ Millie stammered. ‘I was. Anton, this is…’
‘I know who it is.’ Anton beamed. ‘Welcome, welcome, Levander—and may I say I just love your new range?’
‘It is not my range.’ Levander smiled tightly. ‘I deal with the business, not the fashion.’
‘Well, I adore it anyway,’ Anton gushed, but Levander wasn’t listening. Instead he wandered around the gallery, squinting as he peered closely at the paintings, some holding his attention, others barely meriting a cursory glance.
‘Do you know him?’ Millie whispered, which was more than a touch rude, but she just had to know more about him.
‘Everyone knows who the Kolovskys are.’
‘I mean do you know him?’
‘I wish,’ Anton sighed. ‘The boutique may be a couple of doors down from me—but the Kolovskys are a million miles away. I did used to talk to the twins, though…’ Anton smiled at her frown. ‘They’re just as gorgeous. Millie have you any idea who you’re dealing with? They’re practically royalty here,’ Anton breathed, ‘and your beau tonight is first in line.’
His voice trailed off as Levander made his way back to them, and Anton spectacularly saved the rather awkward moment, rolling his eyes dramatically at Levander. ‘I’m scolding Millie for even considering being seen with you in her waitress garb. Mind you, perhaps it’s just as well—I assume you’ve seen her when she’s not working?’
‘Not yet.’ Levander turned and gave Millie a slow, lingering look, unashamedly undressing her with his eyes for an indecent amount of time as she stood there squirming. Not even turning back to Anton, he carried on talking. ‘But I am very much looking forward to it.’
‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ Anton sighed. ‘Millie has no end of paint-splattered shorts and T-shirts, but not much else.’
‘I see you have only one of Millie’s paintings in the window—while other artists there have two.’
‘The other artists have sold.’ Anton held his palms up to the air in a helpless gesture. ‘Actually, Millie, darling…’He gave a little wince. ‘I’m not going to take you out of the gallery, but space is at a premium, and with this new exhibition I’m going to have to move—’
‘You have more of Millie’s work?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I would like to see it if I may.’
‘Of course.’ Anton gave Millie a wide-eyed look as he gestured him to the back of the gallery, to the tiny piece of wall that—for now at least—displayed her work.
‘Your price is too low…’ Levander ran a quick eye through Millie’s bio and gave a shake of his head. ‘And you come across too needy—too grateful that anyone should even stop to look at your work, let alone buy it. You need to raise your price.’
‘It was higher,’ Millie answered, ‘and I still didn’t sell.’
‘This is an exclusive gallery—yes?’ Levander waited for Anton’s hesitant nod. ‘People do not want rubbish on their walls—and at this price that is what they think they are buying.’
‘She’s an unknown.’ Anton’s bubbly demeanour dimmed a touch as his judgement was challenged, but Levander held firm.
‘Today she is unknown.’ He turned to Millie. ‘Change it before you leave. Rewrite your bio…’ He turned the page. ‘Each painting is now the cost of your air ticket—the price you paid to share your talent.’
‘It won’t work…’
‘So you have lost nothing. And she should have at least two in the window…’
‘Levander…’ Anton was blushing, flirting, and trying to be assertive all at the same time. ‘Millie’s already had three months on display in the window. I simply cannot—’
‘When is this exhibition you mentioned?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I remember my stepmother saying she wanted another nice piece for the boutique. Perhaps I should suggest that she comes for a look?’
‘I already sent an invite,’ Anton said dubiously, ‘and as usual it was politely declined.’
‘Nina wouldn’t have even seen it,’ Levander said dismissively. ‘It would have been her assistant who declined on her behalf. If I tell her about it myself, I can assure you she will come—and possibly my father, too. Though I am not sure if I will be available.’
Anton was right—clearly Millie hadn’t a clue. Because at just the hint that they were coming to the preview Anton was a gibbering wreck, promptly dispatching her to choose another piece to go in the window before a “bored now” Levander took her by the hand and led her outside.
‘You—You didn’t have to do that…’ Millie stammered, once they were out on the street.
‘No one has to do anything.’ Levander shrugged. ‘Your work deserves its chance.’
‘Thank you.’ Millie shook her head to clear it. ‘Your stepmother will go to the exhibition?’ she checked. ‘I mean, if she’s already declined…I’d hate for Anton to be disappointed—especially if he’s giving me so much of a prime position. He’s already been more than generous…’
‘She will be there,’ Anton said assuredly. ‘She will not want to go, of course. But when I tell her she is expected—that I have accepted on her behalf—she will have no choice but to go.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It would appear rude to not turn up—and in my family appearance is everything.’
