by Dani Collins
Once her grandmother had begun to rally, she and Roman began to wander further afield than the woods surrounding the cottage. It was only when she had arrived at the small airfield where a private jet waited to whisk them away to Paris for the evening that Ella realised that Roman was more than just a man of means, but someone really quite incredibly wealthy.
She was no stranger to money and had always lived with the knowledge that at the age of twenty-five she would inherit a vast trust fund from her parents. But, until that time, anything she needed had always had to be approved by her guardian or come from the somewhat conservative monthly allowance he had provided for her from that trust fund. And ever since completing her degree, ever since her return to France, Ella had begun to strain a little at the leash, envying Roman his complete freedom and control over his own destiny.
But as they had flown to Paris in Roman’s private plane, as they had sat in the exquisite restaurant encased within the Eiffel Tower, a landmark Roman had mocked her for not visiting before, she had realised that for all that she had shared of herself, she knew very little about the tall, impossibly handsome man who made her heart soar and her pulse race.
‘So, Roman Black. Who are you really?’
He’d explained in broad terms and simple descriptions that he hadn’t always been wealthy, and that he had had to fight to get everything he now had. Her heart had burned with sympathy as he’d roughly told her of his mother’s death when he was thirteen, and they had shared a sense of that impossible to describe feeling that descended when everything you thought you knew changed in a heartbeat. Ella might have been only five when her parents had died, but she knew what it was like to have the rug pulled from beneath your feet, to lose that precious mooring—the absolute conviction that your parents were there and would always love and care for you.
She had been impressed by the man who had managed to turn everything around against all possible hope and grow into a kind and generous, patient man who she couldn’t help but build dreams around. So she could be forgiven, perhaps, for failing to realise that, once again, Roman had turned the conversation back to her before it became too focused on himself.
Trips to Paris were soon followed by visits to London and Stockholm, never too far from an easy return to her grandmother should anything have gone awry. But it never did and soon Ella had begun to relax into this strange new world at which Roman was the centre.
Only her friend Célia had provided words of caution—fearing that perhaps it was all a little too soon, too much. ‘What do you know about him?’ she had asked over the phone. ‘Enough,’ had been Ella’s determined reply.
She knew how Roman made her feel, she knew how Roman had made her want. Want more, not only for herself, but for him too. And her untried and untested heart blossomed beneath his every attention. Her feelings were even more assured once Roman had met Claudette, causing Ella to believe that, had her grandmother been several decades younger, she too would have fallen under his spell.
Claudette’s joy that Ella might have found the same fairy-tale romance as her daughter once had with Nathaniel Riding only served to signpost to Ella that she was indeed on the right path. That of happiness and true love. In some small way, it touched Ella that she was echoing her mother’s life. That, like Adeline, she had met and fallen in love with the man of her dreams. It made her feel connected to both her mother and the past in a way that she couldn’t have imagined only a month before.
So when, only a week ago, Roman had revealed that he was needed back in Russia within a fortnight, Ella’s heart had beat and pulsed with a pre-emptive agony and she had vainly struggled to hide the tears that had unexpectedly gathered.
He had swept aside one with the pad of his thumb and pressed the sweetest kiss against her lips. A kiss that had built a storm of need and passion within her as if, so desperate to cling to him, to keep him with her, she would have given him anything. She wanted to give him everything.
However, Roman had been steadfast on this one thing. A deeply traditional man, he believed that only her husband should have that right, and his declaration had served only to make him seem even more perfect in her eyes, no matter how much she wanted to dissuade him of his conviction.
That night, when he had left, she had been bereft. It was as if that simple declaration of what could be between them, but wasn’t, had made her consumed with the desire to be his wife. It invaded her thoughts and heart with an insidiousness that Ella, in her naivety, believed was nothing less than true love.
So that when they had next met, when he had whisked her away to a candlelit dinner in a chateau overlooking the dips and swells of the rolling hillside, peppered with small terracotta towns and church towers and sprawling vineyards, she had seen nothing but the look of love in his eyes as he haltingly, almost hesitantly, admitted that he knew it was soon, knew it was quick, but he couldn’t remain quiet any longer. That he wanted her to be his wife, his love, his companion. She had almost interrupted his proposal with an agreement so ready, so earnest he had smiled and produced the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.
The art deco ring—a ruby encased in diamonds, set on dual silver bands which were, in turn, covered in more diamonds—looked as if it had come from her deepest fantasies. Roman had explained that ever since their first meeting in the woods he had imagined her in red. And it had touched Ella deeply that he too must have felt all that she had, from the first moment they had met.
But still his departure from France loomed over them. It was only when she shared her joyful news with Claudette that Ella saw and felt her every desire was achievable. Her grandmother’s insistence that she be freed from her caregiver duties gave Ella hope. But it also made her want to give something back in return. She knew in that moment that nothing less than having her grandmother present on her wedding day would make her the happiest bride in the world. Hoping beyond all hope that Roman would agree, she hesitantly broached her request to marry before he needed to return to Russia. His agreement was immediate and assured. But he had a request of his own—one that touched her very soul. Knowing how important her guardian was to her, he wished to return to Moscow on the eve of their nuptials and pay respect to the man who had given her so much.
