The Only Woman to Defy Him

CHAPTER THREE


THEY MET AT the car but Boris didn’t open the door. Instead, he was speaking with Demyan, who had loosened his tie and was now wearing dark glasses. Demyan barely glanced over as she approached.

‘We are walking,’ he said as Alina went to open the car door.

Walking?

Where?

Demyan walked faster than Alina and she struggled to keep up.

‘How far away do you live?’ Alina asked, her feet already killing her.

‘We are here.’

‘Oh.’

Of course he’d be in the centre of everything.

A doorman greeted them and Alina held her breath as they stepped into a dark, blissfully cool foyer and approached the elevators.

‘You will speak with Security and they will issue you with keys and a code, but for now use mine.’

Oh, Alina!

She wanted to borrow his dark glasses, she wanted to hide her fear because this was so far beyond anything she had imagined. He could almost feel her worry as they walked towards the entrance. ‘What?’ Demyan asked as he turned and saw her biting on her bottom lip. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Alina said, suddenly remembering the hole in her stockings. ‘Do I have to take my shoes off?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I forgot to bring flats,’ she offered, but really she was more worried about the hole in her stocking and the fact it had been a little too long since she’d paid due attention to her toenails.

‘Alina.’ He turned and faced her before opening the door. ‘Do I look like someone who would ask you to remove your shoes?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m offended.’

Alina looked up.

He wasn’t offended.

Oh, she couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, but his lips were smiling, just a little bit, and to Alina his mouth looked beautiful as he spoke on. ‘And you don’t look like a woman who carries flats, just in case,’ Demyan said.

‘I want to be one, though.’ That smile was still almost there and Alina rewarded it with the truth. ‘There’s a hole in my stocking.’

Had he not still been wearing dark glasses, Demyan suspected that Alina’s stockings would have promptly evaporated from the look he shot her, but he bit back a very wicked response to that comment, as he took out his key. He’d been dreading coming here and certainly hadn’t expected to be smiling, let alone mildly turned on as he put the key to the door.

‘How good are you with numbers?’ Demyan asked, before opening the door.

‘You mean maths?’ Alina gave him a little yikes look. ‘Awful!’

‘I mean memory,’ Demyan said, and then recited six numbers as he opened the door. ‘Now punch them in.’

Alina had a very good memory.

Usually.

Except as they stepped into paradise she could smell him again and that feeling was back low, low in her stomach as he stood behind her. Demyan stared at her pink ears as she managed the first three numbers.

‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ Demyan said, and she could feel his words reverberate down her spine. ‘You have forty more seconds and if you get it wrong, or you are too late, the place will be swarming with security—’

‘No pressure to get it right, then,’ Alina interrupted. She could barely breathe. It wasn’t the numbers that were the issue, it was their issuer. Alina doubted she could recite her two times tables with Demyan standing behind her. His hand was now hovering over hers and the thought of contact, the thought of possibly imploding at his touch... Somehow she punched them in.

‘Good girl.’

His compliment she found curious, yet there was another shiver of thrill as she turned around, but Demyan had started walking.

‘This is the one and only time I’ll be here with you,’ Demyan said, in business mode now and loathing being back. ‘Any questions you have, speak up now.’ Oh, she had plenty questions as she gazed around. There was a huge staircase in the middle that beckoned upwards, but for now Alina couldn’t even begin to take that in. It wasn’t just that there was a picture-postcard view, they were in the postcard, high, high above the Opera House, in the centre of a pulsing city, and Alina felt like a spinning needle in a compass, giddy as she stared out of the windows.

‘Come on.’ Demyan didn’t give the view as much as a glance—instead, he gave her a brief tour.

‘There are three floors as well as the garden terrace.’ He just marched through his home, irritated when Alina lingered, but the vastness and luxury was simply all too much to take in.

‘You can wander through later,’ Demyan said, now desperate to get out. He didn’t see the luxury, just the memories. He didn’t see sumptuous lounges and polished tables, he just saw him and Roman sitting there, eating breakfast, planning their weekend. Demyan could barely stand the bar, for it was here he had hoped to celebrate Roman’s eighteenth. Neither did he step in as he opened the door to the cinema, remembering birthdays when Roman had brought his friends.

It was choking him to be back.

He took the stairs; he just wanted out. Certainly he did not want to linger on the second floor.