‘Well, thank you…’ Millie said. ‘You’ve no idea how much it means.’
‘I have a very good idea what it means,’ Levander corrected her. ‘I know how important that first sale is—and, yes, I could have bought your painting—given you the red dot on your work for the world to see—but that would be cheating, yes?’
On so many levels, Millie realised, staring up at him. His skin was white in the street light, contrasting with the hollow shadows of his cheeks, his eyes two dark, unreadable pools.
‘It will sell—some things that are truly beautiful don’t always catch the eye first time around.’ Levander’s voice was a caress. ‘Sometimes you need to actually stop and take another look.’
He was certainly taking a good look now. His gaze was so intense, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She thought for a blissful second that he was going to kiss her, but instead it was his rich deep voice that bathed her senses, his eyes quizzical as they assessed her. ‘So, you leave tomorrow?’
‘In the morning.’
‘And have you enjoyed your time in Melbourne?’
‘I haven’t really seen anything of it.’ She gave a tiny shrug. ‘I’ve been to a few galleries, a couple of shows—but mainly I’ve been working…’ Her voice trailed off, her simple answer somehow giving him an opening she’d never intended. Millie’s breath caught in her throat as Levander took it.
‘Then we’d better get started. Come…’ He pointed to where a pony and trap was pulling in across the deserted street, tourists climbing down, the weary trap rider about to dismantle and head off home. He shook his head when Levander called for him to wait.
‘Sorry, mate. That was the last ride for the night—back again tomorrow.’
‘I will talk with him.’ Levander turned to go, but she shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s late…’ Millie attempted, struggling in quicksand as she stared into his eyes. ‘And I’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow…’
‘Plenty of time to sleep on the plane, then.’
But a blip of sensibility was invading now. She was playing with fire here, and her assessment was based on not just what she had read—Anton himself had warned her, and Levander’s own dining companion hadn’t exactly given him a glowing reference.
‘You’re a cold bastard.’
The pain in her voice had been real, the emotion that had choked out those words hadn’t been manufactured—and Levander’s response had done little to dispute the accusation.
What the hell was she doing?
It would be madness to go with this man.
‘Really…’ Millie swallowed hard. ‘It’s probably not such a good idea. I’ve got so much to do, and you—well you…’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘You just broke up with your girlfriend, Levander…’ She wasn’t going to play games. ‘You’re probably feeling a bit…’
‘You have no idea how I am feeling…’ Instead of walking away, he stepped closer, took her face in his hands, his warm skin actually cool on her stinging cheeks. ‘And I did not break up with my girlfriend—Annika is my half-sister…’
‘It was your half-sister you were rowing with?’
Levander nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Nothing.’ Millie blushed. The only thing she had heard was that he was a cold bastard, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘I just saw her flounce off.’
‘And that is all?’
After a beat of hesitation she nodded.
‘Siblings fight.’ His breath mingled with hers, and that cynical mouth was so close Millie could almost taste it—like a chocolate cake cooking in the oven, teasing her senses…
‘She’s really your half-sister?’ Millie checked, wanting to believe him but scared to at the same time. Wanting him to kiss her but worried that he would.
‘Who else would I allow to talk to me like that?’ Levander answered. ‘Now, you wait here.’
What had she heard?
Levander’s hackles were raised, his mind, eternally vigilant, racing as he recalled not just his conversation with Annika, but the times Millie had been present.
At first he’d barely noticed her—a waitress not meriting even a glance from him, especially with the tense subject matter that had been forcing his attention—and then she’d moved to clear his plate.
Her heavenly scent had reached him, her tiny embarrassed smile as she’d caught his eyes, and from that second on he’d thanked her for the distraction—thanked this unknown woman who had allowed his mind to detour as Annika delivered the fatal news and shrilled the family’s demands.
So much more pleasant to stare over Annika’s shoulder and watch the woman, the pink flush on her cheeks, her blonde curls tumbling further out of their hair tie with each swoosh through the kitchen door, her slight exasperation as she dealt with a rowdy table. He had felt surprising pleasure as he’d watched that full, pretty mouth nibble on the end of her pen between writing down orders. And later, when still Annika had persisted, when it had all been just too much to deal with—his battle to remain outwardly calm despite the emotions churning within—it had been a welcome relief when she’d returned to his table. Her soft fragrance had been such a contrast to the bitter musk of the Kolovsky perfume Annika had doused herself in—a delicate hint of vanilla and something he couldn’t define, like a breath of fresh air—and as she’d leant forward to clear his table he’d tried and failed not to notice the slight tug of her blouse as it strained over her breasts. He had actually had to look away when she’d stooped to retrieve a dropped napkin and he’d caught a glimpse of the creamy flesh of her cleavage.
