The Devil Wears Kolovsky

by Carol Marinelli

  Lavinia could feel his tension, knew he felt beguiled, and only as they stepped out of the car and walked along the jetty towards the yacht was there a chance for terse conversation.

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘It’s not something you just slip into the conversation. When was I supposed to tell you?’

  ‘In the car park it might have—’

  ‘I’d known you less than a week!’ Lavinia retorted, but her cheeks were burning as she recalled their blistering kiss—hardly her usual response to a virtual stranger. ‘Oh, well.’ Lavinia tossed her hair. ‘Just because I’m offlimits on your strange moral compass, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy our time here.’

  It would, Zakahr quickly realised, be impossible to enjoy his time here.

  As they boarded they were warmly greeted by the King and his family. Jasmine, amongst her own family and in the privacy of the yacht, was unveiled, revealing a smiling, happy face, and she was clearly delighted to see Lavinia again—a completely different woman from the shy Princess they had first met. Their laughter filled the salty air, reaching Zakahr’s ears as he took refreshment with the King on deck.

  The stunning vehicle that was to be their home till tomorrow was soon moving out of Darling Harbour, and though it was a visual feast—the huge Harbour Bridge, the splendour of the Opera House—it wasn’t the scenery that over and over again forced his gaze. It was Lavinia—completely at ease with the royals, delighted in her surroundings, and the company he wanted to be keeping. He had, as Lavinia had pointed out, assumed.

  Not just from her job, or the rumours, but from her bold kisses, from the desire of her body—yet her purity muddied the waters for Zakahr.

  He liked uncomplicated—would soon be walking away. A brief, albeit passionate, affair with Lavinia would have eased the stress of the day. This, though, however she denied it, was teetering Lavinia-style towards a relationship.

  Refreshments taken, they were shown by staff to their accommodation. Yes, Zakahr realised, this day and night would be more than impossible—it would be hell. And, thanks to his careful instructions when he’d accepted the invitation, it was a hell of his own making.

  Lavinia had no idea what to expect—for not only hadn’t she flown, apart from a trip on the ferry to Tasmania she had never been on a boat, and the yacht they had boarded outreached even her wildest imaginings. It was as luxurious as any five-star hotel. They had walked through a lounge filled with scattered sofas, and a huge bar with large plasma screens, and there was a vast dining area where, Jasmine told her, they would dine tonight. But lunch would be served on deck. There was even a dance floor.

  As they took the steps down to the next level an aide took Zakahr to his suite and a female aide took Lavinia further along a narrow corridor. And though it was becoming clearer by the moment how luxurious this trip would be, Lavinia gaped in awe when she first glimpsed her suite.

  A large four-poster bed was the centrepiece, with heavy walnut furniture, thick carpets and a dressing table. There was even a sunken spa.

  ‘It’s stunning!’ She roamed the vast suite, opening doors, admiring her already unpacked clothes and her toiletries set out in the bathroom. ‘What’s this … ?’ she asked, stopping in front of another door.

  ‘Adjoining,’ Mara the aide said, lowering her eyes. ‘The King understands there are differences…’ Clearly a little embarrassed, Mara explained that lunch would served shortly on deck and left.

  It was very like having a red button with a sign saying not to push it—only it wasn’t Lavinia resisting temptation, it was Zakahr. Refusing to be embarrassed, Lavinia gave the wooden door a sharp rap, and then opened it to find Zakahr lying scowling on his bed, gorgeous in the dark grey linen pants and white shirt, sulky and thoroughly fed up with his lot.

  ‘Hi there, neighbour!’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Don’t worry—I shan’t be creeping in at night. You can sleep safely.’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ came Zakahr’s response.

  ‘Sorry to rot up your plans.’ Lavinia perched on the end of his bed. ‘But I told you not to assume…’

  Zakahr shuttered his eyes. She was right—he had assumed. So much so that now he had Abigail arriving on Monday. His intention had been to have Lavinia safely tucked up in his bed for the remainder of his stay in Australia, distraction merited, but only at night. He looked over to where she sat. How much easier would it be to just reach out and pull her towards him? There was almost a thread between them in that moment—one that could draw them closer or snap—and Zakahr knew he had to break it. For there could be no involvement. They were from two different worlds, opposite sides of the world, and soon Lavinia would be carer to a child. Zakahr had tried relationships. They did not suit at the best of times, and this, for Zakahr, was the worst of times.

