Rachael Thomas
A scandal of their own making
Nikolai Cunningham has kept his family history secret for seventeen years. So when photographer Emma Sanders is granted exclusive access to his childhood home, he returns to Russia to ensure it stays hidden.
Though she tries to keep her eye on the story, Nikolai’s potent sexuality proves too much for Emma’s untouched body to resist! But, convinced she only wanted a scoop, Nikolai casts Emma out, unaware she’s pregnant!
When the consequence of their recklessness is revealed, Nikolai will legitimize his heir—with a gold wedding ring!
NIKOLAI CUNNINGHAM BRACED himself against the icy-cold winds of the homeland he’d turned his back on as he waited for Emma Sanders to arrive on the next train. The heavy grey sky held the promise of more snow and matched his anger that a complete stranger had interfered in his life, bringing him back to Russia and a family he’d long ago disowned. He and his mother had left Vladimir for New York when he was ten years old and the shadow of the events preceding that day still clung to them, threatening to unravel everything.
The train rumbled into the station and he prepared himself for what he was certain would be the worst few days imaginable. His life was in New York, and returning to Vladimir had never been part of his plans. That was until his estranged grandmother had crept from the past, offering her family story to World in Photographs.
He’d also been contacted, no doubt because his grandmother had very graciously provided the name he now lived under, but he’d refused. At least, until he’d learnt his grandmother was more than ready to talk and expose everything he and his mother had fled from, probably putting the blame firmly at his mother’s feet. In a bid to protect his mother from their painful past, and prevent his name being linked to the family name of Petrushov once more, he’d had no option but to return.
He stood back and watched the travellers climbing down from the train, scanning them quickly, trying to remember the image he’d seen of Miss Sanders on the Internet and match it to one of the disembarking passengers. Then he saw her, wrapped up against the cold in true Russian style, only her face visible between the faux fur hat and scarf. She looked about her nervously, clutching the handle of her small case in a gloved hand. She could have been Russian, she blended in so well, but her apprehension and uncertainty singled her out as a stranger to Vladimir.
Accepting he had to do this and face whatever came from it for his mother’s sake, he pulled his coat collar tighter against the cold and walked towards her. She looked at him and he held her gaze as he strode along the platform, the determination to get this over with as fast as possible dominating all other thought.
‘Miss Sanders.’ He stopped in front of her, registering her height, which almost matched his, something he found strangely pleasing.
‘Mr Petrushov?’ Her voice was as clear and crisp as a frosty morning, but by contrast her eyes were a mossy green, reminding him of the depths of Russian forests in summer. Why was he noticing such details? She distracted him, knocked him off course, and only now he registered how she’d addressed