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‘If you keep answering you’ll only encourage him,’ he said in a no-nonsense manner.
‘If I don’t answer he sends twice as many.’ As she spoke Nico’s smartphone beeped in turn.
He looked at the screen, then back at Rosa. ‘How long were you with him?’
‘Three years.’
He held His smartphone up. ‘I enjoyed the grand total of two dates with Sophie before she started hinting at making things permanent.’ His lips tightened. ‘I ended it but she will not accept it. It is always the same. Women always want to make things permanent.’
‘That’s because you’re such a catch,’ she said, snatching her phone back. ‘How old are you? Thirty-five?’
‘Thirty-six,’ he corrected.
She looked back down at her phone and read the latest pleading message. ‘Well, then—they all think you’re ready to settle down.’
‘Not with one of them.’ He downed his shot of vodka and then tapped the side of Rosa’s full glass. ‘Your turn. And if you don’t turn your phone off I will throw it in the ocean.’
‘Try it,’ she said absently, her attention focused on the screen in front of her. She had tried everything to make Stephen get the message. Being nice. Being cruel. None of it was getting through to him.
Before her finger could even touch the keypad to form a response Nico took the phone out of her hand and threw it over the railing and into the ocean. It made a lovely splashing sound before disappearing into the dark water.
The anger that surged through her blood at this high-handed, outrageous act was as unexpected as the deed itself.
She stared at him in disbelief.
There was no contrition. He simply sat there with one brow raised, his features arranged into a perfect display of nonchalance.
She could never have known then that less than twelve hours later she would marry him.
But she had married him. And now she had to deal with the consequences.
Walking over to the long breakfast bar, grabbing her mug of coffee on the way, she hooked a stool out with her foot and took a seat. Her stomach was doing funny flipping motions and she could not take her eyes off the beautiful giftwrapping. It must have taken him ages to get it so perfect.
It was not until she turned the gift upside down to unwrap it that she saw the sticker holding the ribbon to the box. She recognised the insignia on it and knew in an instant that it had been professionally gift-wrapped. She tried not to let dejection set in. So what if he hadn’t wrapped it himself? He had thought of her.
Tearing it open, she found a bottle of expensive perfume.
Nico took the stool opposite and gazed at her expectantly. Black stubble had broken out on his chiselled jawline which, combined with his neatly trimmed goatee, gave him a slightly sinister yet wholly masculine air. His usually tousled black hair was even messier than usual. Rosa found herself fighting her own hands to stop herself from smoothing it down—an urge that had been increasing over recent months, and an urge that only served to prove that the course of action she was about to take was for the best.
She looked back at the gift. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’ Then she made the mistake of turning it over in her hand and catching sight of the duty-free label on the bottom.
It brought to mind the old T-shirt she recalled one of her foster sisters continuously wearing: ‘My dad went to Blackpool and all he brought me was this lousy T-shirt’. Most likely it was the only gift the child’s father had brought her.
In Nico’s case he had been to Morocco. And all he had brought her was some duty-free perfume. As a birthday present.
If she hadn’t known how offended he would be she would have laughed. Although generous to a fault, Nico was simply not wired to lavish gifts on people. He hadn’t even bought her a Christmas card—had been astonished to receive the gift of a silk tie and cufflinks from her.
She would bet none of his lovers had ever been kissed off with an expensive piece of jewellery. His brain did not work that way. The very fact that he had bought something for her touched her deeply, lodging a crumb of doubt into her certainty.
‘So, what did you do for your birthday?’ he asked as if he hadn’t stood her up at the very last minute, as if she hadn’t been all dressed up and waiting for him.
Since she had stopped working for him he had stood her up at the last minute a couple of times. She tried very hard to be philosophical about it—with his line of work, and the different time-zones he travelled between, it couldn’t always be helped.
When she had worked for him they had spent around half their time abroad. Since she had left Baranski Mining three months ago they had shared a roof twenty-nine times. She had counted.
She had never been able to shake the feeling she was being punished for having the temerity to refuse his offer of a permanent role.
His failure to return home for her birthday had felt like having a twisting knife plunged into her heart.
‘Stephen took me to La Torina.’
‘Stephen?’
