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She’d known. Instinctively she’d known he wasn’t the kind of man who would stick around. Every time they’d made love it had been behind her eyes. The question.
And finally all of it had come home to roost—what he had taught her to believe with his string of well-publicised affairs and his defensive habits. He’d thought he was protecting her, but all he’d been doing was protecting himself.
You don’t want it to be us.
But, God help him, he did—and that was the black irony of it all. He wanted a lifetime with Maisy. He’d just been on his own so long he didn’t know how to go about it.
It was good to take her dampened dress off, her flimsy sandals, and just lie in a tub of clear warm water, her hair loose and submerged, her eyes closed. Downstairs there were guests to entertain, but Ivanka had assured her they were family and she was to have her bath, not worry about anything, and come down when she was ready.
Maria brought Kostya to her whilst she was dressing, and he helped her pick out a dress. She chose the cocktail dress she had brought from London.
The dress fell to her ankles, but was so sheer that no matter how she stood or moved it clung to her figure like a second skin. She waited to feel self-conscious but the feeling didn’t come. Alexei had taught her the curvy body she had hidden under layers was sexy—no longer a source of unease but something to be celebrated.
There was a knock on her door. ‘Come in.’ She had expected Maria, looking for Kostya, but it was Stefania. She had swept her shoulder-length blond hair up and was wearing a glamorous seventies-style caftan, dripping in gold jewellery. Maisy loved the way these Russian women went completely over the top. It must be liberating.
‘Wow, you are so not wearing that around my husband.’
Maisy turned in surprise, but Stefania was laughing.
‘Oh, the baby!’ She’d spotted Kostya.
Maisy introduced them, and Kostya allowed himself to be scooped up and admired.
‘He’s so beautiful, and you’re a natural, Maisy. I don’t know how I’m going to manage when I have one. I know everyone has a nanny, but I think Ivanka’s on the right track. She does it all herself.’
‘She’s crazy,’ said Maisy honestly. ‘Everyone needs help.’
‘But you brought up Kostya yourself. Alexei was just telling the boys you did it on your own for two years.’
Alexei?
Maisy was digesting this information when Stefania said critically, ‘You need something around your neck. Show me your bling and we’ll pick something out.’
‘I don’t have any bling,’ Maisy confessed, trying to keep her voice light.
‘You’re kidding me? Alexei hasn’t thrown open the gates of all the best jewellery stores? Maise, I’m gonna talk to that man.’
‘No!’ Maisy groaned. ‘Please, Stefania, I honestly don’t want jewellery.’
Stefania looked at her as if she had said I don’t need to breathe air. ‘Okay,’ she said slowly, ‘but you have to wear something, Maisy. Let me lend you one of my strings. I promise nothing over the top—something simple, ladylike. You do ladylike. I can tell.’
Within minutes Maisy was wearing a strand of pearls so pure they were iridescent. It would be hard to give them back.
Stefania smiled like a cat that had the cream at their reflections—herself so fair and slender, Maisy voluptuous, her long red-gold hair caught up in a single clasp. ‘We look good. The guys will go off.’
It was seven o’clock when they went down, and past Kostya’s bedtime, but Maisy knew instinctively part of the reason the Abramovs and Lievens were here was to see Leo’s little boy. Maisy led him into the drawing room by the hand. She had dressed him up in his best royal-blue pyjamas suit, and with his angelic blond curls he looked delicious.
The glass of whisky in Alexei’s hand slid from his grasp. He just caught it in time as Maisy strolled into the room holding one of Kostya’s hands, Stefania the other. Maisy was elegance personified. She was wearing something white and it moved like water on her body, showcasing every curve. She’d pulled her titian hair up, which only made him want to take it down, and it drew attention to the delicate bone structure of her face. The artless, sunny girl he had first known might be lurking under the glamour of her evening dress, but it was a knowing woman whose eyes clashed with his across the room, then looked away to concentrate on his guests.
Her movements were unhurried as she smiled at everyone, answered questions about Kostya’s development and hovered over him. Every shrug of her bare shoulders, every extension of a slender arm, turn of her head was seductive, drawing him across that room to the perimeter of where she held court, kneeling on the Aubusson rug, impossibly elegant even with a two-year-old squirming around her.
