by Abby Green
She giggled at that, and her giggle had a tinge of hysteria. Companion sounded so Victorian, when the feelings Maks inspired within her were anything but Victorian.
The suite’s doorbell chimed at that moment, low and melodic. Zoe sobered up again. She made her way back to the main door and opened it. Maks was on the other side, leaning against the doorframe with an insouciance that came from being born into this world. She couldn’t control the wild rush of her blood to see him again. She was as pathetic as her little suitcase.
‘How do you like your rooms?’
Zoe feigned a nonchalance she was far from feeling. ‘Oh, you know... I think they’re adequate for my needs.’ Who was she kidding? She could fit her entire flat into the suite about ten times.
Maks smiled, not fooled for a second. ‘Good. Let me know if you need anything more than...adequate.’
Zoe looked at him suspiciously, expecting to see a smirk around his mouth, but his expression was innocent.
Then he glanced at his watch, and back to her. ‘I’ve been invited to a couple of social events while I’m here. I’d like you to join me.’
Trepidation rushed back. ‘What kind of events?’
‘No need to look so wary. They’re nice things. I’ve been invited to the gala opening night of the St Petersburg Ballet Company. They’re performing Swan Lake tonight. At the Mariinsky Theatre—one of Russia’s finest.’
As a child, Zoe had been obsessed with ballet and, the Christmas before they’d died, her parents had taken her to a performance of The Nutcracker. She hadn’t been to a ballet performance since then, and every instinct screamed at her to say no, to curl up somewhere and avoid the painful memories.
But something else inside her—something new—resisted the urge to protect. To avoid. She was a grown woman now. She could handle a ballet performance, surely?
She shrugged. ‘Okay...sure.’
Maks slanted her a dry look. ‘Your enthusiasm is bowling me over here, Zoe.’
She blushed. ‘No... I mean, that would be lovely.’
He didn’t know the demons in her past. In her head. But then she thought of something else, something far scarier.
‘I don’t know if I have anything suitable with me to wear.’
She’d brought her one and only smart black dress, but that felt woefully inadequate for what was presumably to be a black-tie event?
‘There are boutiques in the hotel. I’ll have a stylist meet you and help you to choose a couple of dresses.’
‘A couple?’
‘There’s another event at the end of the week—a showcasing of new designers.’
‘Oh...’ Zoe bit her lip. Her finances didn’t run to buying the kind of dresses that would be for sale in luxurious hotel boutiques. ‘Thanks, but maybe I can take a look around the local shops?’
* * *
Maks stared at Zoe. He wondered if she was for real. She looked so awkward...conflicted. He was used to women from his own milieu, who already owned a wardrobe of suitable clothes, or the kind of woman who would have jumped at the chance to obtain some free clothes on his tab. He should have anticipated this. He was too cynical.
‘I don’t expect you to pay for the clothes. I’ve invited you here and I’m asking you to these events.’
Her face grew redder. ‘But I won’t accept that. I’m not a charity case.’
His conscience kicked hard. ‘I know you’re not. Think of it as a loan. We’ll have the dresses cleaned and sent back before we leave.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course—no problem.’
* * *
An hour later, still feeling uncomfortable, Zoe was standing in one of the hotel’s very sumptuous boutiques with a stylist who was looking her up and down critically.
Imagining all sorts of meringue confections, Zoe said quickly, ‘I’m not really a girly girl. I don’t want anything too fluffy or flashy. Dark colours would be good. Simple, discreet...’
The stylist, blonde, tall and beautiful, smiled and said in a charming Russian accent, ‘Mr Marchetti warned me you’d probably say that.’
Indignation flashed through Zoe. ‘Oh, he did, did he? What’s the brightest coloured dress you have in here?’
* * *
A few hours later Zoe was severely regretting her impetuous behaviour. She looked at herself in the mirror and a svelte, groomed stranger looked back at her. In a bright canary-yellow dress. It had a low neckline, small capped sleeves, and hugged her breasts and torso. It fell from her waist in a swathe of material.
Above her hipbones were two small cut-outs, revealing her pale skin. She’d been about to protest when she’d tried it on in the boutique, but when she’d seen it in the mirror she hadn’t been able to get the words out to say no. It reminded her of a fairy tale dress, and she’d stopped thinking of fairy tales a long time ago... But not today.
A couple of women had arrived before she’d been able to leave the boutique and had proceeded to do things to her hair and face. And now...
Zoe’s chest hurt. She wasn’t a stranger to herself at all. That was the problem. She looked like an old picture she had of her mother. Her hair was down but in sleek waves, heavy over one side. Red lips. Her eyes looked huge and very green.
She was too distracted to think of her scars and wonder if they marred the picture.
There was a knock at her door. Too late to change now, or to make excuses. Or worry about her scars.
Full of emotions she’d successfully kept locked up for years, Zoe turned and picked up the small matching bag and wrap. She hoped Maks wouldn’t see how exposed she felt.
But when she opened the door every last thought, concern and emotion was incinerated to dust. Maks Marchetti in a classic black tuxedo was simply...breathtaking. Like...literally. She couldn’t breathe. The suit was moulded to his powerful body, as if a tailor had lovingly made it especially for him. Hugging muscles and accentuating the width of his chest.