He wanted her.
Handing the rider a sizeable wad of notes, he bought them a little more time—but somehow he knew it wasn’t enough. That if he made a move too soon—she’d run like a squirrel up a tree.
And yet if it was sex he wanted there were easier ways. He could head back to the hotel, return any one of the endless messages that would undoubtedly be on his answering machine and lose himself tonight.
How he wanted to lose himself.
Like a judge summing up, he bitterly assessed the conversation that had taken place with Annika—the family demands that had been delivered by the sweetest, the most vulnerable of them all.
His father was dying.
Which, according to the family, meant there was now no question of Levander leaving—no question of him turning his back on the people who had apparently given him everything he possessed.
Five more years of hell was what they were demanding.
Levander had gritted his teeth at the prospect, but the sentencing hadn’t ended there—a wife and child had been added to the non-parole period.
Well, they could all go to hell!
He’d more than served his time—he had saved the House of Kolovsky from financial suicide almost the second he’d joined the firm. That they now had the audacity to think he actually owed them anything made Levander’s stomach churn with loathing.
To think that that bastard, after all he had done—
‘Hey.’ Her sweet voice broke into his black thoughts, her smiling, trusting face such an engaging contrast with the hard-nosed women he was too used to dealing with. ‘Did you manage to persuade him?’
‘Of course,’ Levander answered calmly, though his mind was anything but. ‘I am a very good persuader.’ He watched her eyes widen a touch, registered the tiny nervous swallow in her throat at the slightly provocative statement, and so badly he wanted to kiss her—to push that soft body against a wall, to press his lips to hers, to feel her soft, fragrant skin beneath his hands, to take her up to his hotel and make love to her…
To somehow take refuge from the savage sleet of his thoughts…But strangely, for Levander, it wasn’t all he wanted from her.
For the first time Levander wanted more than the passion of a woman to fill his night.
He wanted her company.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS the strangest first date she’d ever been asked on—but one thing was sure: it was a date.
Millie knew that—knew from the way he was looking at her and the fact that she couldn’t stop looking at him—knew from the butterflies dancing in her stomach and the shrill of pleasure that there was definitely romance in the air.
If it had been with anyone else a romantic horse and cart ride around the city would have been tacky, but with Levander it didn’t feel that way. With the feel of the cool night air on her cheeks, the noise of the horse as it clipped through the semi-deserted streets and the warmth of Levander by her side it felt amazing. It was a whirlwind Monopoly board tour of Melbourne. They clopped past Flinders Street Station, the famous old building stunning by night and lit up like a fairground, and Levander pointed out the sights as they went, from a vibrant Southbank that was still awake despite the hour, and the casino glittering and beckoning, to the smart theatre district and lavish hotels at the top end of town.
‘This is where I live.’
He had to lean into her to say it. Her skirt had already ridden up a touch, and, feeling his suited thigh against her bare one, it was almost all she could do to look up instead of down. Her whole focus was on his body against hers.
‘It’s a hotel.’
‘Up there,’ Levander elaborated. ‘On the top floor.’
‘You actually live there?’
‘Why not?’
He stared down at her and she forgot her question, sure he was about to kiss her. She almost wept in frustration when the cart halted somewhat abruptly, lurching them both backwards into their seats, but Levander gave a small lazy smile as he climbed out—a smile that told her there was plenty of time for that later. And as he stepped down and took her hand to help her down, just his touch confirmed what they both knew.
There would be a later.
‘You like to dance?’
‘No,’ Millie admitted, gulping as they descended steep stairs into a tiny smoky and very exclusive private club that she wouldn’t have known existed even if she’d been walking on the street outside.
Exclusive because only the most beautiful or famous seemed to be present—faces that had Millie frowning as she tried to place them, then jolting in recognition as the social pages she devoured in magazines came to life before her very eyes.
‘Do you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Levander shrugged, pushing her through the crowd with one arm around her.
The slow, heavy thud of the music was out of time with her rapidly beating heart as he led her to a small, plush impossibly sexy booth that was clearly designed for intimacy. Like some erotic confessional, the purple velvet-lined seats went up to the ceiling, dulling the chatter and noise enough to allow conversation so long as one leant forward. And as he sat opposite her the table was so narrow it was impossible not to touch knees—impossible to look anywhere but at him.
