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“No.” He paused then added, “Neither can Ben.”
“Oh dear, yes, his sweet little cottage. And his...friend. No. I can see that might be awkward for you.”
Huh, he hadn’t actually meant that. He’d meant this. But why had he thought first...Ben must not find out aboutthis. Did he not want Ben to know he was cheating on him? Like Ben had been with him? Cheating? Where the fuck did that word fit into what they had? Where was cheating involved between two men who had no hearts? You couldn’t cheat on an impersonal fuck in a sparse hotel room. Well, okay, luxury one. He was a bastard, not an idiot.
Ack, he was so very tired. All he wanted to do was sleep and power down for a few hours before it all began again. If he had feelings, he’d have said it had been a slightly emotionally fraught day too. He managed to murmur, “No. Ben must not find out about the fire.”
“Good. So we understand each other. I think we always have in a strange way. Mutually assured destruction I think they call it. M-A-D. We are both entirely mad.”
“Bit harsh.”
He could feel her scrutiny on his back. More impressive muscles. Enjoy.
A finger landed on a cigarette burn scar, one of those little divots in his skin which didn’t speak of power—not his anyway. Who has lit cigarettes pressed into their skin whilst being held face down almost unable to breathe? Not those with any power. He wriggled to dislodge the investigation.
“Tell me?”
“No.”
“You didn’t get those in an embassy in Copenhagen, did you?”
“No.”
“Who are you, Nikki?”
His limbs were cramping in their box, begging for just one night to stretch fully before they were packed away for good. And, besides, he was warm and comfortable, and she had turned the finger on his back into a hand stroking him, and who wouldn’t be susceptible to that? She was clever, this woman. Had she worked out that no one had ever stroked his back for comfort before? Did she actually intuit that all his fury and the sex and the attrition and mocking were merely masks worn to hide this fact?
So he told her.
Not all of it, of course. He never even told himself all of it. Who could live if some of those memories were turned over and exposed to the light? But he told enough to spin a good story about a Russian man called Aleksey. He mentioned prison camps, but only in passing, and only in a way that was more of leather jackets and daring motorcycle escapes and not of the reality—gulags in a Siberian winter with no food. He spoke of the army and of travel around the world for lots of skiing. Not actually what he did when he got to those uncivilised places, of course. And then he told her about Nika, his brother. His twin. How they’d been on holiday together. A terrible car accident. How, in his grief, he’d emerged from the wreckage as Nikolas, and had stayed that way. A chance to make a new life for himself (true) and in memoriam for his brother—to keep at least his name alive (also true, he supposed).
It was a good yarn. He became quite maudlin towards its end, and wished he had some vodka. He did have cigarettes so thoughtfuck it; in for a penny,and found a pack in his bedside drawer.
He offered one to Philipa, which she took with alacrity. Who knew?
Her only comment to his very well-told fiction was, “ThisAlekseystays between us, too.”
That surprised and pleased him. He’d thought some actual truth for once would put more ammunition on her side of this delicate balance of power. Apparently not. She couldn’t afford for this to be known inThe Family. Excellent.Hadthey been keeping score, he reckoned it was two one to him.
He sighed and struggled over to sit leaning back against the headboard, wincing at the discomfort and the state of the room. It was wrecked.
He rolled his neck and observed the naked woman next to him contentedly puffing on her cigarette. She was looking a little demolished too. She sensed the scrutiny and turned to regard him.
She held up the cigarette, and at exactly the same time they chorused, “This stays between us.”
He couldn’t help it. He began to laugh. She did too. Low at first, but then realising that he was finding her amusement funny, louder, until they both couldn’t stop, and everything they discovered—the torn clothing, bites and scrapes and nail gouges—only set them off again.
* * *
Chapter 41
Four Months Before April
It had actually beenNathanial. Sometimes Nathan. All those syllables better sounded the import of what Nikolas had said.Natewas such a short, meaningless sound if you repeated it enough times in your head.
But Ben knew what it meant. Not the exact details, not yet. But enough.
He saw in Philipa’s eyes that she hadn’t wanted this. Not really. She’d been backed into a corner from which she could retreat no further. Is that what all this was about? The divorce, the new marriage? Not achievement of a long-held dream, but retreat from Nikolas and all he represented? But she had not wanted this. That much Ben allowed her. Silently, he handed back the phone. He heard Nikolas say with just the merest hint of anxiety—no, not even that much—it was impatience, “Ben?”
