by S. C. Daiko
I’d known Pasha since we were kids. He was Valentin’s age, twenty-five, and I was three years younger. We’d sailed together often in the past and I used to think we were made for each other. But we were too alike; we came from the same kind of entitled background, the children of wealthy Russian mafia kingpins. We even looked alike— blonde and blue-eyed. I didn’t want to end up with Pasha’s ring on my finger and the rest of my life living in a similar gilded cage to the one in which I’d spent much of my existence up until now.
“Sorry,” I told him, “but I’ll be working on the wedding photos.” I smiled to take the harshness from my tone. “Emma and Valentin will want them asap.”
“You’re the photographer?” Ben Collins butted in with a smirk that lifted one corner of his bow-shaped mouth. “Why aren’t you snapping pics of the happy couple?” He tapped his chin and swept the room with a contemptuous gaze. “Oh, sorry. Someone else is doing that…”
“Only during dinner,” I retorted. “I’ll take over from the first dance.”
I reached for my glass and took another sip of champagne. The meal had been interminable. Why couldn’t they get to the dancing, already? I narrowed my eyes and said to Ben Collins, “I’m a fine art photographer, I’ll have you know.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?” He quirked a dark brow.
I couldn’t help noticing his wolfish grin, his perfect white teeth.
Asshole.
I straightened my spine. “I apply my artistic vision to a specific narrative.”
“Cut to the chase, Miss Abramovich,” he smirked again.
“I’m aiming to produce romantic images that will tell the story of Emma and Valentin’s wedding day.” I shot him a defensive look. “I’ll be showing some of them at an exhibition in the Kaplinsky Gallery in Soho next month.”
He raised his glass. “Impressive.”
He’d sounded snarky, and I’d gotten the distinct impression he’d rather swim with man-eating sharks than view my work. No need to tell him I wasn’t the only photographer exhibiting, but part of an event showcasing the work of recent graduates. Photos were my thing. Ever since I’d received my first camera, I’d loved expressing myself through the medium and I’d even majored in photography at Visual Arts School.
Papa had wanted me to stay at home, I remembered, but I’d insisted on college. Valentin had gone to med school. Neither of us needed careers, we were trust fund kids, but my brother wasn’t the type to be idle and neither was I.
A sudden hush fell over the room. The Master of Ceremonies had taken to the floor, and not before time; I’d been on the point of giving Ben Collins the finger for being so rude. Quickly, I pushed back my chair and left the table without a word.
My Canon DSLR was in the bridal suite; I’d arranged for Mom’s maid to bring it to me when dinner was over, and here she was, smiling and handing it to me. I thanked her and took up my position at the edge of the podium as my brother and his bride swept onto center stage.
God, Emma was beautiful. A professional ballerina, she’d broken out of her mafia princess gilded cage when she’d been awarded an apprenticeship with the American Ballet Theatre and she was now tipped to become one of their principal dancers. Her glorious red hair, threaded with white ribbons, cascaded down the back of her Isabelle Armstrong strapless gown. Valentin took her in his arms, and they danced an exquisite waltz to Nora Jones’ Come Away with Me.
I zoomed in on them, capturing their rapt expressions. Truly a match made in Heaven. Emma’s dad was playing the cello while her stepmom sang the haunting lyrics, making my chest squeeze.
Would I ever find my Mr. Right? I’d led a sheltered life, hadn’t dated much, and was still a virgin. It didn’t look like I’d be handing my V-card over to anyone soon…
The rest of the evening passed in a rush as I worked, taking the pictures I hoped would be a testimony to the happy couple’s special day. I couldn’t wait to start creating an album for them to choose their favorites, and to print the best shots to add to my portfolio for the exhibition.
I was leaning against a column, snapping the youngest guests, Emma’s stepbrothers and sister, who’d taken to the dance floor as if they owned it, when the scent of sandalwood invaded my senses.
The skin on my arms prickled.