He ordered their drinks—didn’t even ask her what she wanted—and some strange red cocktail appeared that tasted icy and delicious, burning her throat and stomach as she sipped it. But it didn’t compare to the sensations Levander evoked.
‘Relax,’ he ordered, as if she should be able to on command. Only Millie couldn’t.
Even here, amongst Melbourne’s most beautiful, Levander caused a stir—she’d seen the ripple effect wash through the crowd as they’d walked to their table. Like a mini Mexican wave going through the bar, heads had turned and conversations had paused; Millie had half expected oxygen masks to drop from the ceiling as every female sucked in her stomach en masse—but all eyes were most definitely on Levander. His questionable choice of date tonight didn’t even merit a second uninterested glance.
Clearly there’d be a new one tomorrow.
Clearly every woman present hoped it might be them.
‘You are here to sell paintings, I take it, not for a holiday?’
‘That was the plan,’ Millie sighed.
‘So why are you going back now?’
‘I gave myself three months. It was Anton who suggested I come out here.’
‘You knew Anton before you came?’
‘I met him last year, when he was in London.’ Millie nodded. ‘I was just finishing my degree and he came as a guest speaker.’
‘He is not an artist?’ Levander checked.
‘No—but he’s extremely well known for showcasing new talent, and I was fortunate because he liked my work. We got on well, and he said if I was ever interested in coming over…So here I am—at least until tomorrow. I really can’t afford to stay on any longer.’
He pulled back just enough to squint down at his watch. ‘It is already tomorrow,’ Levander pointed out. ‘So what happens now—when you go back, I mean? If your work is not selling…’
‘I studied teaching as well.’ Millie sighed at the prospect. ‘As something to fall back on. I suppose it’s just as well I did.’
‘You can do both,’ Levander pointed out. ‘Just because you cannot make a living from your art, it does not mean that you have to give it up completely.’
‘I know that.’ Millie sighed again. ‘It’s just…’ her voice faded. Melancholy musings were not really the correct form for a first date, but Levander pushed her to continue and, given that nothing about tonight had even bordered on normal, Millie decided to tell him—to reveal just a little more of herself than she otherwise might. ‘When I work…well, it’s sort of hot and cold. Yes, in theory it would be fabulous to work Monday to Friday, and save my art for the weekends and evenings—I know it’s what a lot of people do—but…’
‘But?’
‘The picture you saw tonight?’ Millie said, and Levander nodded. ‘It was sort of brewing in my head for a couple of weeks, and finally—when I could see it, when I was actually ready to put my vision onto the canvas—I locked myself away for a more than a week. I just can’t imagine that I’d ever have done that piece if I’d had to slot in the real world. My focus is totally on my art; it’s like I just turn on and everything else is off. Except for occasionally surfacing for food and showers I just live and breathe to paint. Actually…’ she gave a tiny embarrassed giggle ‘…come to think about it, nutrition and hygiene weren’t exactly at the top of my agenda.’
And if that revelation wasn’t correct form either, Levander didn’t seem to mind a bit. In fact he leant closer, if that were possible, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, could feel his knee and the lower part of his thigh against hers as he dizzied her with his thoughts.
‘Now you are really turning me on!’
Shocked, wondering if she’d misheard, misunderstood, perhaps, Millie tipped back a fraction, wide eyes meeting his, flushing under his lazy scrutiny as he told her without a word that she hadn’t misheard.
‘Do you come here a lot?’ Millie croaked, taking a desperate slug of her drink and wondering if she’d been spirited into a very early menopause as for the millionth time that evening a hot flush sent another searing blush up to her face. The heat between them was so stifling surely someone must have turned off the air-conditioner—and had there been a menu handy Millie would have grabbed it as a fan.
‘Occasionally,’ Levander answered easily—so pale and elegant and utterly calm it made her want to weep at the injustice. His eyes shifted momentarily as he glanced at the beautiful crowd. ‘But really I don’t like it much: too many people with empty minds who think they are interesting.’
‘Oh.’
