As he took another controlled sip of his drink, in the back office of his nightclub in Moscow, Dorcas shifted by his feet. He’d not been able to rid himself of the beast. She had persistently followed him wherever he’d gone, seemingly not put out by either the noises of his clubs nor the strangely isolated life he’d returned to. And he’d come to enjoy the discomfort of the board members of Kolikov Holdings when they realised Dorcas would be attending his business meetings. It did great work in putting them on the back foot.
She had appeared to mope, somewhat disconcertingly for the first few months, roaming the rooms and halls as if looking for Ella. But she had finally settled into some long-term sulk that was appeased only by food or a good ear rub.
His mind returned to the question of Ella’s involvement in his grandfather’s plans. He appreciated the irony of doubting the truth of her intentions, despite the sheer villainy of his own. But with more than a few months’ distance, the assurance of her innocence had begun to fade. Because surely no one raised by Vladimir Kolikov could have ever been that innocent.
As he scanned the security feeds of the club in his back office, he paused, frowned and returned to the previous screen, his fingers tightening around the small cut-glass tumbler.
Ella Riding. His salvation or damnation, for her to decide.
* * *
She looked up at the waistcoated barman, who appeared oddly like an old-world Victorian with the most improbable handlebar moustache. She’d not known what to expect from Roman’s figurehead bar. Perhaps something a little more…seedy? A den of iniquity? Writhing, scantily clad women whose skin glowed beneath harsh red lighting even.
But certainly not this, with Art Deco stained glass designs across the ceiling and behind the bar, backlit and throwing soft yellows, greens and blues across a space full of dark wooden booths designed for privacy. The lighting somehow made the bar feel out of time—it could have been one in the afternoon rather than the morning, each of the customers seemingly ready to begin their night’s festivities rather than coming to the end of it.
It was, she ruefully acknowledged, beautiful. She ordered a single glass of ice-cold vodka from the barman who, much to her satisfaction, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She had dressed purposefully for her task here. And while she would never usually wear such a thing, the skin-tight scarlet dress, slashed down almost to her waist, was having the desired effect. Because Ella had realised the need for disguise since she had married Roman Black. And now she would wield it as well as he once had.
Konstantin, still proving his complete and utter efficiency, had located Roman at this bar, at this very moment. And while Ella knew that she could ask, or even look, for her husband, another thing she had learned was that it was more important for the prey to come to the hunter. As she once had.
And her husband would come to her. She knew it as well as she knew her own mind. She’d done her research, and she’d planned and prepared this time. No longer would she wait to be used by others. She would be the one in control.
As she took a sip of her vodka, her eyes connected with a man openly staring at her with an invitation that needed no words. He was tall, attractive, but utterly uninteresting to her. Just as she was considering whether it would suit her purpose to appear to entertain such an invitation, the hair at her nape raised and the skin on her arms pebbled with goose bumps. She felt a bank of heat at her back, the towering presence looming over her from behind and, if that hadn’t been confirmation enough, the look on the other man’s face dropped as his eyes glazed over, having taken in the presence over her shoulder, and he turned away quickly.
Her pulse flickered, and she hated the fact that Roman still held this sensual power over her. But not for long. Tonight she would get him to sign the divorce papers. Tonight she would finally be free.
‘I hope you didn’t wear that to the funeral. Otherwise they’d have been digging at least four more graves for the board members whose heart attacks you would have ensured.’
She silently cursed, having forgotten, or chosen to ignore, the effect his dark tones once had on her. Still refusing to turn, she placed the glass on the table before her and, head held high, steeled herself.
‘From what I hear, that would have done you a favour. Tell me, is all well? Or is there something rotten in the state of Kolikov Holdings?’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
‘Really? I’m surprised you think you know me well enough to say so.’
‘How well do I know you? That is a very good question and one I’ve been wondering for quite some time now.’
* * *
Roman skirted the table, refusing to stare any longer at the backless dress revealing more of his wife than he’d ever seen. The distracting need to run a thumb, or tongue, down the length of her spine had nearly embarrassed him. Not that the view from the front was any better—his hungry eyes ate up the inches of smooth pale skin between the shocking red fabric of her dress at her chest.
Forcing his eyes to her face, he saw she was both the same and somehow changed. At first, he thought the signs subtle. The way she held herself before his unwavering gaze, the way she was dressed. But perhaps this was who she had been all along and he had been taken in as much as she.
Her hair was twisted up into a knot held high at the back of her head. Not even a stray