Ben Collins had come to stand next to me.
He was tall— six foot three or four— with curly almost-black hair framing wide cheekbones and a finely chiseled jaw that gave him a too-handsome-to-be-real appearance.
“Not dancing, Miss Abramovich?” he asked.
“My name is Alyona, but my friends call me Aly.” I gave him a polite smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m working. No dancing for me tonight,” I explained like he needed enlightenment.
He laughed, mockingly. “Grueling work, alright.”
I didn’t know whether to give him that finger or simply shove him in the chest. Probably both. Before I could do anything, however, he spun on his heel and called out over his shoulder, “See you around.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” I came right back at him.
His laughter was even more derisive than before.
I gave that finger to his retreating back.
His broad-shouldered encased in a tailored tux back.
“I’m so proud of you, princess,” Papa planted a smacking kiss to my cheek. “Your pictures are the best in the gallery.”
It was a month after the wedding, and we were at the official opening of the photographic exhibition. Valentin and Emma had gotten back last week from their honeymoon at an exclusive resort in the Maldives that Papa had invested in. Tanned and looking relaxed, they were standing staring at the shots I’d chosen from their special day.
There was one of Emma, veiled and wearing a diamond tiara, gazing down at the ring on her finger. Another shot showed a close-up of her and Valentin performing their first dance.
“Congrats, sis,” Valentin placed his hand on my arm, “these are amazing.”
“They are,” Emma echoed from where she was standing next to him.
Mom was circulating among the guests she’d invited. She directed a waiter bearing a tray of canapes in our direction. I helped myself to a chicken taco bite. I was hungry; nerves had stopped me from eating all day and it was nearly dinner time.
Wiping my fingers on a paper napkin, I sauntered over to my favorite photos, those I’d taken of the ocean in front of our place in the Hamptons.
“These are good,” a voice said from behind me.
A voice I recognized.
What the hell was Ben Collins doing here?
“Thanks,” I muttered begrudgingly. He’d sounded surprised, like I was a dumb blonde he’d discovered who could actually spell her own name. “Who invited you?” I asked without skipping a beat.
He peered at the picture I’d taken of a random dude surfcasting for striped bass and bluefish. “Your father. We’re business partners, didn’t you know?”
“You’re not a…” I hesitated to use the word mobster. Most of Papa’s businesses were legit nowadays, but he still dabbled in the illegal arms trade and ran some rackets.
That mocking laugh again. “All above board. He’s a major shareholder in my Maldives island resort.”
“That’s in the Indian Ocean, right?” I put on my dumb-blonde act, although I had a proven I.Q. of one hundred twenty-five. I couldn’t help my Barbie doll looks and how they gave people the wrong impression.
“The Maldives is a small country stretching across a chain of atolls. My hotel is on one of the southern islands. Fucking beautiful,” he bragged.
“Yeah, I know,” I pursed my lips. “Valentin and Emma told me they had an awesome time.”
“Ha, I’d forgotten they were honeymooning at my place. Glad they enjoyed themselves. I’m heading out there next week for some big game fishing.” Ben Collins’ blue eyes shone. “I’ll be adding it to the activities I offer my guests once I’ve trialed the experi
ence.”
“Lucky you,” I said like I gave a damn. Which I didn’t. Ben Collins was a playboy; I’d seen him in the gossip magazines, a different woman on his arm almost every week. His nickname was “Brash” Emma had said. If he hit on me, I’d tell him to stick his attitude where the sun didn’t shine.
I was an expert at fending off pick-up artists.
Let him just try.
Except, he didn’t.
He zeroed his gaze in on my photos of the fisherman. Then he stood back and looked me up and down. “Would you like an assignment?”
“An assignment?” I repeated like an idiot.
“Yes. A photographic assignment.”
“Are you serious?” If he was fucking with me, I’d set my bodyguard on him.