He mesmerised her—every word reeling her in, every feature captivating her. How long she stared, how long they held eye contact, Millie had no idea—but it seemed to go on for ever. Another entirely separate conversation was taking place, without a single word, and though his eyes never left hers, though his hands were safely on the table, he might just as well have been touching her—because her body seared at his beckoning, the dull red of her cheeks stealing down over her bosom as still they didn’t speak, blood fizzing through her veins. It seemed to engorge her body, swelling her most feminine places. Her nipples were thrumming against her flimsy blouse as somewhere deep inside—low, so low in her stomach—a delicious knot tightened. Her panties were damp now as still he stared on. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare even to run a dry tongue over her lips so intense was the arousal, and all Millie knew was that if she didn’t break the spell, didn’t literally force herself to speak, then she’d surely lean over and kiss him, or take him by the hand and run…
‘How long have you been in Melbourne?’ Her voice was a croak.
‘Does it matter?’ Still he stared.
‘Do you like your work?’ Millie attempted vainly.
‘Is this a job interview?’ He was watching her mouth intently now, making it almost impossible to form a sentence. God what did this man do to her? With one look she was a shivering mass of lust—and with one crook of his finger, Millie knew, she’d follow him gladly to wherever he wanted to take her. It both excited and terrified her. Supremely cautious with men, supremely cautious with her emotions, it was as if she had suddenly dropped the rule book she’d lived her life by in the bath, leaving its pages damp and illegible, all its moral guidelines so deeply entrenched utterly indecipherable in Levander’s heady presence.
She wanted him to make love to her—wanted him now, this very minute. Wanted him to take her out of this bar, take her anywhere, just so long as he ravished her…
…wanted him to be her first.
Oh, she hadn’t held on to her virginity for some prudish reason—work, study, the strains of family life had meant she’d never let anyone particularly close, had never actually invested the energy to take a relationship to that next level, had never trusted another enough to give that part of herself.
But she’d give it to Levander.
In a heartbeat.
And that thought alone shocked her to the very core.
‘I came to Australia as a teenager.’ Levander’s voice broke her introspection, broke the sensual spell. Maybe he had sensed the shift in her, the shock that had ricocheted through her, but suddenly things were, if not normal, then safer, and her mind scrambled to remember the question she had first voiced. ‘I studied finance and business—as well as learning English, of course.’
‘You didn’t speak English when you came?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Your brothers and sisters here spoke Russian, though?’ Millie checked, appalled at how it must have been for him to land in a family and not even be able to communicate.
‘Half-brothers and sisters,’ Levander corrected. ‘And, no, they did not speak much Russian. But language was the least of our barriers.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We had different childhoods.’ Levander flicked away the question with his hand, then reached for a drink. But even if he wanted that part of the conversation over, even if clearly she’d wandered into forbidden territory, Millie wanted to know more.
‘What about your mother?’ Millie asked, remembering that here he had a stepmother. ‘Do you get back to see her? Is she still in Russia?’
‘She is dead.’ Just like that he said it—his expression not changing, his voice completely even—as if the detail was so trivial it was hardly worth a mention. ‘So there is no reason at all to go back. As I was saying, when I finished my degree I assumed the role of Financial Director at the House of Kolovsky.’
‘It must be quite a job.’ Millie blinked. ‘I mean, the name’s everywhere.’
‘We have outlets all over the world. Melbourne is really just kept on for sentimental reasons—this is where my father came when he emigrated from Russia. Our main outlets are in Europe, and of course the US, so I travel a lot—which is good.’
‘Must be interesting?’
‘Sometimes.’ Levander shrugged. ‘But the people in the industry leave a lot to be desired.’ He curled his lip and made a small hissing sound. ‘It is full of bitches—and I am not only talking about the women. It is the most narcissistic environment to be in. Like here—’ His hand gestured to the heaving room. ‘Everyone here would happily claim to be my best friend—would that be the case if I worked in a lower profile job?’
‘I don’t know…’ Millie mused. Because even if the answer was seemingly obvious—even if his position must ensure a never-ending stream of hangers-on—long before she’d known his name, in fact from the second Millie had laid eyes on him, she’d been captivated. And from Millie’s perspective it wasn’t hard to afford others the benefit of the doubt. ‘You can’t know that either…’ She gave a helpless shrug, not sure how she could tell him that even if he took away the suit, the money, the name—he was still far and away the most exciting, breathtaking company she’d ever kept.
‘I do know, though,’ Levander said firmly. ‘From the day I set foot in Australia I have had endless friends—yet no one wanted to know me when I was a Detsky Dom kid.’
‘Detsky Dom?’ Millie frowned. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
It was an innocent question, clarifying things in her own mind as she pieced together his history. She expected him to nod, to just say yes and move on. But instead those brooding features shifted into a wry smile, and she didn’t know if it was her attempt at pronunciation or if he was laughing at some sort of private joke.
