Читать онлайн книгу «Return Of The Untamed Billionaire» автора Carol Marinelli

Return Of The Untamed Billionaire
CAROL MARINELLI
An explosive reunion!Every night, prima ballerina Anya Ilyushin dances for Roman Zverev – the man who once captured her heart, before shattering it. Anya has buried the fragments behind an impenetrable wall, but when Roman saunters into her dressing room, their fierce attraction is rekindled…Beneath Roman’s wealth and sophistication lies an untamed wildness – there’s nothing civilised about what he feels for Anya! He left before their longing could consume them both, but memories were branded onto his soul. Now he’s back and determined to make Anya his own!


They stopped kissing, but still Roman held her. Anya could feel that his body was broader, more primed, and she ached … simplyachedfor him—for the years he had denied her his touch, his body.
She should tell him to go. Now was her chance to do just that.
Roman knew, too, that he should leave instead of resurrecting them.
Once, their eyes said. Just this once.
Their bodies could kiss the other goodbye.
Without a word he went and turned the key in the door.
He was back.
For their closing night.
Irresistible Russian Tycoons (#ulink_5dc246f7-cfee-5c77-beb7-a10157c324b3)
Sexy, scandalous and impossible to resist!
Daniil, Roman, Sev and Nikolai have come a long way from the Russian orphanage they grew up in. These days the four sexy tycoons dominate the world’s stage—and they are just as famed for their prowess between the sheets!
Untamed and untouched by emotion, can these ruthless men find women to redeem them?
You won’t want to miss these sizzling Russians in this sensational quartet from
USA TODAY bestselling author Carol Marinelli
Available only from Mills & Boon Modern Romance!
Find out where it all started in
The Price of His Redemption December 2015
The Cost of the Forbidden January 2016
Billionaire Without a Past May 2016
Return of the Untamed Billionaire
Carol Marinelli


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAROL MARINELLI is a Taurus, with Taurus rising, yet still thinks she is a secret Gemini. Originally from England, she now lives in Australia and is the single mother of three. Apart from her children, writing romance and the friendships forged along the way are her passion. She chooses to believe in a happy-ever-after for all, and strives for that in her writing.
Contents
Cover (#u17839c01-18d7-555e-b28d-bf5c2fe95d1f)
Introduction (#u2196ac29-a29e-51d2-a176-403661e1c92e)
Irresistible Russian Tycoons (#ulink_9a80bf72-2dfc-5074-86fa-a7ccaf20f34a)
Title Page (#u48874aa3-fa8c-54dd-a62f-3f26cd6ebbb7)
About the Author (#ufa7253cc-abcb-582b-b166-7db8a8b07195)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_005dedd2-08e8-5115-bcbe-023c50353c76)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4e76b968-6d21-586e-b9aa-e32ea52e63ce)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_1a1ac67e-c9a1-5938-a19e-ec3383ce1f8e)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_cb228bae-2b36-5c3c-bfcd-a8e1ea1f5114)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_f856d2f4-8a4f-5b48-bf5e-7a690d35617d)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e2bf05ca-db4c-529a-915b-03b3690b483d)
EVERY TIME SHE danced it was for him.
It was the closing night in London of the spectacular ballet Firebird.
The last time she had been here, Anya had gone from being one of the princesses and an understudy to dancing the leading role.
Now, due to popular demand, the stunning ballet was back.
It was Tatania, Anya’s stage persona, the gathering audience had come to see.
The theatre was packed and Anya had been told that there was a duchess in the audience tonight; yet Anya would dance only for him.
For Roman Zverev.
Her first and only love.
Apart from ballet.
The hours of practice and absolute self-control, the rigorous preparations and the endless reach for perfection Anya did for herself.
Yet, when she danced, it was always for him.
Now she had her own dressing-room. Like most performers, Anya was swathed in superstition and her dressing table was prepared like an altar. It was filled with tiny trinkets she had gathered over the years and specific make-up and brushes that were all neatly arranged.
She had warmed up. Her feet were bandaged and her pointe shoes had been broken in—there were other pairs ready if needed. She had already scraped her straight brown hair into a tight high bun and whitened her face. Carefully, and with great precision, she applied the black and gold make-up that enhanced her pale green eyes.
Everything was done to order.
Now, as she was given the half-hour call, she took a drink of coconut water and slowly ate half a banana. The other half of the banana she carefully wrapped and would eat during the interval, along with a small chocolate treat.
