Expecting His Love-Child

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘According to the paper your lady-friend’s plane is due to land here in Australia in less than an hour.’ Nina’s grating voice jangled his every nerve. ‘How convenient that this woman no one has ever heard of is suddenly in the news. She’s made very sure there is no chance now of you paying her off quietly to get rid of her.’

  ‘She’s not like that.’

  ‘Oh—and you know so much about her? Tell me, Levander—how did you meet this lovely girl?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘It is everyone’s business now,’ Nina shouted. ‘Read the rest, Levander. Read on and see that it says you met one night when you were out with your sister—she was waiting on your table. Given that you choose not to socialise often with your family—it narrows it down.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You spoke in Russian or English?’

  ‘What?’ Levander frowned.

  ‘That night—what language?’

  ‘In English.’ Levander frowned. ‘Annika’s Russian is not so good…’

  ‘You fool…’ Nina spat. ‘Your little waitress tart heard every word—she knew you were upset, possibly that you were looking for a bride.’

  ‘I wasn’t upset,’ Levander refuted. ‘And if she had overheard she would have heard me tell Annika I most certainly am not looking for a bride.

  ‘It is your father who is dying, Levander—even an insensitive brute like you would have felt something that night—and she knew it. That suka saw her chance and took it.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Levander responded angrily. But Nina wasn’t going to be silenced again.

  ‘Tell me you were careful,’ Nina demanded. ‘Tell me you were careful that night and I will have PR straight on to it—Katina will have a retraction in tomorrow’s paper and—’

  ‘I’ll deal with this,’ Levander gritted.

  ‘Tell me you were careful.’ When Levander didn’t answer, when he clearly couldn’t tell her what she needed to hear, Nina sneered her disgust. ‘You bloody fool!’

  Levander closed his eyes, drew in his breath hard and held it, blocking out Nina’s tirade and focusing only on Millie.

  Pregnant.

  Despite feeling as if a fist had been rammed into his stomach—despite his complete lack of preparation for the news—somehow it wasn’t a complete surprise. Because a night like they’d shared couldn’t ever just end, and for Levander it hadn’t. Like trying to recall a dream, each morning he awoke to the fractured memory, chasing her image as it dispersed, trying to identify just what it was that had taken place that night, somehow assured that the energy they’d created couldn’t just dissipate…No, it wasn’t a complete surprise, Levander concluded.

  That night had been too vast to amount to nothing.

  ‘Where the hell’s Katina?’ As Nina grabbed for the phone, Levander caught her wrist.

  ‘You already called her? You rang her before you spoke with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Nina eyed him as if he were mad to think it an issue. ‘She is our head of public relations…’

  ‘Yours, perhaps, but she’s not mine.’ Picking up his briefcase, Levander marched to the door.

  ‘Walk out, then,’ Nina called. ‘Walk out early on your contract while you’re at it—walk out on your family when they need you most, when like it or not you need them too…’

  ‘Need you?’ Levander gave a mirthless laugh, didn’t even look over his shoulder.

  ‘How much time do you want to spend in your new job looking for a lawyer?’

  ‘Take me to court,’ Levander jeered. ‘You think I’ve put up with you because I’m worried you’ll sue, or because I don’t think I can do better? I’ve put up with this because sadly you’re family—because without me the House of Kolovsky would have been a joke by now.’

  He was done.

  Done with the lot of them. He couldn’t even be bothered arguing the point with Nina—because he didn’t care, hadn’t for the longest time, and now it was time they got it. His only thought now was to get to Millie, to find out what the hell was going on.

