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Daniel Thomas.
That woman, his mother, had rubber gloves on, and his clothes, his shoes were all being loaded into a large garbage bag that the man in the suit was holding. She was still talking in a language he didn’t understand. She kept pointing to the window and then his cheek and making a gesture as if she was sewing and after several attempts he understood that she was going to take him to get his cheek repaired better than Katya had done.
He stared at the case as she disposed of his life and then he saw two pictures, which Daniil knew that he hadn’t packed. Roman had slipped them in, he must have.
‘Nyet!’
It was the first word he had spoken since they had left Russia and the woman let out a small worried cry as Daniil lunged for the photos and told her, no, she must not to get rid of them and neither could she touch them.
His mother had fled the room and the man in the suit stood there for a while before finally coming to sit on the bed and join him in looking at the photos.
‘You?’ He had pointed to Daniil and then to one of the boys in the picture.
Daniil shook his head. ‘Roman.’
The old man with kind eyes pointed to his own chest. ‘Marcus.’
Daniil nodded and looked back at the photo.
Only then did Daniil start to understand that Roman didn’t hate him; he had been trying to save him.
Daniil, though, hadn’t wanted to be saved.
He had wanted to make his way with his brother.
Not alone, like this.
CHAPTER ONE
TECHNICALLY, LIBBY TENNENT LIED.
She had made it through the gold glass revolving doors and had walked across the impressive marble floor and was just at the elevators when a uniformed security guard halted her and asked where she was going. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Zverev,’ Libby said.
‘Perhaps you do, but before you can take the elevator, first you have to sign in at Reception.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Libby responded airily, trying to look as if she had simply forgotten the procedure.
Everything about the place was imposing.
It was a luxurious Mayfair address and, even before the taxi had pulled up at the smart building, Libby had realised that getting in to see Daniil Zverev might not prove the cinch that her father had insisted it would be.
Libby walked over to the reception desk and repeated her story to a very good-looking receptionist, saying that she had an appointment to see Mr Zverev, silently hoping that the woman wouldn’t notice that the appointment was, in fact, for her father, Lindsey Tennent.
‘And your name?’
‘Ms Tennent.’ Libby watched as the receptionist typed in the details and saw that her eyes narrowed just a fraction as she looked at the computer screen.
‘One moment, please.’
She picked up the phone and relayed the information. ‘I have a Ms Tennent here. She says that she has an appointment with Mr Zverev.’ There was a moment’s pause and then she looked at Libby. ‘Your first name?’
‘Libby,’ she said, but then, realising that given the way the security was in this place she was likely to be asked for official ID, she amended, ‘Short for Elizabeth.’
Libby tried to appear calm and avoided curling a stray strand of her blond hair around her finger or tapping her feet, as she did not want to appear nervous.
She was nervous, though. Well, not so much nervous, more uncomfortable that she had agreed to do this.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to because the receptionist shook her head as she replaced the phone. ‘Mr Zverev cannot see you.’
‘Excuse me?’ Libby blinked, not only at the refusal but that it came with no apology or explanation. ‘What do you mean, I have—?’
‘Mr Zverev only sees people by strict appointment and, Ms Tennent, you don’t have one.’
‘But I do.’
The receptionist shook her head. ‘It is a Mr Lindsey Tennent who has a 6:00 p.m. appointment. If he was unable to make it then he should have called ahead to see if sending a replacement was suitable—Mr Zverev doesn’t just see anyone.’
Libby knew when she was beaten. She had rather hoped they might not notice the discrepancy—as most places wouldn’t. She was almost tempted to apologise for the confusion and leave, but her father had broken down in tears when he’d asked her to do this for him. Knowing just how much was riding on this meeting, she forced herself to stand her ground. She pulled herself as tall as her petite five-foot-three frame would allow and looked the receptionist squarely in the eye.