Anya loved chocolate.
It reminded her of Roman.
After she had eaten, Anya dabbed her mouth and then she put on her headpiece of red and gold feathers. She carefully secured it, checking it over and over. Happy that it was firmly in place, she painted her lips crimson and then called for the costume manager.
She slipped off her silk robe and stepped into her costume. The tight-fitting bodice was a deep red with orange and gold appliqué and the ten-layered tutu was adorned with silk feathers.
Anya raised her arms as the concealed zipper was closed. The costume fitted perfectly and showed the long slender lines of her arms and legs.
Out in the real world, her tiny frame drew stares and whispers because Anya was so very thin, and yet that tiny body was a powerhouse of lean muscle and she was incredibly fit.
Oh, every single day, she worked for it. Hours of training and rehearsal and rigorous self-control meant that her body could perform feats most others could only dream of. Yet, despite her command on the stage, right now she shivered with nerves as the ten-minute call came and the costume manager did a final check.
Now she was Tatania, her stage persona.
‘Merde!’ the costume manager said—the dance equivalent of ‘Break a leg’—and Tatania nodded but did not respond because her teeth were chattering too much.
She wrapped a heavy silk shawl, one that she had bought for her mother, around her bare arms and shoulders.
Her mother, Katya, had been a single mum and a cook in a Russian orphanage. She had died recently but had lived to see her daughter reach these heights and for that Anya was grateful. Katya had had a vision for her daughter long before Anya had.
As a young girl, Anya could remember practising her dance steps in the kitchen of the detsky dom where Katya had worked. As Anya had grown older, rather than going home to their tiny cold, empty house, she would go to the orphanage and practise her steps with an ache of hunger in her stomach for the stew her mother cooked.
Sometimes she would sneak a taste but, if caught, her mother would give her a slap.
‘Do you want to get big, like me?’ Katya would say.
Of course they had clashed, though never more so than during her teenage years.
‘No boys,’ Katya had said, when she had caught Anya staring at Roman. ‘Especially not one like Roman Zverev. He is trouble.’
‘No,’ Anya had said. ‘He just misses his twin.’
‘The twin he beat up, the twin he scarred.’
‘No,’ Anya had attempted, ‘that was just because Daniil refused to be adopted without his twin and it was the only way Roman could get him to leave.’
‘Don’t answer back,’ Katya had said and had pulled down the roller blind and sent Anya to the back of the kitchen. That night, once home, Katya had spoken more harshly to her daughter. ‘There can be no boys. To succeed with your ballet you can have only one focus.’
Anya had obliged—there had been no boys.
But a few years later, away from the orphanage, she had met Roman.
And he had become a man.
Ready now to take herself to the stage, Anya looked at her trinkets and touched them. She opened a small box but did not take out the bunched-up piece of foil. She would save that for the interval. Instead she ran her fingers over a faded label. It was a label that she had torn from the sheets when she and Roman had first made love and beside it was a small gold hoop earring.
Tonight she brought the label up to her lips and then replaced it back in the box and snapped the lid closed.
There was a knock at the door, and she was informed it was time. Anya made her way through the maze of corridors in the old London theatre. ‘Merde,’ was said many times but still she did not respond.
Anya did not make friends readily. Her only focus had been getting to the top and they all thought her cold.
She was.
Anya was the queen of ice.
Until she danced.
Mika was there; he wore a suit of red and a small cap, which would soon hold a feather that the firebird would give to him. They nodded to each other but that was it; they were immersed in their own pre-performance routines.
The press insisted that they were a couple. Mika had quite a reputation with women and, such was their chemistry on stage, it was assumed it carried on afterwards.
In truth they did not really get on.
Anya wasn’t particularly close to anyone.
Once she had been. Until Roman had left her, there had been laughter and passion and she had been open to others.
Not any more.
The audience started to applaud and Anya shrugged off her shawl and did a final limber up as the audience hushed and the orchestra teased.
‘Merde,’ she said to Mika as he picked up his bow and arrow, the props used for the opening act, and, before her very eyes, he became Ivan, the prince, and went onto the stage—the setting for the magical garden.
Anya took some deep breaths and her teeth chattered as she fought nausea. Even after all these years, she still suffered with the most terrible stage fright and the more she advanced in her career, the worse it became.
It was an incredibly demanding role and the pressure on her was immense.
She moved several steps back and positioned herself and, closing her eyes, she took in some slow deep breaths and waited for the moment.