‘Why are you selling?’ Alina swallowed. As she saw the rigid muscles in his face Alina explained her question. ‘Isn’t that what the vendor or buyer will ask?’ His face was as black as thunder but it was the first question.

‘“Reluctantly”,’ Demyan said. ‘That is the word you use. It sounds as if I love it, that I’d rather not give it up, or it suggests financial hardship and that maybe they are getting a bargain. “Reluctantly” is a good word to use.’

‘Okay.’

‘I don’t want to be caught up in the details.’ Demyan explained. ‘You are to be here with the chosen agent at all times. I will give you my figures and you will have my authority to decline.’ Then Demyan thought of something. ‘What if a prospective buyer wants to view the place on evenings or weekends—given that you must finish at five?’

‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,’ Alina answered.

It wasn’t just luxurious, it was all so immaculate—until Demyan opened a door.

‘Oh!’ Alina smiled when she saw that, in contrast to the rest of the penthouse, one room did need attention. A lot of it. It was, despite the expensive finishings, still very much a teenage bedroom. There was a guitar and music sheets on the floor, cups, glasses and some wrappers.


‘I’ll make sure the staff have this cleaned,’ Alina said.

‘No.’ Demyan halted Alina as she turned. ‘Roman does not like the domestic staff in his room. He is supposed to keep it tidy by himself, though he hasn’t been doing a very good job.’

‘Well, if you’re trying to sell it then it needs to be shown in its best light.’

‘If a guitar on the floor and a few chewing-gum wrappers are going to dissuade anyone, then they are not serious about buying,’ Demyan answered tartly, and then he paused. He was telling her to call in florists, designers, everything to show the home in the best possible light, yet he refused to have his son’s room tidied. It was better perhaps to explain why properly.

‘I don’t know if Roman will be returning here before he goes to Russia. In my country it is considered bad luck to clean and tidy the room of a person who has left, until they arrive at their destination. It is only for Roman that I do it,’ Demyan said, and then stopped even trying to explain it.

Alina nodded, though she didn’t really understand.

Neither did Demyan, yet some of his mother’s superstitions were still so ingrained that, though logic told him to ignore them, he simply could not take that chance.

Not with Roman.

Until he knew his son was safe at his destination the room would remain untouched.

They walked up another flight of stairs.

‘The master bedroom,’ Demyan said, though it needed no introduction. Alina could never have guessed that, apart from staff that cleaned it, or people like her, who were paid to deal with his busy life, a woman had so much as crossed the threshold.

Alina looked around. It was an incredibly masculine bedroom and it felt strange to be standing in here with such a very masculine man. ‘You might want to think of a few feminine touches,’ Alina suggested.

Demyan stopped in mid-yawn. He hadn’t slept on the plane, or since he’d landed yesterday in Australia, and it was starting to catch up with him. The bed looked rather tempting.

So too did Alina.

He couldn’t quite read her. She was curiously provocative, yet Demyan wasn’t sure if she was being deliberately so.

‘Some cushions or paintings...’

‘Whatever you think,’ Demyan said. ‘Any more questions?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Alina said. ‘Or is that the wrong answer?’

‘Not this time. I will speak with security and arrange keys.’

‘Do I need a set for the agent?’

‘No one is to come here unless you are present. Certainly they are not to have access to keys and security codes.’

It was a completely different world. There was no popping out in your lunch break to get another set cut. Instead, the keys were all security coded and Alina had to sign for them and for an elevator pass as they made their way out.

‘I have a lot of staff,’ Demyan said when he saw her frown. ‘I need to keep track of who has access.’

‘I’m sure you have a lot of valuables.’

‘I value my privacy.’ He had no choice but to address it as they were met by his driver and got back into the car. ‘Alina, you don’t seem to understand my need for discretion.’

‘I do.’

‘No.’ Demyan would not be placated. ‘When you say things like, “Do I need a set for the agent?” it is clear to me that you do not understand. As soon as word gets out that I am selling my house there will be people trying to arrange to see it. This is the home I bought so that I could spend quality time with my son here, so I could be a proper father to him. I do not want it used as fodder to sell more magazines and I don’t want tourists wandering through it either. Alina, are you quite sure that you know what you are doing here?’