  ‘If you’ve waited this long you should wait to be with someone you’re serious…’ He couldn’t finish, because he couldn’t stand the thought of a future Mr Lavinia—or, worse, a one-night stand because she didn’t want to be alone, with some lowlife who wouldn’t take care of her.

  ‘We’d better go up for lunch.’ Lavinia stood. ‘Imagine them giving us adjoining rooms—I can’t imagine why they thought us a couple.’ She gave him a wink before closing the door. ‘See you on deck.’

  It was a casual lunch, with Lavinia chatting with Jasmine and her bridesmaids as waiters mingled with plates—and it was lovely to be out on the water, to be away from her problems for a little while.

  ‘He’s very handsome!’ Lavinia looked at a photo of Jasmine’s husband-to-be.

  ‘I know.’ Jasmine smiled. ‘Lucky for me I am the youngest of five girls. My father had a lot more say in my older sisters’ husbands—and he was not my father’s first choice for me. He is a friend of my brother’s,’ Jasmine explained. ‘They were at university together, and sometimes he would come to the palace. I had a terrible crush on him for years. My brother spoke with my father a few months ago, told him how unhappy I would be if I followed his choice. I am very blessed to have such a wonderful family.’

  The Princess smiled as Zakahr walked over and joined them, and though she returned it, for a second Lavinia struggled: it was things like that that hurt at times. Lavinia certainly didn’t show it—but so many times she’d wondered how much easier things might have been if there had been brothers and sisters by her side. Even now her world seemed so small—there were friends, of course, but those friends had their own families. She ached sometimes, literally ached, for a sister to ring her up, or have coffee with her, a family to moan about too, to visit for Christmas and birthdays.

  ‘I was just saying to Lavinia how nice it is to come from a large family.’ Jasmine politely invited him into the conversation.

  Zakahr respectfully declined.

  ‘It is my pleasure to meet them.’

  They spoke for a few minutes about the King’s cousin, who spent four months a year in Australia. It was his boat they were on. They spoke, but they only talked, and Lavinia realised then that had she not known his past he would never have revealed it—saw first-hand just how little Zakahr let anyone in.

  ‘I need to speak with my father.’

  Jasmine excused herself, and Zakahr revealed the real reason he had come over—he had seen Lavinia’s slender shoulders pinken, seen her nose and cheeks redden a touch, and even if she wasn’t to be his lover she promoted reluctant responsibility. ‘You need to apply sunblock.’

  ‘I know!’ Lavinia whispered. ‘I forgot to bring any.’

  ‘Ask Jasmine if she has some…’ His voice trailed off. Jasmine’s skin was lovely and brown; it was Lavinia who was lily-white. ‘You need it.’

  ‘I’m scared to ask,’ Lavinia admitted. ‘They’re so polite they’ll probably go and helicopter some in, or something…’

  ‘I’ll sort it.’ He was back a few moments later, having had a word with one of the crew, and handed her a tube. ‘They will also put some aftersun in y
our cabin.’

  ‘Hardly a cabin!’ Lavinia smiled.

  People were starting to drift off. The afternoon sun was too fierce to stay on deck, and the King announced that he might sleep for a while. Jasmine wanted to watch a film. Lavinia was on the King’s side.

  ‘We meet at seven for dinner,’ Jasmine’s mother informed them. ‘Relax for now, Lavinia. Enjoy the boat, your room…’

  They were just the nicest people. Lavinia had been rather worried that she’d have to talk and entertain right up till bedtime, but they were the most lovely hosts. The Queen sat in the shade with a book, Jasmine and her bridesmaids curled up to watch a film, and a very guilt-free Lavinia slipped down the stairs to the cool bliss of her suite. Peeling off her clothes, down to her bra and panties, she winced at her pink shoulders. They didn’t hurt yet, but possibly would by evening.