When it came, she was no longer Anya, or even Tatania.
As she flew onto the stage, she was the firebird.
A flash of gold, caught by the light, darted across the stage and she heard the audience gasp. The sight of the firebird intrigued Ivan, the prince.
Now he hid behind a tree as the firebird waited on the other side of the stage, taking more deep breaths and preparing to stun the audience again.
She did so.
Now the prince hid in the garden in wait to watch and then capture the firebird, and after another pause she came back on and swept up a piece of golden fruit.
Firebird was so beautiful, Anya thought as she danced. So slender, fragile and graceful. Few knew the agony that it took to birth this beauty and tonight, on closing night, it all came together as she shimmered and danced for him.
For Roman.
The man she had loved too much.
Their love affair that had lasted for just two short weeks but then he had so cruelly left.
For a long time she had feared he had died.
He had not.
And he had never once told her he loved her.
Had he? And would she ever see him again? Firebird asked herself over and over as the prince captured her in his arms and the pas de deux commenced.
There was a small flutter of hope that she might—soon the dance company would move to Paris and that was where she was now sure he lived.
Would Roman seek her out this time? Firebird wondered as the prince lifted her high into the sky.
Left alone on the stage towards the interval, she danced her solo with everything she had.
Everything, everything, was right.
The interval came and she did not respond to the chatter from her colleagues; instead she shut herself in her dressing-room. For the first ten minutes she just recovered her breathing. The role was the most demanding of any of them. Then Anya ate the other half of her banana and a small chocolate bar and closed her eyes, desperate to not escape the zone that she had found tonight.
And with the sweet taste of chocolate on her tongue she remembered her first taste.
Always she had practised in the kitchen, but once she had become a teenager, her mother had told her she could not dance when the boys were eating, as it teased them.
She would put on an apron and serve their meals instead.
Oh, but there was one she would love to tease.
Roman.
He and his twin had a talent for boxing and Sergio, the maintenance man, trained them and insisted that the Zverev twins would make it in the boxing world.
As a younger girl, Anya had laughed as they’d trained and had told them that she was far fitter.
She had been.
Anya had been accepted at a prestigious dance school, but in the holidays she would come back.
There were four boys, and they were always together—Roman, Daniil, Nikolai and Sev.
Trouble the workers called them.
Anya didn’t think so.
But on the eve of Daniil’s adoption by a rich family in England, a fight had broken out and Roman had won.
She could remember Daniil sitting in the kitchen as her mother had done what she could to repair his cheek.
‘The rich family don’t want ugly,’ Katya had said to him as Anya had fetched the first-aid box.
She had looked at Daniil and seen the confusion in his eyes that his brother could have done this to him.
‘It’s because Roman wants what is best for you,’ Anya had wanted to say, for it had been clear to her that Roman had not really been cross with his brother, just let him think he could do better in boxing without him.
She had been too nervous to say that in front of her mother.
After Daniil had left for England, the little group of four had quickly disbanded.
Sev had been given a scholarship to a very good school and had later boarded there.
Nikolai had, they’d thought, run away and thrown himself in a river. But, as they had recently found out, he had simply run away.
Only Roman had remained in the orphanage.
Now, at mealtimes, Roman had come for the second sitting, the one reserved for the older, most troubled boys.
He had been so beautiful. Dark hair and pale skin and he’d had black eyes that would look across the dining room and catch Anya’s at times. Always she had been aware of him and anticipated his arrival. Even on the coldest of mornings, when he’d come in to breakfast, there had been heat in her cheeks, just because he had been near.
In the evenings, when she’d served him his stew, sometimes their fingers had touched under the plate he’d held out.
Anya had lived for those moments and ached for time to speak with him properly, but he had been in the secure wing, so it had been an impossible dream. Sometimes she’d convinced herself that she was imagining that Roman felt the same way about her, until one night when their fingers had met beneath the plate. He had given her something and Anya frowned as she’d felt the slim package.
Worried that her mother would notice, she’d quickly put it into the pocket of her apron but then, when she’d been sent to the cupboard to eat her soup, she’d taken it out.
Chocolate.
Belgian chocolate.
And a whole bar!
How had he got it?
And why, instead of eating such a rare treat himself, had Roman saved it for her?
Oh, her mother had found out. She had opened the cupboard door and found Anya pushing chocolate into her mouth.
