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It was difficult not to take a step back.
She swallowed hard. ‘Do you go through life mistrusting people?’
‘When it comes to my family I don’t allow anything past the keeper.’
Those words took the indignant air out of her because she guarded her little family too. His grandfather had become of late an honorary member of that family and for a moment she wondered if she’d got it wrong. Nik Voronov might genuinely care about his grandfather. If the shoe were on the other foot she would be suspicious too.
She tried again. ‘Honestly, Nik, it’s not what you think.’
‘I think we can probably go back to Mr Voronov.’
He was making her feel as if she’d done something wrong.
Which was when she noticed he was getting out his phone.
‘Are you calling the police again?’ She tried not to sound despairing because, really, what were they going to arrest her on? Impersonating a married lady? Kissing a man she’d just met?
‘I’m arranging a car for you. I take it you live in the village?’
It was no more than a ten-minute walk if she took the lane, but Sybella didn’t intend to argue with him about the lift.
‘If this is your organisation’s way of drumming up support you can let them know that honey traps went out in the nineteen seventies.’
Honey trap?
He turned away and spoke rapidly into his phone in Russian.
Sybella wondered if being shaken about like a child’s toy earlier had affected her hearing. It had certainly loosened some of her native intelligence.
What did he think, she was Mata Hari kissing men for state secrets?
Oh, boy, she definitely needed to get out of here.
Cursing her own stupidity, she pulled on her damp jeans and then bent down to reattach her boots. Everything was cold and unpleasant and would chafe but there was no helping that.
‘I want you back here nice and early, let’s say eight o’clock for breakfast,’ he said from behind her. ‘You have some explaining to do, and it will be in the presence of my grandfather.’
Sybella became aware he was probably getting a really good look at her wide womanly behind at this moment. But everything was such a shambles—what was one more humiliation?
‘Eight o’clock is too early.’
‘Tough. Get an alarm clock.’
She straightened up. ‘For your information I’ll be awake at six, but I have a great deal to organise myself. You’re not the only busy person in the world, Mr Voronov.’
He looked unimpressed.
‘I am running a billion-dollar business, Mrs Parminter. What’s your excuse?’
A five-year-old girl, Sybella thought, eyeing him narrowly, but he looked like one of those unreconstructed dinosaurs who thought raising children happened by magic. Besides, she was not bringing her daughter into this hostile conversation.
‘The fact is I’m out of here tomorrow,’ he informed her. ‘Let’s call this your window of opportunity.’
‘To do what?’
‘To convince me not to involve my lawyers.’
All the fight went out of Sybella. She couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But she told herself surely old Mr Voronov would clear the air tomorrow.
‘Fine. I’ll be here.’
To her surprise he took his wool coat and handed it to her with a less antagonistic, ‘You’ll need this.’
Sybella looked at her Climb and Ski jacket she’d been unable to bring herself to put back on and self-consciously drew his coat around her shoulders.
The gesture reminded her of how kind he’d been drying her hair, how he’d made her feel cared for if only for a brief time. It was enough to make her want to cry, and she hated crying. It didn’t change anything.
She turned away from him, his scent surrounding her inside the coat.
She spotted the bottle of brandy and on a whim picked it up. After the events of this evening she needed it more than he did.
He didn’t say anything and when she went downstairs to climb into the waiting car she was holding it to her like a safety blanket.
Stupid really, when she didn’t drink. Stupid being in this car, when it would take only ten minutes or five minutes if she’d legged it. She brought her fingertips to her mouth. It still felt a little swollen and sensitive from all the attention. Stupid, probably, to have kissed him.