  ‘Why would we take you to court?’ Nina’s question went unanswered—striding across the office, Levander couldn’t care less what she had to say. ‘It’s that little cyka who’ll be taking you.’ Keep walking, he told himself, don’t even listen. ‘To the family court, Levander…’ He hesitated for less than a second, but that was all that was required for Nina to swoop. ‘There it all comes out—there we sit in the gallery and watch others deal with our business. Ivan Kolovsky is dying, and his first-born son…’

  Levander ran for an hour every morning—pounded the streets till it hurt and barely broke a sweat. But he was breaking one now…a sickly, cold sweat that came in seconds; he could literally feel the blood leach from his skin, feel the trip of his heart as it struggled to adjust to impending crisis. Rapid, shallow breaths dizzied rather than nourished, the blood rushing through his ears blocking her hateful words…his mind clamouring to find his own truth.

  ‘And after that…’ Nina’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, pungent words that had the bile churning in his stomach. ‘After everything has been said, when she’s pulled our family and business apart and she’s sitting laughing in England—then, Levander, then you will have to pay her.’

  ‘I don’t need Katina to deal with this….’He dragged the words out through pale lips.

  ‘You might.’

  ‘If I need her, I’ll ask.’ The world was coming back into focus now, but everything looked different—everything was different. He was stuck here, stuck here whether he wanted to be or not. Nina’s bloated, over made-up face repulsed him so much he was sorely tempted to slap it, but he wouldn’t give her a single second of martyrdom. Finding his voice, Levander said, more firmly, ‘I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Sort it, then, Levander…’ Nina jabbed a long red nail in his chest. ‘And I tell you now, so you can tell that suka when you see her, whatever shame she brings to the Kolovsky table I serve her and her family double in return!’

  ‘Levander…’ Pale and distraught, Annika ran into the office, staring wide-eyed at him when she realised he clearly already knew. ‘I heard it on the radio. You have to do something; the phones are ringing off the hook out there—the press are going crazy…Her plane’s due to land soon—’

  ‘When?’ Levander cut in. ‘When does her plane get in?’

  ‘Levander,’ Nina roared to his parting back. ‘First we sort out properly what we do—’

  ‘Get this.’ He was back, his face just inches from Nina’s, his face black as thunder as he eyeballed the woman he hated most in the world. ‘I stay now because I have no choice. But you understand this—you are the last person I take advice from, the last person to tell me how I will raise my child…’

  ‘Levander, stop it,’ Annika sobbed. ‘What are you saying? What are you doing? You know how sorry Papa is for what happened when you were younger, but that is done now—it cannot be changed.’

  ‘Listen to your sister, Levander. We are all sorry for the past—’ Nina started.

  But this morning he could take it no more. Pandora’s lid was lifting open and his rage bubbled to the surface. Because today—today Levander didn’t want to hear those lies from Nina. Lies she repeated so often that sometimes Levander actually thought she must somehow believe them.

  ‘You know it kills your father to think of what happened to you….’

  ‘Don’t even try, Nina,’ Levander breathed, his voice low and menacing, speaking to her in Russian, watching as the colour seeped out of her face now. ‘Min znatts.’

  I know the truth.

  Finally—finally he was telling her the one thing she thought he didn’t know, still speaking to her in Russian. Just in case she remained in any doubt, he spelt it out just a little bit more. ‘I remember what you choose to forget.’

  ‘Why are you speaking in Russian?’ Annika’s nervous voice had Nina
’s eyes darting.

  ‘Ask your mother,’ Levander said, without looking over, pinning Nina with his eyes, daring her to continue this conversation with Annika in the room, taking some small solace at the sheer horror on his stepmother’s face. Now that she was finally silent, Levander had his say.

  ‘Your mouth is filthy, Nina, and if I ever hear you speak of the mother of my child like that again then I will not be responsible for my actions. Oh—and I made a mistake before,’ Levander said nastily, his accent heavy in his anger. ‘It is my father who is the last person I take advice from—you, Nina, come a very poor second to last.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SELLING a painting, Millie mused, lifting up her tray and raising her seat as the cabin crew prepared for the final descent into Melbourne, was rather like having chicken pox—without the awful itching, though. One little dot had appeared, followed in rather quick succession by another two, and then little crops of them. A mention in the local newspaper had been followed by an interview with a national, then a couple of interviews on the radio. As her life’s work had started disappearing around her, galleries who once hadn’t even returned her calls had begun ringing to invite her to showcase her work—and, even though it was early days, any teaching plans had been happily deferred. And now here she was, revisiting Melbourne to personally deliver more of her work and to appear at one of Anton’s swanky ‘meet the artist’ nights.