His jaw gritted when Alina didn’t answer. ‘If you’re not up to it, then have the guts to say so.’ Demyan saw her rapid blink and his mind moved to make concessions, though he didn’t really know why.

Perhaps he was being too harsh. It was the end of a very long day and she had seemed very confident about the farm.

‘I am going back to the hotel. My driver will take you to speak with estate agents.’

The keys were burning in her hand.

‘Have you managed to contact Hassan’s assistant?’ Demyan asked in the car on the way back to the hotel.

‘I have.’

‘So it’s all organised for tomorrow?’

‘There are no bookings available at your first preference.’ She was just a little bit pink as she gave him the news or, rather, invented a tale. ‘But I found a fabulous restaurant on The Quay.’

‘Really?’ Demyan frowned. He’d never once had trouble getting a reservation anywhere.

‘There’s a wedding on that night,’ Alina hurriedly filled in. ‘It’s been booked out for months. They’re hardly going to move a wedding...’

‘They usually would,’ Demyan said. Alina felt her throat squeeze tight. Demyan was right. Had there been a wedding, had she actually rung her work and explained that Demyan Zukov wanted to hold a business dinner there, they would have closed off the area upstairs, they would have moved the wedding outside, they would have done anything to accommodate such an esteemed guest.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind her working at the restaurant, Alina mused, though that wasn’t the entire issue now.

Demyan was right, she was in way over her head and, no, she didn’t have the guts to tell him.

She heard him yawn and stretch. ‘Boris shall take you to speak with agents. If I am not around when you get back, just go at five. How did you get to work this morning?’

‘Taxi.’

‘Boris will take you home and collect you.’

‘I’d rather make my own way.’

‘Whatever suits you. If you want to drive then use valet parking.’ He saw her swallow, not just at the cost but at the thought of her tiny, filthy car being valet parked—she’d have to spend the night cleaning it before that happened. ‘We’ll go to the farm tomorrow or early next week.’

There would be no tomorrow.

‘Demyan...’ She turned around but Demyan didn’t. He was checking his phone and simply ignored her till they were back at the hotel.

Alina’s doubts about her suitability for the role were only compounded when she was blanked by two of the real estate agents that she attempted to discuss her boss’s property with.

The third, though, did give her a brief hearing. Libby, the proprietor, gave Alina approximately two minutes of her time.

‘My boss is looking to list his residence and I wanted to discuss your marketing strategies—’

‘Who is your boss?’

‘He’d rather I didn’t give that information at this stage,’ Alina flustered. It was another world and she didn’t know the passwords to enter. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘The location of his home?’

‘If I told you that...’

‘The price range?’

When Alina gave a ballpark figure, she expected Libby’s eyes to widen and for her to show a sudden interest, but instead her lips twitched into a thinly disguised smile. Alina admitted it to herself fully then—she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. ‘Thank you for speaking with me.’

‘Here.’ Libby went to a drawer and pulled out a thick glossy folder. Possibly she was just hedging her bets but at least she hadn’t completely dismissed Alina. ‘Of course, when we are talking in that price range, everything is negotiable.’


‘I’ll tell him.’

Again, Libby’s lips twitched into a smile and Alina realised Libby was doing her best not to laugh. ‘Please do.’

It was all incredibly humiliating and Alina was almost in tears by the time she got back to the hotel.

Demyan wasn’t there, or possibly he was sleeping off last night’s excesses in preparation to do it all again tonight because the door to his bedroom was closed.

Alina took out her contract and read it, especially the clause about a twenty-four-hour trial.

He was probably going to sack her anyway.

The right thing to do would be to ring Elizabeth but Alina was just too raw for the bitchiness and anger that would certainly ensue.

There was another reason, though, that had Alina choosing not to return tomorrow, one she quashed down and chose not to examine.

Yet.

Yes, she loathed confrontation, so much so that Alina opened the drawer of the bureau and took out the thick creamy hotel paper.





Dear Demyan,



I hope you had a nice rest.



I am very sorry but, as I’m sure you have worked out, I’m not suitable for this role.



It is not the agency’s fault. I perhaps exaggerated my real estate experience to them, so please don’t hold them accountable.



Alina.





Her hand was shaking as she signed her name and she left the note beside his computer, imagining his reaction when he read it.

He’d wasted an entire day.

Demyan Zukov, Alina was certain, wasn’t going to be best pleased.