by Robyn Donald
“I should have—”
“Should have is what losers say. You only believed what everyone else believed. Stop blaming yourself—you had nothing else to base any beliefs on but what you were told.”
“You’re so pragmatic,” she grumbled, kissing him softly.
He made a quiet noise deep in his chest. “Do you mind?”
She lifted an adoring face to his. “No, never. And you’re an idealist, as well. A man who sets up enormous amounts of money for venture capital is almost certainly a closet romantic.”
There followed another highly satisfactory interlude, until at last she murmured, “You were telling me about your search for Svetlanko.”
“I did some discreet asking around, and the first thing that came to light was the astonishment. Even though people knew of your father’s acquaintance with Svetlanko— they were both collectors and friendly rivals—everyone was utterly astounded that your father had turned. And nobody believed that your mother had. It was accepted that your father must have killed her and then himself. I spoke to a couple of people who’d been in Hong Kong then and remembered what had happened, and that reinforced my conclusion that I should look further. Eventually all my leads petered out, except for Svetlanko. I thought that if he was alive he might be persuaded to talk now that the fall of the Berlin wall has changed the world. I contacted him and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Nicholas made light of it, but she knew how difficult it must have been for him to find out. The diplomatic service buried its scandals deep.
And then there was the business of finding Svetlanko and persuading him to come to America, the careful planning of the scene...
She said with heartfelt intensity, “I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s your aunt speaking.” He caught her chin in relentless fingers and turned her face so that he could see her eyes. His were glittering harmonies of gold and green, light and shade, love and the implacable will that no longer frightened her. “You deserve the world in your hands, its joys and laughter running like jewels through your fingers. You deserve everything I can give you, all my love, all my heart, my body and my soul, the children we’ll have together. You’ve spent too long in the shadows, Mariel, too many lonely years. I want to make you so happy you’ll never think of them again.”
Turning her head, she kissed his upper arm, her mouth soft and tremulous against the coiled power of the muscle.
“I want to make you happy,” she said in a choked little murmur. “So happy that nothing will ever hurt you or worry you again. I love you so much, darling, so very much.”
“All you need to do to make me the happiest man in the world is be happy yourself,” he said. “That’s all I want, my darling heart. You with me, forever.”
It sounded too much, but she nodded. Oh, there would be unhappiness ahead, she knew that—it was part of the human condition—but as long as they were together they could ride the waves of doubt and uncertainty, sure of their commitment to each other.
The future was no dream born of desire. It was solid, as solid as their love for each other, and it would last.