‘That is right, Millie—I am from Detsky Dom. Come…’ Standing abruptly, he offered her hand. ‘You do not belong here—let’s go somewhere where we can properly talk.’
Which was easier said than done. As he guided her through the throng, his hand on her waist, his broad shoulders acting as a buffer, his name was called from every direction. Not that he deigned to respond—even when a rather ravishing Latina woman grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket, Levander merely shrugged her off.
‘Levander, please…’ She caught up with them just as they stepped out of the lobby. Millie’s foot was almost on the pavement outside when her tearful voice pleaded her case. ‘You cannot walk out like this…We made love last night—please talk to me.’
Which was a pretty good case to plead, Millie thought, as with a grim half-smile Levander excused himself and led the dark beauty to a corner of the lobby—leaving Millie to stand making polite small talk with the doorman. Her cheeks burned with humiliation—not just because of the paper tissue way he clearly treated women, not just because she was obviously the next one in the box, but because of the very fact she wasn’t walking away.
It was hell to watch.
Like some gory bit in a film, where you wanted to peek from behind a cushion, it was just horrible, listening to her plead her case, begging him for another chance, promising to change and more. But far worse for Millie was Levander’s response—not cool and detached, as she’d expected, instead he bordered on sympathetic, seeming understanding of her plight even as he patiently explained why he hadn’t returned her calls and reiterated what he had already told her—that it was over.
Still, when her glittering eyes fell on Millie, when a few choice words were said, his Latina lover must have crossed Levander’s questionable line of moral conduct—because he stalked off, taking Millie firmly by the arm and leading her out onto the street.
‘Levander…’ the brunette sobbed. ‘We need to talk.’
‘What is the point?’ Levander snarled, and never had his Russian accent been more pronounced as he bundled Millie into a taxi. ‘When you’re too drunk to remember what was said in the morning?’
‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’ They’d ended up at St Kilda Beach, and as they wandered along the foreshore it was the first time since the incident that either of them had spoken.
‘Perhaps it’s better that I did,’ Millie answered tightly—the sobbing spectacle had been a rather timely reminder of what she’d almost let herself in for.
‘We went out for a few weeks—but we were having problems…’
‘Clearly you weren’t having too many problems last night,’ she sniffed.
He had the nerve to laugh at her response. The bloody nerve to laugh!
‘Stop it,’ Millie demanded. ‘That’s completely irredeemable….’ Only it wasn’t; Levander was so unashamedly bad, his behaviour so utterly and completely reprehensible, that inexplicably after a moment or two Millie was laughing too. Oh, not out loud laughing—but a very reluctant smile was wobbling on her lips as he took her in his arms. The whole thing was so awful, so far from anything she’d ever experienced, it was either that…
…or cry.
‘Millie, I do not as a rule have…er…problems in that department. But Carla was wrong when she said we had made love last night.’
‘I don’t need the details…’
‘In fact, though last night wasn’t lacking in physicality, I could say that Carla and I, while we enjoyed each other, never “made love”.’
‘Please.’ Millie closed her eyes against his gaze—because that wasn’t the concern right now. Here she stood, with the most beautiful man she had ever met, listening as he told her, quite clearly, that he, unlike others, had no trouble separating sex from love—which should make perfect sense. After all, nestled in the club, feeling his legs pressing against her, all she had wanted was him, and love surely hadn’t entered the equation…
Love couldn’t have entered the equation because she barely knew him…
And yet…
Troubled eyes opened on his—and he was still there, still just as divine, still just as confusing.
‘I am sorry…’ His breath mingled with hers, his lips a mere fraction away, and she stiffened, terrified of the dizzying effect he had on her. But somehow she didn’t relax when he broke contact—when, extremely frustratingly, he became the perfect gentleman.
He talked politely as they walked towards the pier, occasionally taking her elbow when the moon dipped behind a cloud. Millie couldn’t decide if she was either totally misreading the signs and he didn’t fancy her a jot, if he was literally giving her a guided tour of Melbourne, or he was an absolute master in seduction. But by the time they neared the pier every cell in her body was quivering, every nerve taut with arousal. The skin on her bare arms flared as he took her forearm and turned her around. Surely now, Millie begged to herself, her lips aching with want, surely now he would kiss her. Only his simmering tease wasn’t quite over. Turning the burner down just a touch, even as Millie’s want bubbled near the edge, he guided her back into a public place.
