was definitely building between them.
‘And can I meet your grandmother? Ask her a few questions?’ Her voice had become a little husky and she bit down on her lower lip, an action he wouldn’t read into. Not if he wanted to stay in control of this nonsense and thwart his grandmother’s attempt at stirring up trouble once more.
‘Yes, but first we’ll go to the places that are linked to my family. I have already made the arrangements for tomorrow.’
She looked happy, as if he’d just handed her a free pass. ‘In that case, I will look forward to spending a few days with you.’
The irritating thing was, he also found himself looking forward to being with her. The very woman he’d wanted to despise on sight and he was undeniably attracted to her.
THE NEXT MORNING Emma was full of excitement and it wasn’t just that, after a shaky start, this assignment, thanks to Nikolai’s plans, would be done quickly and she could head off to meet Jess. She was taken aback to realise she was also excited to see Nikolai Cunningham again. After yesterday afternoon in his company, she was convinced he couldn’t be as severe as he’d first appeared when she’d stepped off the train. Then he’d created such a formidable picture of power and command and she’d wished she’d been able to photograph him as he’d stood there, glaring at her.
It unnerved her to admit the excitement hadn’t dissipated after they’d met and he’d shown her to his car. If anything it had increased and she had no idea why. After wasting several years worshipping Richard from afar and not being noticed, she didn’t want to fall for the charms of another man—especially one as unattainable as Nikolai Cunningham.
‘Where are we going now?’ The large black car seemed to have glided silently through the white landscape and she’d wished many times she could stop and take photographs. Not for the magazine, but for herself. Her creative mind was working overtime and she saw images as if through the lens all over the place.
‘To the place I knew as home until I was ten years old. It’s just on the outskirts of Vladimir.’ He looked straight ahead as he drove, his profile set into firm, determined lines. She had the distinct impression it was the last place he wanted to go and wondered at his motives for taking her there. He didn’t strike her as a compliant man. Far from it.
‘And who lives there now? Your grandmother?’ she couldn’t help but ask. The brief for the assignment and the need to be professional, to get the job done and leave on time, pushed to the forefront of her mind. She had to get this right, had to put the spin on it the magazine wanted, but everything she’d seen or been told so far was in total contrast to what she was supposed to portray. This wasn’t a happy-ever-after story, unless you counted the global success of Nikolai’s banking business that he’d created to complement his stepfather’s exclusive real-estate business.
His silence deepened and she turned her attention to the road ahead. Moments later the car turned off onto a snow-covered lane that had no tracks on it at all, no hint that anyone had gone that way recently. Was the house empty?
Nikolai spoke harshly, in what she assumed was Russian, and most definitely sounded like a curse. She looked from him to the crumbling façade ahead of what must have once been a great house. It had rounded towers, some with turrets and others with pointed roofs, which reached into the grey sky above. The black holes, where once windows of assorted sizes had looked out over the flat landscape, seemed like watchful eyes.
Emma’s heart went out to Nikolai as she pieced together the small amount she knew about him. None of it made sense, but it was obvious he hadn’t expected this empty shell. She’d planned to take photographs of the place he’d grown up in, maybe even convince him to be in one, but now none of that felt right.
He got out of the car, seemingly unaware of her presence, and for a moment she sat and watched him. Then the photographer in her made that impossible for long. The image of his solitary figure, dressed in dark clothes, standing and looking at the neglected building, stark against the white landscape, was too much of a temptation. She had to take the photo.
Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she got out of the car, her camera in hand. The snow crunched under her boots as she moved a little closer. Seconds later she began taking photos. He remained oblivious to the clicks of the lens and as she looked back through the images she knew she wouldn’t be using them for the article. These told a story of pain and loss and they were for her alone.
‘This is where my family lived before my father died.’ He didn’t turn to speak to her, as if doing so would give away his emotions. Was he afraid of appearing weak? His tone had an icy edge to it, but she waited for him to continue. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen it since I was a ten-year-old boy. My mother and I left for a new life in New York after that.’
‘That must have been hard.’ She moved instinctively towards him, but the cold glare in his eyes as he finally turned to face her warned against it. She just wanted him to know that she understood what it felt like to be displaced in life, not to know who you really were. Just like her and Jess, he’d been pushed from one adult to another and had known great sadness.
‘Hard?’ Nikolai could barely control his anger—not just at this woman, who was bringing all he’d thought he’d forgotten about his childhood back out for inspection, but also at his grandmother for instigating it. ‘I don’t think you could possibly know.’
He thought she’d say something, defend herself, but instead she shrugged, walked back to the car and took out her camera bag. He watched as she set up her tripod and again started to take photos of the old house. The camera clicked and, each time he heard it, it was as if it was opening yet another memory.
‘Do you have any happy memories of this place?’ She looked at him. Against the white snow and grey sky she looked stunning and he allowed this to distract him from the past. He didn’t want to go there, not for anyone.
It was too late. A sense of terror crept over him as he saw himself, a young boy of eight, hiding beneath the antique table his father had been so proud to buy with his new-found wealth. He’d gone there seeing it as a place of safety, sure his father’s temper wouldn’t hurt his latest prized possession. He’d been wrong, very wrong. As his mother had begged and pleaded for his father to leave him alone, he’d been dragged out from beneath the table and lifted off his feet. He’d wriggled like mad, kicking and squealing, desperate to get away, yet knowing if he did his father would turn his attention to his mother. It was him or her and, in a bid to save her from at least one beating, he’d snarled words of hatred at his father. After that he couldn’t remember what had happened.
He didn’t want to.
He pushed the memories back. Analysing them wouldn’t help anyone now, least of all himself.
‘Not here, no,’ he replied sternly and walked over to Emma, who was looking over her shoulder as she viewed the images she’d taken. The house didn’t look so insidious on the screen of the camera, as if viewing it through the lens had defused the terrible memories of living there with his mother and father.
Emma’s scent drifted up through the crisp air to meet him and he closed his eyes as summer flowers triggered happier memories. ‘I was happiest in the summer, when we visited my mother’s family.’
Why had he said that? Inwardly he berated himself for giving her information she could act on. At the thought of the country home
