She followed him through to the spacious living room and curled up on the sofa while he poured them both a hefty measure of vodka.
It was certainly a day for irony. Vodka had played its part in the start of their marriage and now it would play its part in its demise. She took a long sip, welcoming the numbing burn of the clear liquid, before placing it on the coffee table.
She waited until he had settled in the sofa opposite before speaking. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Nico, this isn’t working.’
‘What isn’t working?’
‘This.’ She threw her arms in the air and gave a rueful shrug. ‘Us. Our marriage. I want out.’
CHAPTER TWO
ROSA WAS UNNERVED by Nico’s stillness. He leant forward, his muscular forearms resting on his thighs, his glass cradled between his large hands. ‘Are you getting back together with Stephen?’
‘No…’
His eyes did not leave her face. ‘You left him because he suffocated you.’
‘I’m not getting back with Stephen.’
‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer,’ he continued. ‘You were on the verge of getting a restraining order against him when you married me.’
‘I know.’ She expelled stale air through her teeth and closed her eyes. She had no wish to explain the utter desperation she had felt on her birthday, the horrendous feeling that there was not a soul in the world who cared if she lived or died. ‘Sleeping with him was a mistake that will not be repeated.’ A huge mistake. A massive mistake of epic proportions. But it did have one advantage—it had allowed her to see the enormous error she had made marrying Nico.
‘Is there someone else?’
‘No. There is no one else.’ How could there be?
‘Then why do you want to leave?’
She wished he wouldn’t look at her with such menacing stillness. Nico always kept his cards close to his chest, but she couldn’t help feeling as if he were trying to penetrate through to her brain and dissect the contents. If only she had the slightest clue as to what he was thinking.
‘Because it isn’t working for me any more.’ She reached for a squishy cushion and cuddled it to her belly, hoping the comfort would quell the butterflies raging inside. ‘We agreed from the start that if either of us wanted to leave we could, without any fuss. Nico, I want a fresh start. I want a divorce.’
Nico remained still as he stared hard at the woman he had married, his eyes flickering down to the gold band she wore on her finger. A ring he had put there.
‘I am well aware of what we agreed, Rosa. However, it is unreasonable for you to suddenly state you want a divorce and not give me a valid reason.’
‘There is no single valid reason.’ She tugged a stray lock of her ebony hair behind her ear. ‘When we agreed to marry it seemed the perfect solution for both of us—a nice, convenient open marriage. No emotional ties or anything messy…’ Her husky voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know exactly what I want from a marriage—I don’t know if I even want a marriage—but, Nicolai, I do know I want something more than this.’
It was the use of his full first name that convinced him she was serious. She had addressed him by his shortened name since they’d exchanged their wedding vows. That, and the fact they were speaking in English.
Rosa adored the Russian tongue. They rarely spoke her native language when together.
His hands tightened around his glass and he took a long sip of the clear, fiery liquid. Rosa was a lot like vodka. Clear and pure-looking, but with a definite bite. In her own understated way she did not take crap from anyone.
He pursed his lips as he contemplated her, sitting there, studying him with an openness he had always admired. He had admired her from the start.
After his PA had gone into early labour he’d had no choice but to approach an employment agency to fill the role. There had been no one in his employ suitable for it.
The agency had duly sent six candidates—all of whom, they’d assured him, were fluent in Russian. By the time he had interviewed the first five he’d been ready to sue the agency. The candidates had been useless. Never mind that their Russian had been far from fluent, he doubted they could have organised a children’s party.
And then in had walked Rosa Carty, the model of calm efficiency.
Her Russian was flawless. Perfect. He would trust her to organise a state funeral.
He had offered her the position immediately and she had started on the hoof, with no training or guidance. She had stepped into the breach as if she had always been there.
She had never flirted with him, had never dressed as anything but the professional she was, had never brought her private life to the office. She had been perfect.
Marriage had always been an institution he admired but one he had long accepted would not be for him.
Five months on and he had been in his office with Serge, his finance director and an old friend from his university days. They had been going over the figures for his buyout of a Californian mine when there had been a sharp rap at the door and Rosa had walked in.
He had known immediately something was wrong. She would never have dreamt of interrupting a meeting unless it was important.
‘We have a slight problem,’ she had said in her usual understated fashion. ‘There is a discrepancy with the output figures.’
She had lain the offending document before him and pointed to a tiny section highlighted in pink. The figure in question had been out by less than an eighth of one per cent, but in financial terms equated to over a million pounds.
At least ten pairs of eyes, including his own, had gone through the document. Rosa was the only person to have picked up on the error.
After agreeing on an action plan, she had set off to implement it. He’d had no doubt the whole thing would be rectified by the end of the day.
‘Your PA is really something,’ Serge had said with a shake of his head when she’d left the office. ‘When Madeline comes back from maternity leave can I have Rosa in my department?’
Nico had shrugged noncommittally. Even at that stage he had known he wanted to keep Rosa as his PA—had been busy strategising ways to keep her working directly for him without landing himself with a lawsuit from a disgruntled Madeline.
‘Is she married?’ Serge had asked with a sudden knowing look in his eyes. ‘She is exactly the kind of woman a man like you should marry.’
If Serge hadn’t been one of his oldest friends Nico would have fired him on the spot for insubordination.
‘There is nothing worse than a newly married man,’ he said drily.
‘Marriage has been the making of me,’ Serge countered amiably. ‘Seriously, my friend, Rosa would be perfect for you. She’s got the same coolness as you. You have mentioned breaking into the Middle East. Socialising is a big part of their business culture and marriage is very much respected. Rosa would be an asset to you. Besides,’ he continued with a flash of his teeth, ‘a man can’t stay happy all his life!’
Days later he had travelled to California with Rosa and an army of workers. As the days passed, Serge’s words had kept repeating in his head.
By their last day he had almost convinced himself that his friend could be on to something.
He had engineered things so that he and Rosa were alone after the celebratory meal, sitting in the balmy night air, drinking vodka. Usually his employees’ private lives and private time were strictly off-limits, but that night