It was the strangest place to bring someone.
A seamy café in the red light district of Melbourne—a rather odd choice for a date. But Levander, Millie realised, truly seemed to fit in anywhere. Whether at an exclusive bar or an all-night café, he had that supreme confidence combined with something else that Millie couldn’t quite define. The café’s owner greeted him by name as Levander guided her to a table and then went over to order. As she sat, anxious and awkward amidst the tired sex workers who were taking a well-earned break, the street kids trying to make one coffee last for ever, Millie wondered why the hell he’d brought her here. How anyone could relax in a place like this was beyond her.
‘The coffee is great here,’ Levander said, as if in answer, placing two steaming mugs and two large cakes on the table. ‘I come her sometimes when I cannot sleep—not for that reason.’ He smiled at her disapproving expression. ‘It actually reminds me of home. There was an all-night café opposite the…’He hesitated just a fraction and Millie frowned. ‘There was a café like this opposite where I lived. Sometimes when I cannot sleep I come here and watch the sun rise; it is a good place for thinking.’
‘But surely…?’ Millie started, and then stopped herself. But Levander clearly guessed what was on her mind—surely this was the last place a person could relax.
‘They are good people too, Millie. They have to work, like all of us. You should not be so quick to judge.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Millie answered indignantly, and then felt guilty—because that was exactly what she had been doing. She had looked around her with less than an open mind.
‘It is rare that anyone disturbs me—they value their time alone, and they seem to respect that I value mine. And, as I said, the coffee is good.’
‘So are these,’ Millie said, finally relaxing a bit now, biting into the pastry and closing her eyes as the cool sweet custard melted on her tongue. ‘So, what do you sit here and think about?’
‘At the moment—work.’
‘Because you’re so busy?’
‘Because I am thinking of leaving.’
‘Oh.’ Pastry forgotten, it hovered in her hand as Millie’s eyes widened. ‘What do your family say?’
‘I haven’t told them yet.’ He gave a small smile as her pastry dropped to the table when Millie realised she was actually the only person privy to this particular plan. ‘And it is not a prospect I relish. They will tell me I have commitments—they won’t want to lose me. I have saved the company from ruin and made them plenty of money since I came.’
‘How?’ Millie asked. ‘How did you save it?’
He didn’t answer at first—made no secret of the fact he was weighing her up, deciding whether or not he should answer. But after what seemed like a lifetime he nodded, inviting her a shade deeper into his magical circle, and Millie leant in gratefully—not so much for what she might hear, but because perhaps he had decided to reveal more of himself to her.
‘That is for another time.’
‘There can’t be another time…’ She almost wept with frustration at his tease, at the hand of fate that had granted her this unexpected encounter but with such a cruel timeline. ‘You know I go home tomorrow.’
‘Don’t you want to stay?’
Oh, how she wanted to. So badly she wanted to say yes. The minutes they had were ticking away as loudly as a kitchen timer, and her heart was dreading the buzz that would signal the bitter end. But she had no choice.
He gave her a tiny glimpse of what she would be missing—his hand leaving the safety of the table, his fingers toying with a loose strand of her hair. His flesh was not even touching hers, but she could feel the heat from his palm and she wanted to rest her face in it, wanted contact so much it actually hurt.
‘We all have commitments,’ Millie breathed, faint now with longing. ‘Even me.’
‘Pity.’
He watched as she nervously licked her lips, his eyes squinting slightly just as they had when he’d looked at the paintings, and Millie wondered if she had what it took to hold his attention, or if afterwards he’d simply move on.
‘You know,’ he mused out loud, ‘for an industry that is supposed to promote beauty, the fashion industry can be very ugly. To them, you would not be considered beautiful…’ Only someone like him could make it a compliment—especially now that he was touching her, caressing her cheek with his finger, tracing it down her face and along her neck, almost as if he were drawing her, the pad of his fingers cool on her throat, resting a moment on her rapid, leaping pulse. ‘The face, yes. But the body…’ She gave a small nervous swallow as his fingers swept along her shoulder, dusting her bare arms; all the tiny hairs standing up to attention as their mistress shivered. ‘You are too much woman.’
‘Is that another word for fat?’ Millie gave a slightly shrill giggle. ‘I know I should go to the gym more—I mean, I pay my membership…’ She was blabbering now, seriously so. Oh, she wasn’t fat—not even particularly overweight—but maybe compared to the reed-thin beauties Levander was used to…
Her thought process halted there. Transfixed, nervous, she watched as he leant over and undid the top button of her blouse. No one turned, not a single person in the café gave a damn. She could feel the top of her cleavage exposed, feel his eyes burning into her pale flesh. If it had been anyone or anywhere else she’d have slapped him—would have got up and walked out. Only it wasn’t anyone else…
…it was Levander.