  Though a rather flimsy reason to head halfway around the globe, it had proved enough of an incentive to muster all her courage and do what was becoming more and more unavoidable as each day passed.

  Tell Levander.

  His name popped into her head more times in a day than she dared to count. Working, shopping, eating, even while sleeping, he was a constant companion to her thoughts. Countless times she’d wanted to call him, to write to him, to tell him her news—but how could she?

  God, she hated landing…the lights dimming in the cabin, no movie for distraction, the false hush that seemed to descend as her ears tried to adjust to the change in pressure, nowhere to go except to her thoughts…

  She’d looked him up on the Internet.

  The day she’d got home, before she’d checked her e-mails or waded through her post—almost as soon as politely able—she’d escaped to her computer and with a knot in her stomach she’d typed in his name. Expecting what, she didn’t know. She had reeled as page after page, image after beautiful image, had mocked her a thousand times over. Masochistically almost she had forced herself to read interview after interview…though none directly with him. The occasional quote in the business papers was all she could find actually from Levander. Still, there were plenty of women happy to talk about him, and hardest of all for Millie to bear was that—unlike most women scorned—not a single one of them was vicious. Apparently Levander Kolovsky got a big red tick in every box. Their single pervasive complaint about Levander was merely that it was over.

  How could she possibly tell him her news?

  And how could she possibly not?

  It was nearing winter in Melbourne now, and as the plane descended through the low, grey clouds Millie wondered for the millionth time what his reaction would be when she landed on his hotel doorstep.

  Maybe she would ring up to his room and ask him to meet her in the bar. Maybe she should actually sit down and write the letter that was permanently penned in her head, give him a little time to digest the news before they had to face each other.

  It was all she’d thought about for the last weeks and months, but especially now—walking through Arrivals—all Millie could think was that she was back in Levander’s world, that soon she would see him. The thought was so consuming she had to ask the immigration officer to repeat his question as he flicked through her passport.

  ‘I asked what is the reason for your visit?’

  ‘Business,’ Millie answered, frowning at his scrutiny and colouring just a touch as she realised she wasn’t being entirely honest. ‘Well, there are personal reasons too. But I am here for my work.’

  ‘I’m more interested in those personal reasons.’

  Immigration control was probably the only place on the planet where they could say such a thing and not get back a smart answer.

  ‘I’m hoping to catch up with someone,’ Millie croaked.

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Not really,’ Millie said, flustered. ‘He’s just someone I met last time I was here—I’m hoping to see him, that’s all.’

  ‘Where will you be staying?’

  ‘I’ve booked a hotel.’ Millie tried to answer evenly, but her voice was growing more shrill. ‘The same hotel I stayed in last time.’

  ‘And you’ve no intention of staying longer than a month?’

  ‘None…’ Millie frowned, flummoxed by all the questions and for the first time worrying that she mightn’t actually get in. ‘Look, is there a problem?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ The officer gave a tight smile. ‘Can I see your travel insurance documents?’

  Blushing from her toenails to her roots, Millie handed them over, swallowing hard as he checked out the forms.

  ‘I did check with my doctor that it was okay to fly while I was pregnant—I wasn’t aware—’

  ‘Have a nice stay!’ Cutting her off mid-sentence, he stamped her passport, and Millie gave a tiny bemused shake of her head as she realised the mini-interrogation was over. It was almost as if he’d known she was pregnant and had been waiting for her to reveal it, Millie thought as she made her way over to baggage reclaim, and lugged her case and her carefully wrapped mountain of boxes onto her trolley. Oh, well, it was their job to be thorough.