“Perfectly serious. We only opened All Seasons Hotel last year. The website pictures are pretty crappy. You could apply your artistic vision to the specific narrative of a stay in the resort.”
I gulped; for once in my life I was totally lost for words. “Can I think about it?” I managed to ask.
He leaned forward, invading my personal space. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
I took a step back. “You presume a lot.”
A slow smirk spread across his handsome face. “I’m not called Brash for nothing.”
For the second time since I’d met him, he turned on his heel and left me staring at his back.
Chapter Sixty
Alyona
Brash had his own executive jet, a Gulfstream G650, and we were due to land shortly at Velana International Airport near the Maldivian capital, where his seaplane was waiting to take us to the resort. We’d left New York nearly two days ago. Owing to FAA regulations, the pilots had needed a stopover in Dubai. The time now was nine hours ahead of EST, and because seaplanes only fly in daylight, Brash had timed our arrival to occur just before dawn.
The trip had been super comfortable thus far. We’d each had our own private stateroom to sleep in, and we’d kept to ourselves for most of the fourteen-hour flight from JFK to the United Arab Emirates. There, we’d chilled in the executive lounge at the airport before taking off again, flying over the ocean for another four hours, sitting on leather recliners in the cabin. Brash was working on his laptop, ignoring me, and I was staring out the window at the inky blackness of the ocean below.
I’d read up about where we were headed before accepting the assignment. The Maldives are an archipelago of over one thousand one hundred coral islands grouped into twenty-six atolls. Only about two hundred islands are inhabited by local Maldivian people while around eighty have been developed as tourist resorts. The territory is 99.9 per cent water, and most of the 0.1 per cent of land is just three feet above the sea. I couldn’t wait to see it up close.
I undid the top button of my blouse as the fluttery feeling of butterflies tickled my stomach. I’d been adamant to my father that I wanted this job, determined to break out of my sheltered life for the chance to prove myself. I’d never told Papa before about my ambition to get to the top of the profession, and he’d been stunned when I’d admitted to it.
“But why? I give you everything you need,” he’d said, pouring himself a drink and sitting opposite me in the family room at home. “You could devote yourself to helping your mother with her charities…”
He didn’t add, while you wait to be married, but I knew the sub-text. Papa was old-fashioned. For him, a woman’s place was by her man. Not that I had a man. My greatest fear was that he’d try to arrange a marriage for me like his own had been arranged to Mom.
“I want to diversify from fine art and start taking pictures that will raise awareness of important issues,” I countered before he could press his point.
“Issues like what?” I heard the surprise in his voice.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Homeless people, maybe…” I said the first thing that came to mine.
Papa swirled the whiskey in his glass, clinking the ice cubes. “You think they’d pose for you?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t expect them to do that. But maybe they’d let me take photos that would highlight their problems…”
“Alyona, don’t be so naïve,” he’d clicked his tongue. “Go to the Maldives, if you insist. You are a good photographer and I’ll be proud of you when you return.”
And that was how I’d wangled it. Papa didn’t want me roaming the city streets, snapping pictures of what he called tramps, although he’d have certainly sent my security detail to protect me. Even when I’d studied at an international boarding school in Switzerland, I’d had a bodyguard.
With a sigh I glanced across the aisle at Brash, still tapping away on his MacBook and ignoring me. We were heading for a private island with its own protection officers. He’d assured my father that I’d be safe. It felt liberating not to have a bull breathing down the back of my neck. I’d been jealous of Valentin for living a normal life working in the hospital. Maybe this trip to the other side of the world would convince Papa I had what it took to look after myself?
The co-pilot’s announcement to prepare for landing interrupted my thoughts. Our flight attendant appeared and invited us to fasten our seatbelts. I took another glance out of the window. Still no roads, cars, trees, or lights— none of those vaguely reassuring sights that frame a night-time landing. Only continuous, depthless black, like diving into a huge ink pot.
A right turn and the airplane seemed about to come down in the sea.
My heart thudded.