Jerking her eyes to his, Millie couldn’t read them—was unsure of what to make of him. Unsure whether his words demoted or promoted her. Unsure of what Levander could possibly need from someone like her. She knew for sure now that she was wanted—knew for sure now where the night was leading…only an argument was brewing at the counter. Loud voices crudely interrupted this sensual moment as a young man, clearly the worse for wear, pulled out his pockets, trying to find money he’d never had to pay for a two a.m. breakfast that he’d already eaten. It was clearly the norm for this place—no one bar Millie and Levander was even looking up at the distraction.
‘I musssht have dropped it…’ the guy was slurring.
‘Hey,’ Levander called, standing up, and not for the first time during this crazy night Millie felt anxious—here she was in the seamiest of cafés, with a virtual stranger for company and a fight about to break out. She held her breath as Levander stood up and headed straight into the thick of things, blinking rapidly as he pulled out his wallet.
‘You did drop it…’
He pulled out his wallet and handed the owner a note that would more than cover his breakfast. ‘I found this on the pavement outside—perhaps I should give it to Jack to look after.’
‘I want the change…’ the guy slurred, but Levander shook his head.
‘Tomorrow you will be hungry again. It is better Jack has it.’ And without another word he headed back to Millie—who didn’t know whether to be touched by his kindness or furious at his stupidity for getting involved.
‘Nice place,’ Millie said darkly, and almost instantly regretted it—especially when she saw Levander’s face.
‘You prefer five-star?’ Levander shrugged. ‘Prefer pompous men drunk on malt whisky who have lost their gold credit card, perhaps, than some poor kid who probably hasn’t eaten in two days?’
Though she bristled at his implication, she refused to back down. ‘He could have had a knife—he could have…’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘And what happens when the money you gave the owner runs out, Levander? What happens next week, when you’re not here to fix it for him?’
‘For the next few nights he eats.’ Levander shrugged.
‘But when the money runs out the same thing will happen, and you won’t be here…’ Millie insisted.
But Levander neither needed nor wanted her take on things. In fact it would seem Levander no longer wanted her. Because suddenly, not for the first time that night, he stood up to go, taking her hand and without a word hailing a taxi from the rank outside, giving his direction in a low, deep drawl. Levander stared fixedly ahead as the taxi slid through the night. So distracted, so far away.
Millie half expected him to drop her off where she lived and carry on, but as the taxi slid to a halt outside the fabulous five-star hotel that Levander called home Millie almost wept with relief. He offered her his hand to step out, and they stood outside the grand reception area. A doorman opened the door for them and they stood in the blazing lights, watching the busy theatre of the hotel even at this impossible hour—a gaggle of women spilling out of another taxi, clipping their way across the marble, an airline captain dressed smartly in his uniform on his way to the airport—the same airport Millie would be at in a few hours…
‘I’m sorry.’ This time his apology was as unexpected as it was unnecessary. ‘What happened back there…well, it is something I am used to. For you, though, I can see it would have been upsetting. Clearly it was a bad idea—’
‘It was a lovely idea,’ Millie broke in. ‘And I actually had a lovely time—in fact, I think it’s me that owes you an apology. I completely overreacted.’
‘No,’ Levander disputed, ‘you did not. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has…’ He hesitated for just a fraction too long, those beautiful eyes clouding over, and Millie frowned in concern.
‘Not everyone has what?’ she pushed, but he shook his head and forced a smile.
‘It does not matter.’
Millie was sure that it did matter, but clearly he didn’t want to talk about it. To help, she changed the subject. ‘I still can’t believe you actually live in a hotel.’
‘Why not?’ Levander asked. ‘A few of their suites are for permanent residents.’
‘But surely if your family are nearby…?’ She gave a slightly helpless shrug. She didn’t really know what she was asking—he was thirty, hardly likely to be living at home with his father, but it just seemed so temporary, so impersonal, so soulless. ‘Does it really feel like home?’
‘Sorry?’ He stared back at her, a slight frown forming between his eyes as if he completely and utterly didn’t understand her question, and Millie wondered if she’d spoken too fast—if perhaps he’d misunderstood something she’d said.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/carol-marinelli/expecting-his-love-child-39900338/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.