Katya had berated her daughter as she’d slapped her, but for Anya it had been worth it, not just for the sweet taste, more that Roman had thought enough of her to give her such a treat.
All these years later she still had the foil and, as she touched it, she smiled at the memory.
It was time to return to the stage.
With her mother’s shawl wrapped around her, again she painted her lips scarlet and then back through the maze of corridors she went.
Firebird soared even higher.
She danced the monsters into the shadows and as she did so, she thought of the lover who had left her.
How he had broken her heart when he had left without so much as a goodbye.
But she had risen.
Anya had poured all her grief, her anger and her longing into her next love—ballet.
And it had paid off, it would seem, for she was here, under the lights, now a prima ballerina, enchanting the audience, whom she held in the palm of her hand tonight.
How the firebird mocked the monsters on stage as she danced them into exhaustion and yet her energy remained.
Just as she always did, she imagined Roman watching as the prince held her and turned her and she was perfection in his arms. She hoped Roman ached in regret for leaving her behind.
As the magical egg cracked open, she closed her mind to the grief and the memory of his smile filled her heart.
Flu had swept through the orphanage and the orphans had been confined to their dorms. Walking into his room in the secure unit to deliver his supper, just before he’d left the orphanage, they had been alone for the first time for a moment. How she had ached to lower her head and kiss that sulky mouth.
‘How did you get the chocolate?’ she had asked.
Roman hadn’t answered but she had warmed to the first glimpse of his smile.
And tonight she was on fire to the memory of it.
But then it had been over.
Firebird did not appear in the final scene; instead she sat on the floor in the wings and dragged in air, utterly drained. Then as the performance ended, she listened to the cheers and the applause and she hauled herself up. When it was her turn, the firebird ran onto the stage as serene and as beautiful as ever to accept the applause.
The audience rose as she returned. They knew they had seen an amazing performance tonight and that she had danced with all that she had.
Tatania offered deep curtsies, swooped and picked up the roses that were thrown onto the stage.
She knew that she had earned every bravo and every cheer and Tatania smiled as still they cheered on.
There was a ten-minute standing ovation and over and over they called her back to accept the applause, but just as the noise started to ebb, she heard it.
‘Brava krasavitsa!’
Beautiful woman.
Tatania froze momentarily and turned her face up and to the right and peered into the darkness but she could not see him.
Yet her soul recognised his voice.
Roman was here.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_34346514-e588-5dd6-ab64-c3280988b1cf)
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.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ed9eb046-4aa8-5756-948c-cb1a7ef178ab)
ANYA SHIVERED WITH want now, rather than stage fright.
Her legs, which had just a short while ago performed the most amazing feats, barely remembered how to walk as he took her by the hand and led her to the dressing-room chair. He moved it so that she faced to the side and he came round and got down on one knee.
He undid the silk ribbons of her pointe shoes and slipped them off, and Anya grimaced as he did so. Always, after a performance, it hurt to remove them.
There was blood on the toes of her ballet tights, even though she had worn in her shoes and bandaged her feet carefully. He caressed the soles of her feet and her sore heels and then he ran warm hands up her aching calves too.
Roman felt the cramped muscles beneath his fingers and he smoothed and soothed them for a couple of moments and Anya held onto his shoulder as she wished his hand would move higher.
‘Come on,’ he said in that deep low voice that made her throb, and as he stood so too did Anya and she lifted her arms.
Roman knew to be careful and his fingers found the small concealed zip and slid it down.
She stepped out of it and stood as he hung up her costume.
‘Don’t tell me I’m too thin...’
‘Shh,’ he said. He did not want to relive that final row. Instead he went to the waist of her ballet tights and slid them down. She was naked save for the bandages on her feet.
Again she sat on her dressing chair and he dealt with the bandages. Anya couldn’t help herself, she reached and touched his gleaming black hair, unable to believe he was really here after all those years apart.
Still kneeling, he looked up and observed her body. He saw the small breasts and she closed her eyes as he licked at one and then blew, and then toyed with her nipple between his lips.
She held onto his head as he took her breast in his mouth and sucked and then did the same to the other, took it so deep that it hurt, and her thighs shook but his hands held them down.
‘Roman...’
She was drunk on him, aching to be with him, and when he removed his mouth she caught her breath and watched as he parted her thighs and looked at her. Oh, she ached for him to bury his head there but he stroked her for a moment and slipped his fingers inside and then ran a figure of eight with one damp finger around her clitoris. They smiled at the memory of their first time and her telling him where it was.
