Expecting His Love-Child

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘What did I say wrong?’ She was shaken to the core, but her voice was somehow strong. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You never will with my family.’

  ‘They were so rude…’If the rules stated that no matter how much your partner did, one should never criticise his family, then it was way too late. ‘And yet when we stood up to go…’

  ‘Others were watching,’ Levander elucidated, and for Millie it was just too much. She shook her head in astonishment as Levander continued darkly, ‘What you just witnessed was a first-class production Kolovsky-style. All they care about is reputation—and how we appear to others. The truth matters nothing to any of them.’

  ‘You were rude, too…’ Millie said accusingly. ‘From the second we got in there you were poisonous. Why don’t you like him? Because he left your mother?’

  ‘Leave it, Millie.’

  ‘And Nina,’ Millie insisted, recalling the hate in his eyes, the cruel smile on his lips. ‘You don’t just dislike her, do you? You actually hate her.’

  How, Levander asked himself, did she do it? How did she know to ask the one thing he couldn’t answer? He could deal with a boardroom full of questions, deal with his family with his eyes closed, fob them off with half-answers, yet with her he wanted more than anything to confide in her, to give her the answers she sought. He had to crunch his hands into fists, so tempted was he to take hers, to finally share his hell.

  But how could he?

  ‘It is complicated.’ Levander closed his eyes as he tried to come up with a suitable answer, trying to buy himself just a little more time till she was his to tell. ‘It is family business—my father’s story as much as mine.’

  ‘Well, given I’m carrying his grandchild, when am I allowed to know?’ She watched his face quilt with tension. She didn’t want another row, but she wanted to know what the hell was going on. ‘He’s not just sick, is he…?’

  ‘No, he’s not just sick; he’s dying—happy now?’

  ‘Happy?’ She shook her head in disbelief at his coldness, reeling at the impossibility of him—the memory of the tenderness that she had surely once seen in him was dimming further with every bitter twist of his tongue. ‘Your father’s dying and you talk to him like that…’

  ‘I said leave it, Millie.’

  ‘I wanted to leave it.’ Millie was shouting now. ‘I wanted to leave it, but you were the one who sent me into that minefield—I want to know—’

  ‘Men’ she znayesh’-krepche spish’.’ He shouted his answer in Russian, which really was no answer at all, but his voice was so hoarse, so angry, so full of pain it scared her—only not for herself, for him. ‘You need to go to bed.’

  ‘You’re really good at telling me what I need to do—especially when I ask a question that you don’t want to answer.’

  She scared him—not the little five-foot-three ball of anger who stood angry and defiant before him now, but the woman she was, the questions she asked. And more than that it was the feelings she triggered—dangerous feelings that confused him, made him think he must somehow be losing his mind…

  ‘Go to bed…’ His voice was a croak, but his actions were insistent and he guided her to the bedroom.

  It should have been familiar, but in the few hours they’d been away the bed had been re-made and turned down—strangers had crept in and changed the landscape again. That Levander wanted her gone rather than try to talk things through, explain his family to her, was for Millie the worst. With a sob of frustration she headed to the bathroom, ripping the beastly clips out of her hair, pulling off the Kolovsky silk dress and leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  Not even bothering to take off her make-up, too angry to even tie up her robe, she wrapped a towel around her and stormed back into the bedroom as he was heading out of the door. ‘You know…jealousy really doesn’t suit you, Levander.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, but I think I do—you’re jealous of them, aren’t you?’ She watched his face whiten, watched a muscle leaping in his cheek as she taunted him with vicious words—furious, hurt-fuelled words for the way he had treated her. She was missing the man she had met oh, so briefly, and hating what he had become. ‘You’re jealous that while you had to struggle on the other side of the world the rest of your family was living in luxury.’

  ‘You think I am jealous?’ He spat out a mirthless laugh. ‘You think that is what makes me like this? Well, then—you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘I’m trying to,’ Millie shouted. ‘But at every turn you silence me with your mouth. Kissing me, sending me to bed, answering me in Russian…What does it mean?’ she jeered. ‘Come on—what you said before; what does it mean?’