  She rubbed in cool aloe vera aftersun lotion, swore never to leave her room again without sunblock, and then stretched out on the bed, enjoying the gentle lulling motion of the yacht. She was relaxed, yet not. Aware that Zakahr was close, deciding that perhaps his reaction to her news was possibly for the best.

  She wanted to be made love to by him, she wanted him to be her first, but her assurances to him that she expected nothing were perhaps more what he’d needed to hear than what she had wanted to say.

  He captured her mind in a way no man ever had, Lavinia thought as she headed into a lovely long sleep. With him Lavinia was—possibly for the first time in her life—completely herself.

  She’d told him of her past, told him of her present, even her hopes for the future.

  It wasn’t Zakahr who enthralled her.

  Neither Belenki the businessman.

  Nor the focussed Riminic, who had chosen to reinvent himself, who had Lavinia slightly spellbound.

  It was the whole montage of him—the smile that could make her stomach fold, the dark humour and those glimpses of a softer side, a protective side. To have that, to be wrapped in it, to be held by it even for a little while, would be hell to let go of.

  ‘Lavinia?’

  He so did not want to go in there, but it was after six, and there were no noises from her room, so Zakahr realised that it was up to him to wake her. Unlike Lavinia, Zakahr did not relish down-time—he had no desire to make small-talk with his hosts, nor did he know how to relax. Bed in the afternoon was what he had hoped for—but not alone. He had taken off his shirt and stretched out on the bed, and spent a restless afternoon playing heads or tails with his conscience, thinking what they should be doing now. On too many occasions had come dangerously close to her door.

  What was preventing him, Zakahr was not quite sure.

  He had broken many hearts in his past, and Lavinia was willing—there was a strange sense of honour that kept him back, though. A sense of the damage he could wreak, a wanting to spare her from the hurt that was inevitably to come.

  ‘Lavinia!’ He knocked again and then pushed it open. ‘It’s after six.’

  She jolted awake with the horrible realisation that she had less than an hour to get ready to dine with the King, and with no Katina on hand or a hairdresser to help this time. Sun, sea and a champagne breakfast had ensured Lavinia slept well—now she heard the sound of laughter from above, and a rap at the adjoining door, saw Zakahr standing in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, God…’ Lavinia did her best not to dwell on the splendid sight of him—naked from the waist up, he was more beautiful than her many imaginings. His pale skin was shadowed with a smatter of chest hair like a charcoal smudge that led down to the now crumpled linen trousers; he looked sulky, restless and never more beautiful. But it was easier to snap than to admit it … ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Her high, terse voice was a contrast to his drawl.

  ‘I’m trying to give up the habit!’

  There was no time to think of a reply. Lavinia jumped off the bed, wincing as her bra strap stuck into her sunburnt shoulders, then wincing for a different reason as Zakahr turned to go and she caught sight of the scars that laced his back, the ripple of muscles rising beneath almost in defiance.

  He must have heard her intake of breath, or just realised he’d left himself exposed, because she watched those muscles stiffen, saw his neck turn a fraction, as if to witness her response, but then he changed his mind, closing the door behind him, and Lavinia stood for a moment, trying to take in not just what she had just seen but her own response to it.

  Lavinia never cried.

  At five years of age she had worked out that tears were entirely wasted—that it was far more productive to just smile and carry on.

  She chose happiness—forcibly wrenched herself from bitterness and anger, yet it drenched her now. There was fury that shot towards Nina, that ricocheted to Ivan, to all of them, to anyone who had touched him—a possessive fury she had met before when she’d heard about the bruises on Rachael.

  Except this was a man, Lavinia told herself. A man who did not need her protection and certainly did not want her compassion or her heart.

  So she did what she did best—swallowed unshed tears, applied make-up to her sunburn, and then concentrated on her hair and face. She had just slipped on her dress, a trifle worried she would be overdressed, when Zakahr knocked at her door.

  ‘We should go up.’

  She hadn’t overdressed, Lavinia realised, because Zakahr would never get such things wrong. For dinner he had shaved, and was now suited, utterly ready to dine with the King—and, she thought as her heart quickened, utterly and completely able to bed her at will. She wanted to fall on him, she wanted to kiss him, she wanted to be pushed on to the bed and be made love to by him. There was nothing virginal about her thoughts.