Roman had cared only for his pleasure back then.
At first.
Then he had discovered the sanctuary of her bliss.
Now he removed his finger and stood.
She could see his erection and then she felt it for herself, running her hand over and over it as he unbuckled his belt. She took it out as he removed his tie and undid the buttons of his shirt so his chest was bare, but he left his shirt and jacket on.
Such beauty, she thought as she licked her lips and lowered her head to take just one small taste.
That turned into more.
The feathers of her headdresses moved and shivered and teased against his toned stomach, soft and tender, unlike the feel of her skilled mouth that gave rapid flicks and enslaved him. Roman’s breathing tripped into a moan that was a familiar one and turned Anya on totally.
She took him deeper but now more slowly as his fingers worked the pins of her headdress and, care forgotten, he tossed it aside and pushed her head lower.
His fingers were busy freeing her hair, and then he lifted her head. He was so close to coming and she licked her lips. He raised her, lifted her body against his and kicked away the chair. He brushed away all her carefully placed trinkets in one motion and then placed her on the dressing table. Anya stroked him as he carefully angled the mirrors so that there were hundreds of them and then he pulled her bottom to the edge of the table and parted her legs, and in his deep gravelly voice he told her that he was going to fill her with ecstasy.
He did.
Anya gripped tight to the edge of the table and arched back as he drove in.
He tore into her and the pain and bliss of their first time was replicated.
Roman had always loved to watch them, and now he looked down and widened her legs for better exposure, so that he could see himself glide in and out.
Anya looked at the mirror.
There they were, an endless stretch of Anyas and Romans but there were hundreds of images when instead there should be hundreds of memories, all denied to her by him.
‘I hate you for leaving,’ she sobbed as he started to thrust faster into her, and then she pressed her lips together so she would not reveal more of her hurt.
He did not look to the mirrors, he simply looked down and then when he had to have her body closer, he scooped her in to him and her skin was against his naked chest as her mouth found his.
Anya wrapped her legs around him and she was no longer on the table. She moved on him, and for all she had danced tonight, she did so again. Gripping him, grinding herself on him, wrapping toned legs tightly to his loins, and she held on as his powerful thighs allowed him to thrust harder.
She was fit enough not to require holding and now Roman’s large hands cupped her buttocks and he stroked them in deep rhythm till she shivered from the inside.
‘Stay still...’ he told her.
‘I can’t.’
‘I want to feel you.’
He knew she was almost there and now his hands held her rigid and would not allow her to move. He knew her body, and he was right, because as he held her still she felt him swell and he let out a primal grunt as he did what he had promised, filled her with ecstasy. The feel of him coming long and deep into her brought Anya to her own intense climax. It raced the length of her spine, she seized in his arms and pulsed and dragged out from him every precious drop and ached as still she fought for more.
They kissed and even now, Anya knew, she could have him again.
Such was their endless desire that, as they rested their foreheads on each other, Anya knew she could bring him back with just a few shifts of her hips—they could resume and chase oblivion again.
Their mouths meshed and their tongues mingled as her hips did just that, and she gripped and massaged him back, but there was knocking at the door.
Anya closed her eyes in frustration as she was informed that the car would soon be there to take her to the after party.
Their lips parted in regret and as Roman lowered her she never wanted her feet to hit the floor, but they did. She rested her head on his chest and drank in the scent of him, of them.
‘Did you love me?’
Anya had to know but he did not answer.
Almost fourteen years later and she still didn’t know.
Fourteen years without seeing him.
Only that wasn’t quite true, as he regularly appeared in her dreams.
But, no, there had been that one time she had seen him since then. It was something she had tried to erase from her memory.
A sight she would have preferred never to have seen.
Yet she had.
She looked up at his mouth, at his slight smile, and Anya knew how rare a smile from Roman was.
But then she looked into his eyes and was there a glint of triumph there?
Was that a smug smile at how easily he could have her? That, after all these years, he could walk back in and she would melt like a candle to his flame?
And she was angry at him, and perhaps more angry at herself for just how readily she had succumbed. Anger took over then.
Anya knew what she had seen two years ago.
On seeing him again there had been little relief that the man she loved hadn’t died on a battlefield.
There had been rage instead and it resurfaced now.
She raised her hand and slapped him, and he took it without so much as a flinch.
And then she asked him what perhaps she should have asked earlier.