  ‘I can’t even remember what I said…’

  ‘Men’ she znayesh’—krepche spish.’ She watched his hand tighten around the door handle as she said it—his back stiffened, the muscles across his shoulders so taut she could have bounced a ball off them. His expression was unreadable when finally he turned around. He must have thought she’d have forgotten, but the words, even if they hadn’t been understood, had been so hollow, so full of hurt, they’d stay with her for ever.

  ‘Okay, then—it is a Russian saying—a proverb…’ He couldn’t even look at her as he spoke, and perhaps she’d misread him—because he looked more jaded than bitter, more resigned now than angry. And somehow, even though she was standing there, even though they had been with his family tonight, never had she seen someone look more alone. ‘It means—the less you know, the more soundly you sleep.’

  ‘But what if I want to know?’ Before she had even finished speaking he had left, closing the door behind him. And even though there was no turn of a key Millie knew, knew Levander was locking her out.

  Over and over she replayed the night—reviewed his short but brutal history. Simultaneously she recalled the tiny snippets she’d gleaned, like ominous thick drops of rain pelting on a windscreen, warning her of an impending storm: Annika’s horrified reaction when she’d spoken of his home town, his sudden arrival in Australia, his odd relationship with his father and his family, and his clear bemusement when she’d questioned his choice of home.

  The truth she had so desperately sought was less than appealing now as realisation hit that in her search for answers she’d missed out on a question—had taken for granted the misinformation she’d been fed. She had never actually asked Levander when his mother had died.

  Dressed in nothing more than a silk wrap, Millie pushed open the bedroom door and saw him standing, staring unseeing out of the window, more beautiful than any model in art class, so still, so tense, so loaded with pain it made her want to weep.

  He didn’t even turn his head—didn’t move a muscle as she approached.

  ‘How old were you?’ She didn’t need to elaborate, knew when he closed his eyes that he understood the question. But she waited an age before finally he gave his hollow answer.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘So, when she died, did her family…?’ She couldn’t go on for a moment. She wanted so much for him to interrupt her, to tell her that whatever she was thinking surely she was wrong. ‘Did they raise you?’

  ‘They would have had to take food out of their own child’s mouth to do that…You do not understand poor…’ He wasn’t being derisive or scathing, Millie realised. Quite simply he was stating a fact. Her lips trembled in horror. She was trying not to cry, and somehow to absorb the information he was giving her—because even if she didn’t know Russian…no guessing was needed now.

  ‘Detsky Dom isn’t a town, is it…?’ Her hand reached for him, fingers gentle on his taut shoulders. ‘When she died you were put in a children’s home.’

  ‘No.’

  For the first time since she’d come into the room he looked at her, or rather towards her. His eyes were fixed on her, perhaps, but somehow not focusing. His voice was detached and formal, and listening to him, watching his tense mo
uth form the most vile of words, was like being plunged into boiling water—like blistering pain on every cell of her skin as she tried and failed to fathom all he must have been through.

  ‘Before she died, when she was too sick to look after me, I was put in dom rebyonka—the baby house. Later, when I was four, I went to detsky dom.’

  There was nothing she could say.

  A million questions for later, maybe, but there was nothing she could say now…

  ‘And, no—before you suggest it again—I am not jealous. I accept the past, and the impossible choices that were made. I accept what they cannot.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How could you?’ His voice was hollow. ‘Now your curiosity is satisfied—perhaps it is better you go…’

  ‘Go?’ Her hand was on his arm and she could feel him now—could feel him. For a second or two she hadn’t been able to, hadn’t been able to feel anything at all. Shock was a kind of anaesthetic at times, blocking the pain that consumed her, numbing everything in its wake. Only feelings were creeping in now. The two of them were still there, still standing after his revelation. That he would push her away after she’d forced her way in was almost more than she could bear. ‘Why do you want me to go…?’