She was barely aware of his grey eyes sweeping up and down, or the way his jaw clenched. Somehow she remembered to suck in oxygen as she raised her eyes to his face with an effort. ‘Hi.’
He was shaking his head, ‘You look...stunning, Zoe.’
Zoe was still in too much shock to take that in properly.
When he held out his arm and said, ‘Shall we?’ she put her arm through his and let him guide her down to the lobby, where people turned and stared at them.
She felt as if she was floating. The dress swirled around her legs as she walked—slightly gingerly in the high-heeled sandals. A car was waiting outside and the driver held open the back door, closing it behind her when she was in. Maks got in on the other side. They were cocooned in soft leather and tinted glass, making the world outside seem very far away.
The streets in St Petersburg were very wide. Summer was tipping into autumn, and Zoe noticed golden tinges on foliage appearing everywhere. She could only imagine how beautiful it would look when autumn descended fully.
She was trying to avoid looking directly at Maks. It was like looking at the sun. His beauty burnt her retinas.
They turned a corner and drove alongside a canal. ‘I didn’t expect so much water,’ Zoe remarked.
‘St Petersburg has been likened to Venice, with all its canals and the River Neva. There are over three hundred bridges here.’
She shifted in her seat, feeling acutely self-conscious beside Maks, thinking about all those other women she’d seen him with in photographs. Looking far more comfortable than she felt right now.
‘Zoe?’
‘Hmm?’ She kept looking resolutely out of her window, as if the architecture of the city was keeping her utterly enthralled.
‘Zoe, look at me.’
She bit her lip, wishing for a second that she had some glasses that would turn Maks blurry, so she would
n’t have to take in his sheer gorgeousness. She turned around and steeled herself, but nothing could help. The fact that he was close enough to touch...smell... Zoe gritted her jaw.
He reached out and pushed back her hair a little. ‘You don’t have to hide, you know. You’re a beautiful woman.’
She thought of how she’d insisted the hair stylist leave her hair down and immediately felt defensive. ‘I’m not hiding.’
Maks took his hand away and she felt contrite. She wasn’t used to compliments, even though she knew this was probably just part of Maks’s repertoire. Nothing special.
‘I don’t mean to sound short. The truth is that I’ve never worn an evening gown before. I’ve never had occasion to. This is all just...new to me.’
‘You didn’t have a school prom? Or whatever they have in Ireland?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘It’s called the Debs—and, no... I left Dublin after my final exams...before the Debs.’
She’d been eager to leave behind sad memories and forge her own life, to follow in her father’s footsteps to London and beyond. Put some distance between herself and the ever-present grief. Even though it had been a wrench to leave Dublin, it had felt like the right thing to do.
‘You look stunning, Zoe. Really.’
She felt ridiculously shy. ‘Thank you. So do you.’
Maks reached for her hand and held it. He brought it towards his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Everything in her clenched in reaction.
He looked over her shoulder. ‘We’re here.’
The car had stopped and she hadn’t even noticed. There was a red carpet and lots of beautiful people walking into an impressive nineteenth-century building—one of Russia’s foremost classical theatres.
Maks got out and helped her out of the car, keeping hold of her hand as he led her towards the entrance. Photographers lined each side of the red carpet, yelling in Russian. She recognised Maks’s name being called.
He ignored them, walking past all the other people posing and preening. Zoe didn’t mind. She was only too eager to escape the flashes of light. It was very intimidating.
But not as intimidating as the interior of the building. It was breathtaking. As if they’d stepped back in time. Vast spaces and high ceilings. Elaborate plasterwork and chandeliers. Zoe felt dwarfed—especially beside Maks.
* * *
Maks was very aware of Zoe’s hand in his. It felt small. Delicate. But strong at the same time. A little voice asked him what he was playing at. He never usually indulged in PDAs, or went to these elaborate lengths to seduce a woman. A virgin!
Normally he shied well away from any woman who didn’t understand how things worked. His lovers had a good time and moved on. No promises, no demands. No games.
That was how Maks had managed to keep such a low profile in comparison to his brothers. And a low profile suited him fine. He didn’t have Nikos’s need to scandalise the public—albeit he was doing it less now—or Sharif’s desire to make everyone bend to his will. He was happy to take a more laid-back role, cultivating and managing the Marchetti brand and its fashion wing, restoring vital respect after the damage inflicted by their father, who had died in the arms of his latest lover. A sordid detail they’d managed to keep from the press at the time.
So any connection with a woman beyond the purely superficial was anathema to Maks. He had a close relationship with his sister and that was all he needed. She got it—she understood—because she’d also witnessed the bitter chaos of their parents’ marriage and divorce. Neither of them wanted a replay of that drama in their lives.
And yet here he was...holding Zoe’s hand and feeling protective. It was her first time in an evening gown.
Maks had been having doubts earlier, wondering if he’d done the right thing, inviting her to St Petersburg—but then she’d appeared in that dress and he’d forgotten every whisper of doubt.