‘How’s your wife?’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a61ec6e1-4234-5b4a-8424-a5d5a028da99)
YES, SHE SHOULD have asked earlier.
But this was how their love had always been, so consuming and so intense that there wasn’t room for anything else other than them.
Roman was sure that had Anya been married and a mother of triplets, had she been working on the checkout, still their first meeting, after all these years apart, it would have been the same.
They had to have each other.
It was why he had let her go.
‘You know?’ Roman frowned. ‘How?’
‘I saw you in Paris, two years ago, when I was performing there,’ Anya said. ‘You were sitting in a square, having a drink with her at a café and kissing in the afternoon sun...’ It had been agony to see and it was agony now to recall it. She had been rushing from her hotel to the theatre to prepare for her performance. She had progressed to being a soloist and had been playing the part of Violente, one of the fairies in Sleeping Beauty, and had been an understudy for the Lilac Fairy, who’d played a major role in the dance.
That night, for the first time, she would be performing as the Lilac Fairy, and it had been the only thing on her mind until Anya had turned into the square and her brisk pace had come to a rapid halt.
It was Roman.
Absolutely it was.
She had stood, frozen.
Roman had been sitting at a pavement café in the late-afternoon sun, and though her heart had recognised him she had not understood the exquisitely dressed man who’d lounged in the chair. Or why there had been a middle-aged woman by his side.
Her throat had closed and her jaw had gritted as she’d watched the woman reach over and kiss him.
The glint of her wedding ring had caused Anya to frown and, for a brief moment, she had assumed that Roman was having an affair with an older, married woman.
That had caused enough pain in itself but then, with the kiss over, she had watched as he’d lifted his cup and everything in her world had seemed to dim as she’d seen that there was a ring on his finger.
The cry she had let out had gone unnoticed by passers-by. Actually, no, as she now properly recalled it, a woman had turned her head as she’d walked past.
And then, when she’d thought her heart had died, Anya had found out that it was, in fact, being tortured as Roman, her brooding, distant, lover, had taken his wife’s hand and held it and they’d shared a kiss again.
She had wanted to scream in rage, to dash over and stop them. To demand of Roman how the hell he could cheat on her. For that was exactly how it had felt—as if she had caught him having an affair.
Yet she’d been unable to bring herself to confront him. She’d been tempted to run back to the tiny hotel room, to lie on her bed and sob, such was her grief, but that night’s performance was a vital one.
For the first time in her life Anya had truly thought she could not perform. On the most vital night of her career to date, she had doubted that she could go on.
Somehow she had made it to the theatre and taken out all her tiny keepsakes, her earring, the foil from the chocolate and the label from the sheet.
Oh, she had thought about tossing them; instead she had wept on them, grieved again for the two of them.
But then she had risen.
Anya, that night, had danced better than she ever had, though her fury, to this day, remained.
‘So,’ Anya demanded as she wrapped a robe around herself and Roman did up his clothes, ‘how is she? Does she wait backstage...’ She looked at his immaculate suit. ‘She dresses her plaything well...’
‘My money is mine,’ Roman said.
‘Please...’ she scoffed. ‘You had nothing.’
‘When I knew you,’ Roman said, ‘I had nothing. I made my fortune myself.’
‘Rubbish—you found a rich wife. I saw her sitting there, dripping in jewels. So, tell me, how is she?’
‘She was wonderful,’ Roman said, and let her know in those words that his wife had died and that he would defend not just his late wife but the indefensible fact that he’d had another woman after Anya. ‘Don’t speak poorly of her again, Anya, or you shan’t like my response.’
A violent drenching of jealousy flooded Anya as he spoke.
‘Celeste died a year ago.’
There were two things that Anya hated about that statement.
That she knew his wife’s name and that she had died a year ago yet still he hadn’t sought her out.
But, then, what did she expect? Neither had he sought out his identical twin. Roman was the coldest, most complex of men, his dark eyes had always held mystery and she stared into them now.
‘Did you know I was performing in Paris, then?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you come and see me?’ Anya asked, for always she danced for him.
‘No,’ Roman said. ‘Celeste wanted to but I made an excuse not to go and she went with a friend.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t want to answer.
Roman knew exactly the night Anya referred to. He and Celeste had been sitting at a pavement café and waiting for her friend to arrive.
‘Why don’t you want to come to the ballet?’ Celeste had asked.
‘I just...’ He had shrugged.
‘We’re breaking up, aren’t we?’ Celeste had reached over and kissed him. ‘It’s okay, Roman, we agreed to two years.’
