Billionaire Novelist's Fiery Debutante

by Nic Saint

  Spartak’s eyes instantly flicked to her. “Doc? Thank God you’re here—“

  “She’s not the doctor, Spartak.”

  “Christ!” cried Spartak. He turned desperate eyes on the tall man. “We need to do something, Vitaly. She doesn’t have much longer.”

  Vitaly stared down at the body of the woman, his face working. “We can’t move her. It’s too dangerous. All we can do is wait. And pray.”

  Joanna, feeling ill at ease in the company of these strangers, thought she detected a glimmer of anger in Vitaly’s voice. And when he suddenly turned on his friend, her suspicion was confirmed.

  He grabbed Spartak’s collar and bunched his fist, practically lifting the other man clear from the ground. “Why did you have to let her wander off, huh? None of this would have happened if you had kept your eye on her.”

  Spartak’s face lost what color it had left. He looked as if he was about to be violently sick, and when he merely muttered something incomprehensible, Vitaly released him with an impatient grunt.

  A whimper had them all look down at the stricken woman. Yana had regained consciousness, and when her eyes focused, a slight smile played about her lips. “I should have listened to you, Vitaly,” she whispered. “I should have stayed home today.”

  Vitaly went down on one knee in the mulch and gently stroked her cheek. “It’s all right, Yana. Everything is all right.”

  Joanna was surprised by the note of tenderness in both gesture and words. If she’d been terrified before, she now felt nothing but sorrow over the fate that had befallen these people.

  “Next time—“ Vitaly started to say.

  Yana shook her head sadly. “There won’t be a next time. I’m going to die today.”

  “Don’t you say that,” rumbled Vitaly, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re going to be just fine, Yana. Trust me.”

  She kept shaking her head, her eyes now fluttering closed. “No, Vitaly,” she murmured. “This time… I won’t.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A strong sense of helplessness seeped into Vitaly’s consciousness as he gazed down at the immobile daughter of his employer. He’d clasped her lifeless hand in his own, and if he could have, would have breathed life back into her limp body by the sheer power of his will. But he knew that this was one of those moments that willpower alone wouldn’t cut it.

  Yana, he knew, had been mortally wounded, and nothing short of a miracle could save her now.

  A soft voice spoke beside him, and instinctively he knew better than to cut it off.

  “Perhaps I know a way,” the striking female stranger murmured, then crouched down and took Yana’s hand in hers, curling strong fingers over delicate ones. Staring down at the arrow that rose from Yana’s bosom, the woman started murmuring words whose significance escaped him. They sounded Gaelic to his unpracticed ears, but that’s as far as his guess went.

  He didn’t ask questions, didn’t stir, even held his breath for a moment to prevent the deep sob that was rising in his chest from breaking the surface of his bottomless sorrow. Was this woman the miracle he’d been praying for?

  He eyed her from beneath long lashes, unable to move. Her eyes, he saw, were a deep green—like the sparkle of the brightest emerald. Her red, flaming hair reminded him of fire kindling, a mass of curls that spread out across her shoulders. Her face was strikingly beautiful with its delicate, even features, and as she closed her eyes, her brows knitting, she presented a study in grace and poise.

  She was a witch—a wood nymph come to life to offer her help to mere mortals who’d ventured into her realm. Or perhaps she was an elemental, materialized to protect her land. Whatever or whoever she was, all hope now rested with her. Or perhaps it was too late already—Yana having passed on from this plane to the next. To be reunited with her mother.

  He was not a religious man, but as he closed his eyes and stammered broken phrases to a God he hadn’t acknowledged in the thirty-two years he’d been walking this earth, he found a deep peace descending upon him, and then a sudden gust of wind stir the forest’s quiet. And when he looked up, he had the fleeting impression the world had grown lighter—less oppressive. Could it be?

  And then he felt it. A tremor. The softest twitch of Yana’s fingers in his. The woman must have felt it too, for she gazed up into his eyes, and then a slight smile curved her lips, and he frowned, afraid to believe.

  But then suddenly Yana opened her eyes, and her chest, which had caved, started heaving once again, drawing air into her lungs. She winced, the movement stirring the arrow lodged in her bosom and sending shoots of pain through her injured body.

  “Ouch,” she moaned.

  “Yana!” cried Vitaly, his fingers gripping hers tighter.

  “When is the doctor coming, Vitaly?” she lamented. “I’m in pain here, you know?”