  Because you will.

  He didn’t say it, just stared—stared at eyes swollen from the tears he’d provoked at the once happy face, now devoid of her ever-ready smile—and hated himself for tainting her, for soiling what had once been perfect.

  ‘It is better if you go to bed.’

  It really wasn’t her place to argue, Millie realised, pulling her hand back. She respected his decision and turned to go, because it wasn’t her place to tell him how he should feel, to say that whatever he privately thought of her surely at this moment he shouldn’t be alone.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Those two words had surely never sounded so paltry, but they came from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’m sorry for all you must have been through.’

  She turned to go, then changed her mind—and leant forward to kiss him. It was with the least provocative of intentions—a kiss goodnight she would give to any mortal in agony, any friend who had bared a piece of their soul.

  Only he wasn’t a friend.

  Leaning over him and dusting his lips with comfort had been the intention. But when she felt his lips beneath hers, that quick kiss goodnight lingered just a fraction too long. So easy to kiss, so easy to close her eyes as she did and chase away the atrocities…A sweeter feeling was rushing in, replacing the horror, but after a moment of indulgence she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him pushing her back.

  ‘This time…’ His voice wasn’t quite so detached now, and his breath was hard and ragged between each reluctant word. ‘When I suggest you go to bed I trust you understand I am not angry…’

  ‘I do.’

  She did.

  Absolutely she understood what he was saying.

  And absolutely she understood the balmy sedative she was offering.

  ‘If you want me to stay then I will.’ Her voice was different, unfamiliar even to Millie. Wanton words from very deliberate lips as she offered him this—and it wasn’t just for Levander, but for her.

  She didn’t want to visit his nightmare, yet—didn’t want to lie alone in her bed and weep for his past. She wanted him now—wanted the escape she was offering too. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers. Her hands were filled with a shameful longing to move down, to feel what she knew was surely there—surely, because he was struggling to look at her, struggling to push her away as their bodies screamed otherwise.

  It would be impossible to walk with legs that felt like jelly, but somehow she’d manage it. The bedroom door was a blur in the distance, the room so thick with tension she’d need a scythe to get there—but if he told her to go again then she would.

  He didn’t.

  Didn’t say anything at all. Instead his mouth crushed hers in response, in a fierce, desperate kiss that slammed the breath out of her, that exactly matched her need. A kiss that hurt with its intensity—a delicious hurt, though. His skin rough on hers, his tongue probing, his arms dragging her tightly to him, but not close enough for Millie. Her silk wrap slipping off her shoulders, she grabbed at his shirt, ripping away the material so that naked she could press against him—feel his hard arousal beneath his trousers as his hands cupped her bottom, the metal of his zipper digging into her.

  ‘All-day-since-I-saw-you…’ Between kisses he spoke, with his mouth full sometimes…full of her mouth, her shoulder, her breast. His tongue explored the changes since last he’d visited, each stroke a fever on her ripe, needy flesh, each husky word from his lips refuting his earlier contempt, giddying her, yet propelling her towards a rapidly approaching destination. ‘All-day-I-am-hard-for-you.’

  So hard.

  Desperate fingers pulled at his zipper, needy hands freeing his heated length. She wanted to linger just a second, but Levander wasn’t having any of it. Strong hands around her waist lifted her those necessary decadent inches and her legs coiled around his back. She bit into his shoulder as he plunged inside her, gasped as he filled her, not knowing what to do. But again he showed her, his hands guiding her bottom into a delicious rhythm, thrusting till she found her own. And it was so much more than sex for the sake of it—because if ever comfort was needed it was tonight—and if all they had was this, then surely they must build on it.