And those two years would have soon been over. But Celeste had just found out that she was seriously ill and had had only six months to live.
He had taken a drink of his coffee and his decision had been made.
‘I’m not leaving you to face this alone.’
He had taken her hand.
‘I’ll be with you all the way through this,’ he had promised, and it had been sealed with a tender kiss.
A kiss that, it turned out, Anya had witnessed.
‘Why?’ Anya demanded. ‘Why did you not come and see me perform? Didn’t you care?’
‘No,’ Roman said. ‘I promised that I would be faithful to my wife. To watch you dance would have felt like an affair.’
It was the only glimpse he gave her that, through the years, feelings had remained.
She didn’t understand him and he gave her nothing that might bring her closer to doing so. ‘Why haven’t you told Daniil that you are in London?’ Anya challenged.
‘You don’t know that I haven’t.’
‘Yes, I do because I was at Daniil’s this afternoon,’ Anya said.
Roman said nothing but she saw his jaw grit as she made it clear that she and his brother were in touch.
‘He is married...’ she told him.
‘I read in the news.’
‘They have a new baby.’
‘I read about that too.’
‘He still searches for you,’ Anya said. ‘He doesn’t know if you are alive or dead.’
‘Did you not tell him that you saw me in Paris?’
‘No,’ Anya said. She hadn’t told Daniil because she wished that she had never seen Roman sitting in the sun and kissing a woman that had not been her. ‘Perhaps I shall tell him next time I see him,’ she taunted. ‘Did you know that your niece gets christened next Sunday?’
She watched as his eyes shuttered.
‘You might have erased your past when you joined the legion but we all live on. Your niece’s name is Nadia...’
‘Anya...’ He put up his hand to halt her but she refused to be silenced.
‘Oh, and Sev will be there, with his new wife Naomi...’ She could hear his heavy breathing as she bombarded him with names from his past.
People he had loved yet had chosen to never contact again.
‘Nikolai is coming. You remember he loved ships, well, he has a superyacht now...’
‘You lie,’ Roman said. ‘Don’t you remember?’ He looked at her. ‘Of course not, you were off at dance school, but Nikolai ran away and committed suicide.’
They had been such dark, painful times. Roman could still remember the night that they had been informed that Nikolai’s body had been pulled from the river.
He had asked if he might speak with Sev, because he’d known that he would be devastated. After all, Nikolai and Sev had been best friends.
That request had been denied and Roman had been locked in his room instead. He hadn’t cried, he hadn’t even known how to, but that night, thinking of the torture that must have been in Nikolai’s head, he had been the closest he had ever come to breaking down.
Now Anya was here, telling him that Nikolai was alive.
‘Nikolai ran away, but the body they pulled from the river wasn’t his,’ Anya said.
Roman kept his feelings hidden—he always had—and his time in the legion had honed that skill, but hearing Nikolai was alive, that all his friends would be together next Sunday, meant it took everything he possessed to keep his voice level.
‘And shall you be there?’
Anya nodded. ‘I am coming back from Paris just for the day.’
‘Coming back?’
‘We go there tomorrow.’
‘We?’
‘The dance company.’
He wanted to ask about Mika, yet he did not.
Tonight was a one-night stand, for old times’ sake, Roman told himself.
There was another knock on the door, and they were told that the car was there to take her to her leaving party.
‘It can wait!’ Anya called back.
‘You ought to go,’ he said. ‘Or you’ll have your mother calling me a saboteur again.’
‘She died, Roman,’ Anya said. ‘And please don’t offer a false apology.’
‘I shan’t.’
He hated Katya, more than even Anya could know.
‘I will leave you to get ready for your party.’
‘So we just have sex and you leave?’ she challenged, and then she gave a derisive laugh. ‘Nothing changes, does it?’
She watched as he checked his reflection in the mirror. She knew it was for her sake, walking out wearing her make-up would not be a good look, but his unruffled demeanour incensed her.
He smoothed his hair back and straightened his tie, and with a tissue he removed a little of her make-up that had smeared onto his face.
As he went to give her cheek a kiss Anya pulled her head back, but just as he reached the door she called him back.
There was something she just had to know.
‘How did you meet your wife?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Roman said.
‘It does to me. I want to know,’ she said. ‘Was it love at first sight, or was it her money you wanted? Tell me, Roman, how did you meet?’
