Postcards From New York. Stefanie London

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      It was too late. A sense of terror crept over him as he saw himself, a young boy of eight, hiding beneath the antique table his father had been so proud to buy with his new-found wealth. He’d gone there seeing it as a place of safety, sure his father’s temper wouldn’t hurt his latest prized possession. He’d been wrong, very wrong. As his mother had begged and pleaded for his father to leave him alone, he’d been dragged out from beneath the table and lifted off his feet. He’d wriggled like mad, kicking and squealing, desperate to get away, yet knowing if he did his father would turn his attention to his mother. It was him or her and, in a bid to save her from at least one beating, he’d snarled words of hatred at his father. After that he couldn’t remember what had happened.

      He didn’t want to.

      He pushed the memories back. Analysing them wouldn’t help anyone now, least of all himself.

      ‘Not here, no,’ he replied sternly and walked over to Emma, who was looking over her shoulder as she viewed the images she’d taken. The house didn’t look so insidious on the screen of the camera, as if viewing it through the lens had defused the terrible memories of living there with his mother and father.

      Emma’s scent drifted up through the crisp air to meet him and he closed his eyes as summer flowers triggered happier memories. ‘I was happiest in the summer, when we visited my mother’s family.’

      Why had he said that? Inwardly he berated himself for giving her information she could act on. At the thought of the country home his mother’s parents had kept, he realised it was the perfect place to take her. He could hire a troika and sit back and watch as the romance of Russia unfolded. What woman wouldn’t resist such a romantic story? It would be just what he needed to charm her away from the dark secrets he had to keep hidden away.

      ‘Where was that? Close by?’ Her interest was caught and she looked up at him, smiling and looking happier than he’d seen her since she’d arrived on the train. Then she looked vulnerable—beautiful and vulnerable.

      ‘It is, yes.’ He could hardly answer her as the attraction wound itself round him, drawing him ever closer to her.

      ‘Can we go there?’ she asked tentatively, her genuine smile and soft blush doing untold things to him. Why, he didn’t know. He much preferred his women to be bold, dramatic and experienced at mutually beneficial affairs. Instinctively he knew Emma was not like that at all. She was the sort of woman who’d planned out a happy-ever-after, even as a small child. Definitely not for him.

      ‘We will go tomorrow,’ he said, stepping back from the temptation of this woman.

      * * *

      The next morning, as instructed by Nikolai, Emma waited, wearing her warmest clothes and even more excited than yesterday. Somehow they had drawn closer with each passing hour yesterday and, even though he didn’t talk to her about the past and let her into his thoughts, he had shown her many wonderful places and she already had lots of images.

      She also realised she liked him—perhaps a little too much. If she was honest, she was attracted to him in a way she hadn’t known before, not even with Richard.

      ‘Ready?’ he said as he met her in the hotel reception.

      Like a child about to be shown a Christmas tree, she couldn’t stem the excitement and smiled up at him. He was clean shaven this morning, and as wrapped up as she was, but that didn’t stop the pulse of attraction leaping between them. The only difference was this time his smile reached his eyes and they smouldered at her, making her pulse rate soar.

      ‘Yes; are we going to the house you told me about yesterday?’

      ‘We are, yes. The house I spent summers at with my mother and her parents.’

      She wanted to ask if his father had gone there too, but didn’t dare risk spoiling the softer mood he was in. She sensed his father was the cause of the sudden change in his mood yesterday at his childhood home, but didn’t have the courage to ask. Instead she focused her attention on what was happening now. ‘Is it far?’

      ‘No, a short car ride, then something special,’ he said and to her surprise took her hand and led her into the street to the same big, black car he’d driven the previous day. Her heart fluttered as she fought to control the powerful surge of attraction rushing through her; she’d never felt anything like it before.

      Then the something special Nikolai had teased her with turned out to be a ride across the snow in a sleigh, pulled by three proud horses, and Emma was totally blown away by the whole experience—and by the enforced close proximity of Nikolai as they sat snuggled under a heavy throw. ‘This is amazing. I can use it in the article.’

      ‘It’s called a troika; racing them is a tradition from over one hundred years ago that’s enjoying a resurgence.’ She could barely focus on what he was saying as his thigh pressed hard against hers and even through all their layers of clothes her skin felt scorched.

      After a little while the troika driver slowed to a halt, the horses snorting into the cold air, and Emma looked at Nikolai. Again something fizzed between them, but this time he held her gaze, looking intently into her eyes just the way she would have envisaged a lover doing. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered softly, her breath hanging briefly in the air, mingling with his in the most intimate way, and making her blush.

      ‘The pleasure is all mine, Emma.’ The fact that he’d used her name didn’t go unnoticed and a shimmer of pleasure rushed over her, making her shudder, but it wasn’t from the cold. ‘Are you cold?’

      ‘No, not at all,’ she said, shyness creeping over her, and she lowered her gaze, concentrating on the throw which covered their legs, locking them into the small space together.

      With a gloved hand, Nikolai lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him once more, and what she saw in the inky black depths of his eyes was as terrifying as it was exciting. ‘You are very beautiful, Emma.’

      She swallowed hard, unable to move away from him, trapped with her legs all but welded to his beneath the cover. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

      Was that really her voice? She had no idea she could sound so husky and so trembling at the same time. Deep within her, silly, romantic notions she always shunned sprang to life. Did he really find her attractive? Would he want to kiss her and, if he did, what would it be like?

      ‘It’s the truth.’

      Her heart was thumping in her chest and she was sure he must hear it. Her breathing had become more rapid, and so had his, if their white, misty breath was anything to go by. She searched his face for any hint of teasing, any sign that he was toying with her. She didn’t have any experience with men, but she knew well enough from friends how they could make a woman lose all sense of self, something Richard had never done to her.

      There was nothing, not a single trace of him teasing her, and she knew she was in danger of slipping under the spell that the magic of the moment was weaving around them. If they had been in a hotel lounge, talking in front of an open fire as they had done the afternoon she arrived, would he be saying these things to her?

      ‘I didn’t come here to become mixed up with a man.’ Even as her body yearned for the unknown, her mind kept to the practical issue of keeping her feet firmly on the ground.

      ‘Do we have to get “mixed up”, as you so nicely put it?’ His voice was deep СКАЧАТЬ