Phew. A row of white and red lights demarcating the runway.
The pilot made a rotation, slightly raising the nose of the airplane and finally our touchdown shook the fuselage.
We rolled to a stop. Brash closed his laptop, got to his feet and stretched. “My seaplane will take off from the bay on the other side of the airport, but we need to go through immigration and customs first.”
I hefted my cabin bag onto my shoulder and followed him down the steps. Dawn light lit the sky with trails of pink. We were near the equator, I recalled; night changed to daytime in minutes. And it was hot. Freaking hot and humid. Sweat beaded my brow and trickled down my face.
We walked the short distance to a building. Four lines of tourists, in a large room with air conditioning, were queueing at passport control. We waited about half an hour before the officials stamped our documents and waved us through. All the while, Brash was on his phone making business calls.
He’s a damn workaholic.
Eventually, we collected our luggage and passed through Customs.
“This way,” he barked as we exited the cool terminal into the torrid heat. “The flight to my island will take a couple of hours.”
I eyed his retreating back, an action fast becoming my default mode, and hurried to catch up.
Soon we were airborne again, flying over iridescent blue water interspersed every now and then with an emerald green islet surrounded by glowing white sands. I took out my camera and started snapping, excitement rushing through my veins.
I wanted to ask Brash about the geography of this place, but he was on his phone again, making more business calls.
“Fasten your seatbelts,” the pilot called out from the front of the plane. “We’re in for some turbulence.”
A storm had come from nowhere, buffeting the plane so hard it was like we were on a freaking roller-coaster. White knuckled, I gripped the armrests.
Don’t scream, Aly,
Blood drained from my face, and sudden nausea rose in my throat.
“It’s the monsoon season,” Brash said matter-of-factly from across the aisle. “Nothing to worry about.”
I gave him a you gotta be kidding look. “Are we gonna land in this?” I asked, incredulous.
“Sure, why not?”
Except, we flew out of the storm within minutes and about an hour later, descended onto a blue lagoon surrounding an island fringed with palm trees and sand as white as flour.
“Wow,” I cou
ldn’t help gushing. “This is awesome.”
Brash gave his habitual smirk, arrogance oozing out of every pore. “I only invest in the best.”
Pride comes before a fall I was on the point of reminding him. But a member of his staff had arrived in a speedboat to take us ashore. “Your rooms are ready for you, Sir and Madam,” he said, a wide smile splitting his nut-brown face. “Porters will bring your luggage.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting on the sundeck of what Brash had referred to as an ‘Ocean Villa’, over-water accommodation built on stilts directly above the crystal-clear sea. I’d seen pictures of these Maldivian resorts, but the reality took my breath. I was buzzing with ideas about how to best portray what I was seeing with my camera.
My cellphone chimed and I picked it up from the table.
Brash.
“Wanna come for a swim?” Without waiting for an answer, he carried on, “Grab a mask and snorkel from the cupboard. I’ll meet you in the lagoon.”
He disconnected the call. Just like that. I didn’t even get a chance to say one word. Jesus, the man was impossible. I was going to have to set him straight on a few things…
I unzipped my suitcase and extracted a white bikini. After changing, I tied my hair back in a pony then climbed down the ladder extending from the decking into the tepid water.
Brash was already there; he must have been in a water villa nearby. His broad, tanned shoulders drew my gaze, and I forced myself to look away.
No way am I attracted to the dickhead.
“Follow me,” he ordered, slipping on his mask.
With a flip of his butt, he dove, and I could only do as he’d requested.
Immediately, a crowd of tropical fish surrounded us; I didn’t know where to start looking. There were so many different brightly colored species, all in a seemingly endless parade. They were not afraid of us, letting us get incredibly close. Green and red fish with beaks like parrots. Unicorn fish. Fish with what looked like sharp blades on the base of their tails I assumed they must use to defend themselves from predators. Blue and yellow butterfly fish. I was in awe.