For the ghost of a second she could have sworn his sensuous lips tightened, that the pupils of his eyes pulsed. She blinked, certain she was imagining it, and found his features arranged in their usual indifference.
She nodded, challenging him, willing him to make something of it.
‘Do I take it Stephen is the sender of the flowers on the reception table?’
‘Yes. Aren’t they beautiful?’ She took a sip of her coffee and waited for some form of reaction from him.
‘They certainly brighten the room up.’ His tone was casual. They could be discussing a dull day at the office. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
She didn’t flinch or hesitate, simply held her chin aloft in silent defiance. ‘Yes.’
Her stomach clenched as she gazed into the piercing green eyes of the man she had married. She searched intently, looking for a sign of something—some form of emotion, something to show he cared. But there was nothing to be found. There never had been. It shouldn’t matter. After all, emotions had never been part of the deal between them.
Their marriage hadn’t been all bad. For the most part it had been good—at least until she had left Baranski Mining. They had worked fantastically well together, both professionally and socially.
She remembered one evening when they had attended a charity auction and the auctioneer had had a large dollop of cream stuck to his ear. She and Nico had sat there like robots, not daring to look at each other, the corners of their mouths twitching with mirth. It hadn’t meant anything, but it had been one of those rare moments when she had felt perfect alignment with him.
It was a moment of togetherness, and they had become few and far between.
And it did matter.
His indifference hurt more every time she looked at it.
‘I would say good for you,’ he said, studying her closely. ‘It is time you took a lover. But there is something ironic about you falling into bed with the man you married me to escape from.’
The irony had not been lost on her either.
If Stephen had called ten minutes earlier the outcome would have been very different.
She had just come off the phone to Nico, and he had given her a brusque explanation of why he wouldn’t make it back in time to take her out for her birthday.
She’d been all dressed up with nowhere to go.
And she’d made the mistake of reading her brother’s text message for possibly the hundredth time.
It had been one of the lowest points of her life.
Then Stephen had called to wish her a happy birthday. If she hadn’t felt so heartsick she would have hung the receiver up. Instead she had found herself agreeing to a meal.
Company. That was what she’d craved. Freddy Krueger could have offered her a date and she would have accepted.
‘Nico, I—’
‘Let us pause this conversation for a minute,’ he interrupted, getting to his feet. ‘It has been a long day. I could use a proper drink and something comfortable to sit on.’
A drink sounded good to her. Lord knew she needed something to numb the curdling of her belly. Because, for all the seeming indifference of his words, Nico’s powerful body was taut with tension, like a coil waiting to spring free.
She followed him through to the spacious living room and curled up on the sofa while he poured them both a hefty measure of vodka.
It was certainly a day for irony. Vodka had played its part in the start of their marriage and now it would play its part in its demise. She took a long sip, welcoming the numbing burn of the clear liquid, before placing it on the coffee table.
She waited until he had settled in the sofa opposite before speaking. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Nico, this isn’t working.’
‘What isn’t working?’
‘This.’ She threw her arms in the air and gave a rueful shrug. ‘Us. Our marriage. I want out.’
CHAPTER TWO
ROSA WAS UNNERVED by Nico’s stillness. He leant forward, his muscular forearms resting on his thighs, his glass cradled between his large hands. ‘Are you getting back together with Stephen?’
‘No…’
His eyes did not leave her face. ‘You left him because he suffocated you.’
‘I’m not getting back with Stephen.’
‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer,’ he continued. ‘You were on the verge of getting a restraining order against him when you married me.’
‘I know.’ She expelled stale air through her teeth and closed her eyes. She had no wish to explain the utter desperation she had felt on her birthday, the horrendous feeling that there was not a soul in the world who cared if she lived or died. ‘Sleeping with him was a mistake that will not be repeated.’ A huge mistake. A massive mistake of epic proportions. But it did have one advantage—it had allowed her to see the enormous error she had made marrying Nico.
‘Is there someone else?’
‘No. There is no one else.’ How could there be?
‘Then why do you want to leave?’
She wished he wouldn’t look at her with such menacing stillness. Nico always kept his cards close to his chest, but she couldn’t help feeling as if he were trying to penetrate through to her brain and dissect the contents. If only she had the slightest clue as to what he was thinking.
