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‘But you earn good money. It’s not as if you can’t afford it.’
‘I’ve always had better things to spend my money on.’
‘Such as?’
‘Education. Rent and then mortgage. Food, fancy shoes and handbags. You know—the usual.’
‘I know it well.’
He raised his eyes to meet hers. The intensity whirling in them had an effect that was almost hypnotic.
‘Did your father ever take you on holiday—it was just you and your father, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was just me and my father. And, no, we never went on holiday.’ Nico released her hand and finished his wine. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
The hand he’d released tingled so much she rammed it between her thighs, glad the moonlight prevented him from seeing the colour blazing across her neck and face.
He pressed the intercom and spoke quietly into it, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on her.
Past history was not something they had discussed. When they had decided to marry right there and then in California, she had asked if his parents would be disappointed not to attend. He had shaken his head.
‘My mother died when I was a toddler,’ he had said, as collected as always. ‘And my father isn’t a man for ceremony.’
It had not been mentioned or alluded to since by either of them.
Why was that?
How could you spend eleven months living with someone and know next to nothing about them other than how they took their coffee?
She had been too scared to ask. Not scared of Nico’s reaction to any probing questions, but scared of her reaction. Sharing histories had felt an intimacy too far—way beyond the remit of their marriage pact.
But now, with the moonlight beaming above and a slight breeze tempering the warm glow from all the wine she’d consumed, it all seemed so irrelevant. She enjoyed Nico’s company, she found him incredibly sexy—why not take the opportunity to get to know him better while she still had the chance? What did she have to lose?
Once their plates had been cleared and the coffee delivered, Rosa placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, admiring the graceful way he poured the dark brown liquid. For such a large man there was an elegance about his movements she found more and more captivating.
‘What was it like, growing up in Siberia?’
‘Cold.’
‘Hilarious. I’m curious, though—what was it like? Whenever I think of Siberia all I can think of is Dr Zhivago.’
‘Dr Zhivago was written seventy years ago.’
‘Exactly. Incidentally, it is my favourite book. But I am curious to know what it’s really like.’
Nico poured a splash of milk into his cup. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Sheer curiosity. You’re the one who said we should use this time to get to know each other better,’ she reminded him pointedly. ‘Unless you were only saying that in the hope I would drop my knickers?’
He looked up at her, his lips twitching, his eyes gleaming. He took a sip of the hot liquid. ‘I lived in a small mining town. I cannot talk for the rest of Siberia because I never visited it.’
‘What was your town like?’
‘Small and boring. I learned to make my own amusements.’
‘Did your father ever remarry?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever come close?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have no idea. I would imagine the dearth of women had something to do with it.’
‘Why was there a dearth of women?’
‘The town is in one of Siberia’s remotest regions. The summers aren’t too bad but the winters are cruel and long. There are very few families and most of them move on when their children reach school age.’
‘Were there any children your age?’
‘There were a couple of older boys I was educated with.’
‘What about girls?’
‘Girls?’
‘You know—the humans with the x and y chromosomes.’
‘It was the families with girls who got out the quickest. It was a man’s town.’
‘That must have been hard for you,’ she observed, feeling a pang for the child Nico had been, cut off from the rest of civilisation with only a couple of friends and no female figure in his life.
He shrugged. ‘It was my life. I knew no different.’
‘But something must have made you want to leave it.’
‘Books. My father is a voracious reader. He encouraged me to read so I would learn that our town was only a tiny atom in the world. He was determined his life would not be my life.’
Rosa’s throat closed.
So they did have something in common other than a tendency towards workaholicism. Books. The need for escape. The knowledge that the hands they had been dealt did not have to define them for all eternity.