  ‘I cannot last…’

  His apology was a second overdue. Millie was the first to arrive—and in fabulous style, with a flash of heat searing up her spine so intense and so unexpected it startled her. Her new-found boldness utterly gone, she locked shocked eyes with his, feeling a flash of fear as she faced the unknown. But it was Levander holding her, telling her with his eyes that it was all okay, just different. With a squeal of delighted terror she let herself go with it…gave the little piece of her heart that was left to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IF MILLIE had thought that his revelations, the fabulous sex, or even the fact that Levander was now firmly instated in the bedroom would mean they were closer, she was wrong on each count.

  It was as if he’d never touched her—and certainly as if he’d never told her anything. The topic of his past was once again completely out of bounds. Brooding, impossible and utterly unreachable, he rumbled like a prolonged peal of thunder through his inhuman schedule. Up at the crack of dawn to go running, then out to face his brutal day. And rather than talking, or spending their time getting closer, instead she was paraded to endless business dinners followed by even more endless parties. Yes, he slept beside her—and sometimes in sleep he even reached out and held her—but he never actually laid a finger on her, and night after night she lay miserable in her own desire, staring at the man who said he wanted to marry her, yet didn’t seem to like her very much at all.

  ‘I rather like this one.’

  At the end of the week, as Katina handed them both individual copies of the same newspaper, Millie winced again as she re-read the headline that had hit the stands on her second day in town: From London with Love.

  ‘In fact, all the newspaper reports have been favourable. I’ve also managed a sneak peek at some of the magazines out next week and, though I’m loath to say it, Levander, your rather surly interaction with the press seems to have them eating out of your hands…Paragraph two,’ she clipped, like a schoolteacher, as she handed them yet another article. ‘“Kolovsky appeared defensive of his young fiancée, shielding her from the press and clearly eager to get inside to share the moment with his family.” The two of you have done very well, and as a surprising bonus it’s taken the attention away from your father’s illness. I’d say they’re all pretty much scrambling to break the happy news of your wedding date—so when can I tell them it is?’

  ‘When I find out—’ Levander gave a tight smile ‘—you’ll be the first to hear.’

  ‘Well?’ Katina’s very trim rear h
ad hardly wiggled out of the room when Levander tossed the question at her.

  ‘Gosh, you can be so romantic at times, Levander. I told you I wasn’t going to be pushed into anything.’ She ran a worried hand over her forehead. ‘Look, I’ve got this “meet the artist” thing with Anton, and after that…’ Biting her bottom lip, she forced herself to look at him. ‘After that, I think I ought to go home for a bit—you know, talk to my family…’ He didn’t say anything. She’d braced herself for the rip of his words, or the crack of his temper, but he just sat there, staring at her coolly, making her squirm with discomfort. If anything, it was far worse. ‘I need to go home and decide what I should do.’

  ‘You know what you should do.’

  She gave a tiny helpless laugh. ‘Sign my life away to a loveless marriage…’

  ‘It does not mean it would not be a good marriage.’

  ‘We don’t talk.’

  ‘We’re talking now,’ came his flip response.

  ‘You don’t tell me how you feel…’

  ‘Why would I?’ He looked at her as if it were so bloody obvious he couldn’t believe she had a problem with it. ‘Why-would-I-tell-you?’

  ‘So we can get closer…’ Millie shivered. ‘So we can…’ She had to be brave, had to ask him, had to know. ‘Do you think…I don’t know…in time…?’ She was trying not to cry, trying not to sound needy, but the memory of his cast-off lover came to mind as she heard shades of the Latina’s pleading creeping into her voice. But, hell, there was a baby to think of—so she squared herself to ask the most difficult question of all. Difficult, Millie realised, because if you actually had to ask, you probably weren’t going to like the answer. ‘Do you think you could ever love me?’

  ‘My God…’ he muttered under his breath, as if she were some stupid little girl who bored him with senseless questions, each incredulous shake of his head humiliating her right to her core. ‘Always this question comes—” Levander, do you love me?” “Levander, if I change this maybe then you will love me?” “Levander…why can’t you just say you love me…?” I am not going to lie to you and tell you I think I will be in love with you. I cannot say that.’