‘Because it isn’t working for me any more.’ She reached for a squishy cushion and cuddled it to her belly, hoping the comfort would quell the butterflies raging inside. ‘We agreed from the start that if either of us wanted to leave we could, without any fuss. Nico, I want a fresh start. I want a divorce.’
Nico remained still as he stared hard at the woman he had married, his eyes flickering down to the gold band she wore on her finger. A ring he had put there.
‘I am well aware of what we agreed, Rosa. However, it is unreasonable for you to suddenly state you want a divorce and not give me a valid reason.’
‘There is no single valid reason.’ She tugged a stray lock of her ebony hair behind her ear. ‘When we agreed to marry it seemed the perfect solution for both of us—a nice, convenient open marriage. No emotional ties or anything messy…’ Her husky voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know exactly what I want from a marriage—I don’t know if I even want a marriage—but, Nicolai, I do know I want something more than this.’
It was the use of his full first name that convinced him she was serious. She had addressed him by his shortened name since they’d exchanged their wedding vows. That, and the fact they were speaking in English.
Rosa adored the Russian tongue. They rarely spoke her native language when together.
His hands tightened around his glass and he took a long sip of the clear, fiery liquid. Rosa was a lot like vodka. Clear and pure-looking, but with a definite bite. In her own understated way she did not take crap from anyone.
He pursed his lips as he contemplated her, sitting there, studying him with an openness he had always admired. He had admired her from the start.
After his PA had gone into early labour he’d had no choice but to approach an employment agency to fill the role. There had been no one in his employ suitable for it.
The agency had duly sent six candidates—all of whom, they’d assured him, were fluent in Russian. By the time he had interviewed the first five he’d been ready to sue the agency. The candidates had been useless. Never mind that their Russian had been far from fluent, he doubted they could have organised a children’s party.
And then in had walked Rosa Carty, the model of calm efficiency.
Her Russian was flawless. Perfect. He would trust her to organise a state funeral.
He had offered her the position immediately and she had started on the hoof, with no training or guidance. She had stepped into the breach as if she had always been there.
She had never flirted with him, had never dressed as anything but the professional she was, had never brought her private life to the office. She had been perfect.
Marriage had always been an institution he admired but one he had long accepted would not be for him.
Five months on and he had been in his office with Serge, his finance director and an old friend from his university days. They had been going over the figures for his buyout of a Californian mine when there had been a sharp rap at the door and Rosa had walked in.
He had known immediately something was wrong. She would never have dreamt of interrupting a meeting unless it was important.
‘We have a slight problem,’ she had said in her usual understated fashion. ‘There is a discrepancy with the output figures.’
She had lain the offending document before him and pointed to a tiny section highlighted in pink. The figure in question had been out by less than an eighth of one per cent, but in financial terms equated to over a million pounds.
At least ten pairs of eyes, including his own, had gone through the document. Rosa was the only person to have picked up on the error.
After agreeing on an action plan, she had set off to implement it. He’d had no doubt the whole thing would be rectified by the end of the day.
‘Your PA is really something,’ Serge had said with a shake of his head when she’d left the office. ‘When Madeline comes back from maternity leave can I have Rosa in my department?’
Nico had shrugged noncommittally. Even at that stage he had known he wanted to keep Rosa as his PA—had been busy strategising ways to keep her working directly for him without landing himself with a lawsuit from a disgruntled Madeline.
‘Is she married?’ Serge had asked with a sudden knowing look in his eyes. ‘She is exactly the kind of woman a man like you should marry.’
If Serge hadn’t been one of his oldest friends Nico would have fired him on the spot for insubordination.
‘There is nothing worse than a newly married man,’ he said drily.
‘Marriage has been the making of me,’ Serge countered amiably. ‘Seriously, my friend, Rosa would be perfect for you. She’s got the same coolness as you. You have mentioned breaking into the Middle East. Socialising is a big part of their business culture and marriage is very much respected. Rosa would be an asset to you. Besides,’ he continued with a flash of his teeth, ‘a man can’t stay happy all his life!’
Days later he had travelled to California with Rosa and an army of workers. As the days passed, Serge’s words had kept repeating in his head.