‘I answered an advert. She was looking for a husband.’
And with that sordid revelation he might as well have ripped out her heart and stamped on it. Rather than search for her, he had simply answered an ad.
‘Bastard!’
‘Yep,’ Roman said.
‘You’re a whore, Roman,’ Anya swore. ‘I hate you.’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Because I made a life for myself?’
She did not answer. Yes, she hated him for making a life that did not include her and she would never forgive him for marrying another woman. ‘Come on, Anya.’ He touched on a subject he did not necessarily want to discuss. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen anyone.’
‘Of course I have,’ she said. ‘Do you really think I kept myself on ice for you?’
She lied.
There had been no one else.
Dance was all she had.
She had not just kept herself on ice, she had turned into it. No one could ever come close to the memory of him and so she held onto it and held back from others.
‘It was good to see you, Roman,’ she said. ‘Please don’t expect a repeat performance in Paris. I would prefer it if you stayed away.’ She turned to head to the shower, but then changed her mind. ‘You need to let your twin know you are alive, or I shall. You chose to reappear,’ she said. ‘I shan’t keep any secrets for you from now on.’ She told him Daniil’s address. ‘He changed his name a couple of years ago, so that you might find him. I can’t believe you have not spent every day searching for him.’
Then she looked at a man who had simply turned his back on the life they could have had, and, yes, actually she could believe it.
‘I hope she was worth it.’
‘Worth what?’
The end of them.
‘Go,’ Anya said.
She wanted him to leave now.
And, because it was Roman, just like that, he went.
It was pride that stopped her calling him back.
* * *
She stepped into the shower and quickly dressed for her after party.
Blasting her hair with the dryer, it fell softly around her face. Her hands were still shaking from their brief reunion.
She pulled on a pale grey dress and some heels and then headed out.
Colour she saved for the stage.
‘Where were you?’ Mika asked, as she climbed into the limousine to head to the hotel where the party was being held.
‘I had people to greet.’
They sat in silence, Anya lost in her thoughts. Mika was sulking at being kept waiting and he read what was being said on social media about tonight’s performance. They ignored each other but as they stepped out onto the red carpet they came alive again, for it added to the mystery of the dance world. There were screams for Mika, because he had quite a fangirl following. Mika, though, put a protective arm around Anya and they smiled for the cameras and then headed inside.
Instead of refusing the delicacies that were being offered, as she usually did, Anya took a serviette and a small beignet and bit into the warm, sweet dough.
There were a few raised eyebrows when she took another and then another. The lemon in her water was her usual fuel for this type of thing.
But sex had made her hungry, or was it that Roman was back?
Yes, the people around could see the changes. Not just that she ate but that her cheeks were pink and her green eyes glittered.
After all these years, her body felt alive again and yet he had killed her soul.
The next morning as the famed ballet troupe headed for a snatched week at home or straight on to Paris before rehearsals began in earnest, Anya fought with herself not to stop the car and get out.
Roman was in London.
And as she sat on the plane and strapped on her seat belt she wanted to disembark. It felt wrong to be leaving when he was here.
She turned away from the chatter of colleagues and stared out of the window and thought of Roman and Daniil catching up after all these years, and then she thought of what had taken place last night.
Then, despite harsh words to Roman and a brutal lecture to herself, insisting that she was through with him, she consoled herself with one thought.
She would see him at the christening, she was sure.
It wasn’t over.
It never had been.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_ef90369d-4da3-5815-96dc-890650b029ea)
ROMAN AWOKE ON the morning of the christening and as he lay there he was hit with an unfamiliar feeling—he wanted to be waking up in his Parisian home.
Roman was not used to missing a city, or a building, but as he got up and showered he was glad that soon he would be going home.
Today, though, he would meet with Daniil.
He still hadn’t contacted him.
The natural assumption might be that he would want to see his identical twin before seeing Anya.
The assumption would have been wrong.
He and Daniil had been abandoned at approximately two weeks of age. No one knew who had been born first but it had always been assumed that Roman was the elder.
Roman had been a natural leader and, though Daniil was as tough as they came, Roman had looked out for his brother at every turn. He had taken care of him and taken the fall for him and had wanted only the best for his twin.
When Daniil had been adopted Roman had made a promise to himself that he was letting his twin go for good.
Daniil had had a chance, a real chance for a good life and an entirely new start, and Roman had insisted that he take it.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/carol-marinelli/return-of-the-untamed-billionaire/) 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.