  ‘Two minutes,’ she bargained.

  ‘One,’ Zakahr allowed—though she did not need it. His eyes tried not to roam her body as he sat on the couch. She was dressed in black, sheer lace and velvet like thick black grapes, hugging her body, and Zakahr wanted to peel and taste each one. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and she must have just sprayed scent, for there was a potent dose of Lavinia in the air.

  ‘You look nice.’ Even Zakahr knew that was too paltry. ‘You look fantastic. The dress…’ The woman in it, was unspoken, but Zakahr ignored his impulse and kept his voice even. ‘The pattern…’

  Lavinia laughed. ‘Devoré.’ She smiled at his nonplussed reaction. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn.’

  So did she, Zakahr thought, stamped with a fierce need to teach her, but changing the subject instead. ‘What’s that?’ he asked when, having slipped on high heels, she picked up a wrapped present from her dressing table.

  ‘A gift for Jasmine.’

  ‘I’ll arrange a gift on Monday.’

  ‘I’m sure you will!’ Lavinia said as she fiddled with her dress in the full-length mirror. ‘Or rather you’ll ask me to have something very tasteful, beautiful and expensive arranged, to thank the King for his hospitality. This, though—’ she turned and smiled ‘—is just a little present for Jasmine from me!’

  Was there an affront there? Zakahr could see no reason for one, yet there was just a slight mockery to her voice that he chose to ignore.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He stood just as the yacht lurched slightly while it anchored.

  Lavinia, grimly holding on to her present with one hand, made a quick grab for the four-poster bed with the other and balanced herself in her heels. And then as easily as that she caught his eye—she did nothing, no dance, nothing provocative, just smiled as she held onto the bedpost.

  ‘I told you—I just can’t help myself sometimes.’

  And as easily as that he smiled, paused for a second. There was a short laugh, and then he walked behind her up to the deck—ruing how easily she lightened him, the verbal shorthand that had developed between them, and the irony that for the first time as he walked into a room with a woman, still smiling at their little joke, even if she was out of bounds, it was the closest he had felt to being part of a couple.
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  The table was elaborate. The Opera House was lit up, a stunning backdrop, and the food and company were exquisite. Surely there should be pride tonight in his achievements—a moment to savour the triumph so close? But the laughter and the company and the woman beside Zakahr found him reluctantly glimpsing an alternative.

  There was that unwelcome visitor guilt too, as the meal came to its conclusion. Jasmine and Lavinia were talking between themselves, and Jasmine was opening her present.

  ‘Remember I was telling you about our traditions?’

  Lavinia’s make-up was fading, and he saw her blush spread down her neck and sun-kissed arms, clearly embarrassed by Jasmine’s enthusiasm as she opened the package.

  ‘It’s just a tiny little thing. I know you have new, but there are old traditions…’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Jasmine held up the small blue glass horseshoe. It was flimsy and fragile, but had been chosen with so much care. Jasmine was delighted with her gift.

  ‘It is nice to see my daughter make a friend.’ As the evening concluded the King strolled on deck with Zakahr. ‘In our position friends are easy to come by—genuine friends are much rarer. I am sure it must be the same for you.’

  ‘It can be,’ Zakahr admitted.

  They walked for a while, admired the stunning view, but even as they spoke, even as the King bade him goodnight, Zakahr’s mind was on Lavinia.

  He stared unseeing across the water, realising that the King was right—though for a long time it had suited Zakahr. His position, his wealth, guaranteed he was never short of company—it had suited him, but it just didn’t feel so right now. He had suppressed a smile as Lavinia had educated the Princess as to the wonders of social networking, making her promise to post some wedding pictures online, and whether or not Jasmine was being polite, tonight she had agreed. The King was right. They were already friends, and would no doubt stay in touch after the wedding—and then he remembered what tonight he had chosen to forget.

  There would be no friendship. This time next week the Kolovsky name would be mud to King Abdullah. There would be chaos, and she would be in the thick of it—he had to get her away from there.