One Kiss In… Moscow. Кейт Хьюит

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      It was a strange feeling, surreal, just as the rest of this evening had been. Why the sight of Sergei with this woman should make her feel as if all the values and beliefs she’d built her life on were toppling Hannah couldn’t yet say; all she knew was at that moment everything she’d counted on, everything she’d believed in, felt false. As if all the cynical implications Sergei had made were true, and her own optimistic assertions had been no more than the misguided sputterings of a naive schoolgirl.

      She really was deluded. About everything.

      ‘Well.’ From somewhere she found her voice, croaky and hoarse as it was. ‘I guess I’ll leave both of you to it.’

      Varya glanced at her blearily and Sergei just gave her a coolly challenging smile. ‘Why don’t you?’ he said, and turned back to Varya.

      Blindly Hannah walked from the room. One leg in front of the other, step by torturous step, until she was at the door. From behind her she heard Sergei murmur something to Varya, something that sounded loving.

      Hannah paused. Something didn’t feel right about this. Surely a man of such sophisticated tastes as Sergei would choose someone other than a worn-out-looking woman like Varya. All of his actions had seemed so deliberate, so …

       staged.

      What was happening?

      Her hand still on the doorknob, she turned around. Varya’s head was still lolling on Sergei’s shoulder, and he gazed down at her with an expression, Hannah thought, of unbearable sadness.

      Then he looked up and saw her still standing there, and his expression froze, icier than ever.

      Hannah didn’t know where she found the words, only that she meant them. Deeply. ‘You’re a better man than you think you are, Sergei.’

      Something flashed across his face but was gone before Hannah could guess what it was. ‘Deluded,’ he drawled softly, and turned away.

      Bleakly Hannah thought he must be right, and without another word she left the room.

      Sergei heard the door click softly shut and let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

      ‘You’re always so good to me, Sergei,’ Varya mumbled in Russian, her head still on his shoulder. Her breath stank of cheap vodka. Sighing, Sergei stroked her hair.

      ‘Have you seen Grigori?’

      ‘I don’t want him to see me like this,’ Varya said, her voice ending on a hiccuppy sob. She’d always been a sentimental drunk.

      ‘Then let’s get you cleaned up.’ Sergei started leading her towards the door in the back of the room that led to a private corridor. Hannah’s shocked face was imprinted in his mind’s eye, and the hurt and honesty in those wide violet eyes lacerated his soul with guilt and regret. Regret he couldn’t afford to feel. It was better this way, he knew. He couldn’t have timed Varya’s entrance more perfectly. It had been a sure-fire way to rid himself of Hannah, and destroy the illusions she’d so optimistically harboured.

       You’re a better man than you think you are.

      She really was appallingly naive.

      With his arm around her he guided Varya down the corridor to a suite of rooms he kept reserved solely for her use. Varya’s reappearances were fairly regular yet still unpredictable; he never knew when she was going to stumble back into his life. Still, his entire staff knew always to let her through. She had the most unrestricted access to him of any acquaintance, man or woman. They had too much history together for anything else.

      Varya sat on the edge of the bed sniffling softly while Sergei ran a large bubble bath. He ordered a tray of food and fresh clothes delivered to the room and when he’d rung off Varya looked up at him with liquid eyes, mascara now streaking her cheeks.

      ‘You’re so good to me, Sergei. You should pretend you don’t know me and never speak to me again.’ She gave another hiccuppy sob.

      Sergei smiled and sat next to her on the bed, tucking a hank of hair behind her ear. ‘I could never pretend such a thing, Varya. We’ve known each other since we were children.’

      She offered him a watery smile. ‘Not much of a childhood, eh?’

      ‘No.’ Sergei observed her with a weary despair. Every time Varya drifted back into his life, she looked more worn, more used. The lines on her face, the caked make-up, the bloodshot eyes … all of it told a story he’d tried so hard to rewrite. Yet Varya had never wanted to take a handout, and she’d always felt ill at ease in Sergei’s new world. She only came to him when she was desperate, and left as soon as she could.

      ‘You’re good to me,’ Varya said again, sniff ling. ‘But you’re so alone, Serozyha,’ she continued, using her pet name for him from childhood. ‘So lonely. You never let anyone close. Not even me.’

      I find that very sad. ‘Old habits die hard, Varya.’

      She looked up at him blearily. ‘I want you to be happy.’

      Happy? Sergei couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such an emotion. Satisfaction, yes. Triumph, certainly. But a genuine joy? Never. ‘Let’s worry about you,’ Sergei replied, helping her up from the bed. ‘Come get in the bath.’ He helped her undress, as if she were a child, knowing in her current state she couldn’t do it by herself. When she finally sank beneath the bubbles and closed her eyes, Sergei left her in peace but kept the door ajar so he could check on her.

      A knock sounded on the door of the suite, and after Sergei called to enter Grigori slipped into the room. His face was pale except for the port-wine birthmark that had been the reason he’d been abandoned, and had made his childhood at the orphanage a misery.

      ‘Sergei, I’m so sorry. Security told me that Varya had been looking for you, but I didn’t realise she’d found you in the restaurant—’

      ‘It’s all right,’ Sergei cut off his assistant’s frantic apologies. ‘I’m glad she found me.’

      Grigori still looked anxious, although whether for his sake or Varya’s Sergei didn’t know. Grigori had never told Sergei he loved Varya, but it was obvious from the naked need on his face.

      ‘Is she—?’

      ‘She needs a bath and a hot meal and about twelve hours’ sleep,’ Sergei said. Grigori nodded; they both knew Varya needed a lot more than that, just as they knew she would never take it. Life on the street had been a lot harder for her than it had been for them. A woman was far more vulnerable and those hard years had marked Varya for ever.

      ‘And Miss Pearl …?’ he asked, hesitantly, and Sergei looked away. He could still feel the softness of her hand on his cheek, the kind urgency of her words. She’d wanted to believe in him. He was glad he’d shattered at least that illusion. He turned back to Grigori.

      ‘You can help her with her visa and passport tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend ever to see her again.’

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