The fact that she’d chosen yellow had punched him in the gut, because he’d known immediately that she’d done it purely to surprise him and was probably feeling self-conscious.
He looked down at her now. The dress showcased her body—her small waist and gently flaring hips, the modest swells of her breasts. Maks remembered how they’d felt in his hands, under his tongue, and his body surged into hot life. As if he had no control over it.
Her gaze was lifted to the ceiling, rapt. The sleek hair and make-up only enhanced what he’d seen that first day. He found it almost impossible to see her scars now, and not because they were covered. They were too deep to hide, but she eclipsed them.
He squeezed her hand. ‘Okay?’
She looked at him, and for a second he saw something unguarded in her eyes, but then she pulled her hand out of his and said brightly, ‘Yes, fine. This place is...amazing.’
Maks curled his hand into a fist and put it into his pocket, feeling strangely off-centre. He hadn’t expected that. Then he mocked himself. He was concerned that Zoe might expect too much or get hurt, but at every step of the way she demonstrated her independence. She might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive.
* * *
Zoe hadn’t known that Maks could speak Russian, although it made sense, his having a Russian mother. He was speaking it now, to another man, at the drinks reception before the performance started.
She had to admit that Maks speaking Russian was seriously sexy. As if he wasn’t already sexy enough. And she couldn’t fault him for excluding her. He’d introduced her in English to his acquaintance, but the other man had apologised profusely and claimed his English was not good.
Zoe didn’t mind. She was happy to people-watch and revel in the fact that she wasn’t the one serving the drinks on this occasion. She knew it wouldn’t last long, so she was enjoying it while she could.
They were soon moved to the main auditorium, and when they went into their private stall Zoe stopped in her tracks. She’d never seen such magnificent opulence in her life. There were at least four tiers of seating around the auditorium, reaching high into the gods. The ceiling was frescoed with angels and cherubs dancing around a spectacular central chandelier.
‘Wow...’ was all she could manage.
Maks said, ‘My mother was here on a shoot once, and for some reason she brought myself and Sasha with her—which was not usual. We were normally left with the nanny. I remember seeing it for the first time and being blown away.’
Zoe looked at Maks. They were in a private booth, just to the left of where the main elaborate box was situated, facing the stage. Maks had told her it was the box reserved for local officials.
‘You seem very comfortable here in St Petersburg.’
Maks shrugged. ‘In spite of my mother I have an affinity with Russia. I guess it’s where my roots are. And I have always loved the Russian writers, whereas Sasha prefers the French classics.’
‘It’s nice that you’re so close.’ Zoe felt that pang again, thinking of her lost brother.
Maks’s mouth quirked. ‘She complains that I’m over-protective, but she’s my baby sister.’
‘My brother would be twenty-three now. I often think about him and wonder what he’d be like.’
Maks took her hand just as the lights went down. ‘I’d wager that he’d be a lot like his sister. Independent, passionate...’
Zoe was glad the lights had gone down, Maks’s words had affected her more than she liked. She knew she should pull her hand away from his as an expectant hush settled around them, but she couldn’t.
Then the curtain went up and Zoe forgot everything around her—even Maks—as the powerful music and the performance swept her up in a lush and magical embrace.
* * *
‘You enjoyed it, then?’
Zoe scowled at Maks and saw him smirk. They were in the back of his car, leaving the Mariinsky Theatre behind. She’d been bawling like a baby at the end of the per
formance, and she knew well that her overload of emotion had come more from the memories it evoked than the actual performance itself—which had been spectacular.
‘It was amazing. Thank you. Although I think all the work the make-up artist did has probably been washed away.’
Maks looked at her. ‘You look perfect.’ Then, ‘Did people comment on your scars when you were growing up?’
Zoe was taken aback by the abrupt question, but she also appreciated it. She hated it when people looked at her scars but said nothing.
Absently she touched the one at her lip, tracing the indentation. She dropped her hand. ‘Sometimes, in school, they called me Scarface.’
‘Children can be cruel. Were you ever tempted to try and get rid of them?’
Zoe looked at him. ‘With plastic surgery?’
He nodded. ‘Not that I think you need to—at all. But I could understand the temptation...for an easier life.’
Zoe shook her head. But then her conscience made her admit, ‘I thought of it when I was younger. In secondary school. But I knew I couldn’t be so weak.’
Maks turned to face her. ‘Weak?’
Zoe resisted the urge to touch the scar above her lip again. ‘They’re a reminder of what happened. Of what I did.’
‘What you did?’
‘I was looking at the camera in the back of the car—it was my father’s prized possession. He was telling me to be careful...he took his eyes off the road for a second...and then...’ Bam.
Maks shook his head. ‘Zoe, you weren’t responsible for the accident. You were eight.’
Old wounds ached. ‘I distracted him. If I hadn’t had his camera...’
‘Accidents happen. They’re tragic. Senseless. And usually the sum of a lot more than just a father taking his eyes off the road for a second. You can’t hold yourself responsible.’
Zoe couldn’t escape Maks’s grey eyes. On a rational level she knew he was probably right. But on a deep cellular level, where her trauma lay, it was hard to believe what he was saying. The guilt had been such a constant companion in her life.
