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‘Family? Give me a break—those people aren’t your family.’ She reached out and pressed her red-taloned hand to his waist, taut beneath the expensively tailored cream shirt. ‘You have as much family feeling as a cat, Alexei,’ she stated, face upturned, lips wet and red, her hand making its way down the front of his dark trousers. ‘A big, mean, feral cat. Very big.’ Her hand settled on what she found there. ‘Not up to play today, darling?’
His body had begun to respond as long familiarity with the process had taught it, but sex was not on today’s agenda. It hadn’t been on the agenda since Monday, when his right-hand man, Carlo, had brought him the news in the early hours. He remembered the snapping on of the lamp, Carlo’s murmured voice as he laid out the spare, basic facts such as they had been. Then he had been alone in that big flat bed, swimming in emptiness. Tara had been beside him, dead to the world under a blanket of whatever drugs she took to sleep. A body.
He had been alone.
I never want to have sex with this woman ever again.
He grasped her forearm and gently but with leashed force revolved her one hundred and eighty degrees to face the door.
‘Off you go,’ he murmured in her ear, as if imparting an endearment—only his voice was completely dead of feeling. ‘Join them on deck. Don’t drink too much, and here.’ He picked up the newspaper she had dropped on the boardroom table. ‘Dispose of this.’
Tara had been in the wide world long enough to know she was experiencing the infamous Ranaevsky Chill Factor. She just hadn’t expected to feel it herself, or perhaps not quite so soon.
‘Danni was right. You are a cold bastard.’
Alexei didn’t have a clue who Danni was—didn’t particularly care. He just wanted Tara out of the room. Out of his life.
He wanted the people outside off his boat.
He wanted to turn the clock back to Sunday.
Mostly he wanted his control back. Control over the situation.
‘How in the hell are you going to raise a child?’ Tara snarled as she strutted out through the door.
Control. His dark eyes fixed on the Florida coastline, visible through the wraparound windows. He would begin by doing what he needed to do. Speaking to the people outside. Speaking to Carlo. Most of all speaking to Kostya, a two-year-old infant. But first he needed to fly across the Atlantic to do it.
‘“The owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,”‘ sang Maisy in a soft contralto, her body arced over the small boy curled on his side in the crib. He had been sucking on the plump flesh of his fist, but as sleep claimed him his pink mouth closed and presently his barrel-shaped chest rose and fell beneath the delicate ribbed cotton singlet he wore.
She had been singing to him for a while now, after a full half-hour of reading, and her throat felt dry, her voice slightly hoarse. But it was worth it to see him like this, so peaceful.
Standing up, she scanned the room, checking everything was in its place. The nursery was as it had always been—a place of womblike security—yet everything outside it had changed. For this little boy, for ever.
Tiptoeing out, she closed the door. The baby monitor was on and she knew from experience he would sleep now until after midnight. It was her chance to get some food and then some sleep herself. She’d been awake so much of the past thirty-six hours she couldn’t even gauge how much sleep she’d had.
Two floors down, the kitchen was dimly lit. Valerie, the Kulikovs’ housekeeper, had left the spotlights over the benches on for her, and they cast an almost ghostly glow. Valerie had also left a dish of macaroni and cheese in the fridge to be reheated, and Maisy silently thanked her as she slid the bowl into the microwave.
The older woman had been a godsend this week. When the news had come through of the crash Maisy had been in her room, packing for a vacation that was due to start on Tuesday. She remembered putting down the telephone and sitting by it for a full ten minutes before she even thought of what to do next. Then she had rung Valerie and life had resumed movement.
She and Valerie had both expected Leo and Anais’s families to sweep in, but the house in the private London square had remained silent. Inside, Valerie continued to do her hours and return to her family at night, and Maisy cared for her charge and waited for the plea that had not yet come. I want Mama.
The press had been there for a couple of days, pushing up at the windows, clambering over the iron railings to drop to the basement. Valerie had kept the blinds drawn, and Maisy had only taken Kostya out once, to the private garden across the road. Maisy had worked for the Kulikovs since Kostya’s birth, and lived in this house all that time. Leo and Anais had travelled frequently. Maisy was accustomed to being alone with Kostya for weeks at a time. Yet there was something—empty—tonight. The house felt too quiet, and Maisy found herself jumping as the microwave pinged, pressing open the door with a hand that trembled.