So overwhelmed that he would consider her wants and needs, the small smattering of people she classed as family, soon to be stretched to include one more, Ella didn’t give much thought to what would happen next. Roman had already given her so much that she placed her trust and her future in his hands. A future he seemed to consider a little more than herself, for he presented her with a prenup, insisting her future and her father’s inheritance was and would always be hers, protected by the agreement he wanted her to sign, despite the fact she would willingly have not. It was as if he had thought of everything, and in those thoughts had put her first and foremost. And to a young woman who had always felt as if she owed a debt, to either her guardian or grandmother, it was everything.
And as she stood before the closed wooden door of the church she chose not to focus on the fact she hadn’t called Célia to tell her of the wedding, nor that her closest friend wasn’t even there. Ella felt strongly that Célia wouldn’t have understood, hadn’t even when she’d tried before to tell her how much Roman meant to her. Instead, Ella chose to defiantly remain in this little bubble world that she had created for herself and Roman.
Her pulse picked up as she cast one final glance in the floor-length mirror discreetly tucked away behind a pillar. She ran a hand down the smooth oyster-coloured silk dress that fitted her perfectly, simple but delicate silver and pearl beading detailing the plunging neckline between her small breasts and the fabric sweeping over slightly flared hips down to her ankles.
Ella hadn’t noticed the split in the skirts until she’d first tried it on and walked towards the reflection in the mirror of her grandmother’s cottage. Never before had she worn such a thing, but she couldn
’t shake the feeling that somehow a fairy godmother was looking over her. But it wasn’t a character from some long-ago-written fairy tale but her mother who had kept the beautiful gown for her daughter to wear one day. And Ella believed it was yet another sign as she stood in her mother’s wedding dress, about to marry the man of her dreams.
* * *
Everything was proceeding as planned. Better than Roman could have ever hoped, in fact. In the last month he had played his part well. And if somewhere deep within his soul his conscience thrashed, he ruthlessly thrust it aside, focusing instead on the end goal.
But strangely, as he stood at the top of the aisle of the small church with domed ceilings and faded frescos, as he smiled at Claudette, who already had a handkerchief pressed to the corners of her eyes, in the pews with only two others—neighbours who had known Ella since she was a child—acting as witnesses, he felt unease stirring in his chest.
Roman had no intention of making this marriage real. He was a monster, but not so much of one that he would take her innocence. He was sure that Vladimir would agree to his demands and the marriage would be annulled almost as quickly as it would take for Ella to say, I do. But, in spite of that mental assurance to himself, the small ceremony felt…more real than anything had for a long time.
A small whine from the floor drew his attention to Dorcas. The priest had been a little dubious about the prospect of having an animal in attendance, but Ella had insisted. Roman was half convinced that she loved the dog as much as she appeared to have fallen in love with her fiancé. Thinking of himself in the third person in relation to Ella had been almost the only way to isolate himself from her effect.
It had been Ella’s fiancé who had whisked her away to Paris. Ella’s fiancé who had listened to her hopes and dreams and Ella’s fiancé who had believed very strongly in the sanctity of marriage. For if it had been Roman himself, he would have devoured her completely on that very first day and ruined the only bargaining chip he had with Vladimir.
Roman had always marvelled at the value placed on a woman’s innocence. Yet in the month that he had worked hard to preserve Ella’s, for her own sake as much as his, he had begun to understand the fascination and had happily consigned his frustrated desire for her as the price he had to pay for his vengeance.
Dorcas whined again from where she sat by his feet, and stared up at him as if questioning whether he knew what he was doing. He frowned at the dog, a dominant warning growl threatening to rumble in his throat, and finally she turned her attention back to the church door as if knowing Ella stood on the other side.
And Roman couldn’t help but be curious as to what those doors would reveal when they parted, excusing the sense of all-consuming anticipation as mild interest rather than the raging beast of desire. He had offered to arrange for her to go to Paris in search of a wedding dress, but she had smiled and simply stated that she had it ‘covered’.
Simple. On the surface that was what Ella seemed to be, but over the last few weeks he had realised that she was nothing of the sort. In an odd way, getting to know her had been like watching someone grow into themselves. Evolve, develop, try and test things out, ideas and hopes and dreams. All the things he had never been able to do himself, after being thrust into adulthood at the age of thirteen when his mother had died. The hardships and devastation of the following years as he had been moved from foster home to foster home, working any part-time job he could, saving every single penny for the university education he knew he would need if he was ever to get himself to a rich enough position to be able to get his revenge. Determination as much as a shockingly intense intellect had been all he’d needed to succeed.
That and an almost preternatural ability to identify what it was that a person most wanted in this world.