  As if summoned by a power greater than theirs, the sound of a siren in the distance answered her call, and the tightness that had lain like a stone on his heart was suddenly lifted. “You hear that?” he shouted. “Help’s on the way.”

  She rolled her eyes, her attitude apparently having made a comeback along with the life that now flowed through her veins once more. “Finally. Took them long enough.”

  His eyes flashed up at the woman’s, gratitude making him smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss…”

  “Joanna,” she acknowledged with an imperceptible nod. “And there’s no need to thank me. I didn’t do anything, really. Merely helped you pray.”

  “You saved her, Joanna,” he said emphatically.

  “I think someone should probably—“ muttered Spartak, then started moving toward the road to signal the approaching ambulance.

  Joanna, who was still holding Yana’s hand, released it with a sigh. The prayers she’d directed at the beings watching over us all had exhausted her, and she needed to steady herself by leaning against a tree.

  Within moments, Vitaly had reached her side and was supporting her by placing a steadying hand on her arm. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  She waved a deprecating hand, then placed it on her brow. The cool touch did much to dispel the dizziness. “I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.”

  She touched her hands to the tree, feeling the coarseness of the bark under her fingers, the indentations wrought by years of weathering the seasons, leaving their mark in the spongy cork. It further helped clear her mind and rid her of the sense of weakness that had assaulted her.

  “What did you do if I may be so bold?”

  She gave him a wistful smile. “Nothing special. Just a prayer my grandmother taught me.”

  “Your grandmother must have been a very special woman.”

  She flicked up her eyes and instantly was caught in his intent gaze. “Yes,” she returned. “Yes, she was. Though I barely remember her now. She died when I was a little girl.”

  She found his scrutiny unnerving, as if he was trying to gaze straight into her soul. Never before had anyone looked at her quite like he did. Gauging her—determining what she was made of.

  The ambulance came barreling down the earthen road, and Spartak waved it to a stop. Instantly two nurses sprang out, and, following the man’s directions, hurried over to where Yana lay.

  Joanna watched the scene dispassionately. Somehow she knew that the woman would be fine. She could not say how she knew, but it was as if a voice deep inside her whispered this truth. She would live and prosper.

  “Vitaly,” she called out. He had joined the nurses as they started transferring Yana to a stretcher. He looked up, and she found that there was something about him that deeply appealed to her—something about the way he looked at her set off a yearning that echoed through her soul, and she knew she couldn’t let him leave without feeling his eyes on her one last time.

  “Let me take you home,” he offered. “I have a car waiting nearby.”

  “No, it’s fine. I live quite close. I just wanted to…” She wavered, not knowing what it was sh
e wanted exactly. To get to know him a little better? To spend a few more minutes in his presence? It all seemed so pointless.

  His eyes darted from her to the ambulance, where the nurses had now slammed the door shut and were about to move off, en route to the hospital. He gestured at the vehicle carrying his friend and shot her a quick smile. “I’m very sorry, Joanna. I need to go now.”

  “No, of course,” she agreed. It was so silly—she was so silly.

  He took her hands in his and pressed them warmly. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what you did, but you saved Yana’s life.”

  She merely smiled and watched him walk off in a hurry, Spartak in his wake, and after a last quick wave, he was gone, the forest having swallowed him up just as miraculously as it had produced him earlier. As she stood motionless on the spot, she was struck with a sense of unreality, the whole episode never having happened.

  Had she dreamed it all?

  Had she imagined everything?

  Then the lingering sense of pressure on her hands and the warmth of his touch told her that she hadn’t been dreaming. She really had met a most interesting man. And even though she would never see him again, she had the distinct feeling something had changed. Something had shifted in the balance of life, and things would never be quite the same again.

  She was going to leave this place, she knew, never to return.

  She still didn’t know where to go, but perhaps she would simply leave that one little detail to the hands of fate.

  As they’d thrown her lot together with that of Vitaly and Yana, perhaps her grandmother’s uncanny gifts could help her decide where to go from here.

  And with a new sense of purpose, she set one foot in front of the other, and decided that this was the only way to go: step by step, until she arrived at her destination, wherever it might be.

  The dread that had hung heavy on her heart lifted slightly, and as she set out on her journey home, she knew that tonight would be her last night in Lincoln.

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  Copyright © 2015 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.

  Published by Puss in Print Publications.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.