  Customs, in comparison to Immigration, was a breeze. Faithfully following the redline that meant she had ‘something to declare,’ Millie braced herself for a further barrage—but after a cursory look at her mountain of artwork and a brief look at her paperwork she was in.

  ‘Welcome to Melbourne.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Would you like someone to escort you out, Miss Andrews?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Millie beamed, taken aback by the friendliness and steering her massively overloaded trolley along the red line and out through the sliding doors.

  For a second the flash of lights dazzled her—twenty-four hours on a plane and she was a touch dazed, to say the least, because at the end of the walkway was a group of photographers, all shouting out. For a second Millie faltered. Clearly she was blocking the path of someone rather famous. It entered her head to turn her trolley around and go the other way, but it was just too big and too overloaded to attempt the manoeuvre. Instead she glanced over her shoulder, ready to let whoever it was past. Somewhat puzzled, she took in the elderly couple dragging along behind her, and the frazzled mother with the even more frazzled toddler who had cried non-stop from Singapore: they didn’t look particularly famous.

  ‘Over here, Miss Andrews.’

  ‘This way, Millie.’

  It was her they were calling to. Mid-step, Millie literally froze, completely taken aback that these photographers were calling out to her. On closer inspection there were a few microphones amongst the crowds and a television camera. That a couple of radio interviews and a few lines in a newspaper could generate such interest just didn’t add up. This was surely more the type of reception afforded Princess Mary than a struggling, almost known artist. Aware that her lank hair, her unmade-up face and, worse, her rather scruffy leggings and T-shirt, though comfortable for a flight, were pathetic to face the cameras with, for the second time Millie considered turning and running. What they hell did they want? Why were the press here?

  And in that split second her question was answered.

  It had little to do with her and everything to do with him.

  Stepping out of the sidelines and into her line of vision was the man who had invaded her thoughts for sixteen weeks now…or one hundred and twelve days…or two thousand, six hundred and ei
ghty-eight minutes. She knew that because she’d done the maths on the plane—only she’d never factored in this.

  Dressed in a charcoal suit, his shirt so white Millie was tempted to scrabble in her bag for sunglasses, Levander actually surpassed the generous realms of her memories. He was, quite literally, breathtaking. Like some delicious Mafiosi movie figure who had stepped off the movie screen and into real life—her life—with that unruly dark hair neatly brushed back now, his dark morning shadow a mere memory because he was utterly, utterly clean-shaven. What was more, he was walking towards her as if he’d been waiting for her—walking towards her so purposefully that every atom in her body told her to run to him. She was the iron ore shavings in a school experiment; he was her magnet.

  But as she let go of the trolley and in a reflex action went to run, something stopped her—something in his stance, his expression, telling her that even though he was holding his arms out to her, even though he was calling her name, for Levander there was nothing tender about this reunion. The thought was confirmed as menacing eyes held hers, his generous mouth taut and strained…

  ‘Levander!’ It was too confusing—too much to take in. Cameras flashed over his shoulder as her fellow travellers bumped their way past, the noisy buzz of a busy airport small fry to the whirl of questions spinning in her mind. ‘What’s going on?’

  He didn’t answer, just confused her more with his actions—dragging her fiercely into his embrace, clamping his mouth on hers so firmly that even breathing was impossible, kissing her so thoroughly, so passionately, holding her so tightly, that all resistance was smothered. He tasted just as divine as she remembered, felt as taut and as terrific as memory had told her. His scent was so intrinsically masculine, so replicate of her dreams, that it should have had her keeling over—this was the reunion she had secretly hoped for. If only his eyes weren’t so cold…two black chips of ice staring down at her, belying the warmth of his embrace. And the hands seemingly holding her close were actually restraining her, holding her, kissing her, confusing her—until finally he drew back just enough to whisper into her ear.