At school, his stature and intellect had seemed to entice weak-minded bullies who sought to either befriend or remove a possible threat to their power. But Roman had never entertained their games, nor had he existed within any specific circle—instead staying on the fringes, a lone wolf, ready and able to befriend or berate as suited his own personal needs. For he had learned at a young age that true power was about dependence and manipulation. Getting someone to willingly hand over what it was he wanted was far more valuable than coercion.
And as he grew older, through university and the following years building up a personal empire that made him one of the richest men in the western hemisphere, he had used that skill very well indeed. He had amassed a vast property empire, including a number of highly sought after and deeply exclusive nightclubs, but his true skill lay in brokering hugely successful business deals for others…at an eye-wateringly high price of course. His telephone contact list boasted several royals and world leaders on speed dial, more than a few oligarchs, and one or two more nefarious characters.
But, in spite of this, his one goal was Kolikov Holdings. It was his mother’s birthright, had her own father not cast her aside the moment she had failed to give in to his wishes and marry Nathaniel Riding. Instead, she had fallen in love with a weak-minded carpenter who had been bought off by Vladimir the moment he had discovered Tatiana’s unmarried pregnancy. As she had refused to give in to her father’s demands and terminate her child, Vladimir had severed all ties to his daughter and grandchild, emotional and financial. And Roman would make sure that he would pay for his actions.
The way he had felt when he had first realised that Ella had replaced his mother’s position had been as if his heart were gripped in a steel vice. In fact, it had been as the door had slammed on his face when he had begged and pleaded with Vladimir to provide the necessary finances to fund his mother’s treatment that he had first laid eyes on her. A little blonde girl of five years, hair curling around chubby cheeks and little fists grabbing for toys, the like of which Roman had never seen before in his life. He had ducked behind the bushes that lined his grandfather’s estate in Moscow and watched in rage as this little girl played happily with all the things that he and his mother had been denied. It had not taken much investigation to discover the story of the daughter who had been presented to Vladimir as his ward, nor had it taken long to realise that she was presently enjoying a life that should have been his mother’s.
And while he acknowledged that he could not place the blame for this at her feet, over the next few years he realised that Ella had become the apple of his grandfather’s eye. The one and only object of sentiment the old man seemed to possess, aside from his precious Kolikov Holdings. And while the bastard had shored up any and all attempts to breach the impenetrable walls around his company, Roman had marvelled at how the man had somehow managed to leave his ward so utterly vulnerable in this world.
Vladimir had seemed to delight in showing off the exquisitely beautiful trophy child at the Russian Debutante ball in London, or presenting her at some high-profile gala across the globe, and every picture, every newspaper article only twisted the knife deeper and confirmed his conviction that she was the only way to truly get what he wanted: Vladimir to hand over control of the company that should be Roman’s by right. Vladimir to pass ownership to the man he’d called a worthless bastard, good for nothing more than begging for scraps from a man who would rather cut his own nose off than acknowledge Roman’s legitimacy. And once Roman had control of that company he would tear it apart piece by piece right in front of Kolikov.
The creak of the large wooden door at the bottom of the church drew Roman’s thoughts back to the present. There she was. The key to his revenge. He was sure that it was that knowledge that made his heart leap in his chest—not the stunning sight of the lamb about to be sacrificed on the altar of his revenge.
Ella was dressed in an oyster silk dress, simple lines clinging to a figure most women would have paid thousands of euros to achieve. The low V of the dress moulded to Ella’s perfect frame and his heart beat a powerful tattoo that he was too stunned to fight. Something primal roared within
him. Need and want a heady combination that burned through his veins and his soul. But he’d sold his soul long ago and couldn’t turn back now—no matter how much he might want to.
He felt his pupils widen as if trying to take as much in of the image of Ella before him. As if trying desperately to consume every single detail of this moment. And, for some inexplicable reason, he felt as if it would be his last. Because after this moment, after they said I do, it would all change. Because the moment she discovered the truth she would hate him with every fibre of her being, and he would deserve it.
In some twisted way, his inner voice lashed at those thoughts in self-defence.
Better she finds out now what Vladimir is like. What I am like. Because her innocence, her naivety, won’t get her far in this life.
Just like it hadn’t for him or his mother.
But as the words of the priest washed over him, joining them as husband and wife, as the music played to signal the end of the service and he was directed to kiss his bride, Roman lost all thought of revenge, of the separate person who had married Ella Riding, of his promise to leave her untouched. Instead he focused on the soft lips parting beneath his—the gentle, sweet sweep of Ella’s tongue as she opened for him, as she enticed him further into her depths. He lost his head and drew her to him, heedless of the gentle laughter of the few others in the small church, and wished that it could be different.
Reluctantly he pulled back, because it wasn’t different, and he wasn’t. The only gift he could give her on her wedding day would be to leave her unsullied by his touch. Even if it nearly killed him.
CHAPTER THREE
She had stalked his woods and haunted his dreams. She had strayed from the path…and now she was his, to do with as he wished.
