For the first time since Nadia had revealed her foul news, he gave himself a moment to take it all in. He’d been denying there was even a possibility that Roman wasn’t his son, of course. Roman had to be his. Demyan had held him the moment he’d been born, had looked into his son’s eyes and felt love seep into his closed heart for the very first time and had never doubted that Roman was his child.
Demyan had attempted to suppress the news Nadia had imparted in a haze of alcohol and women.
It had almost worked.
It just wasn’t working now.
Despite the hotel staff’s best efforts, as Demyan sought distraction and flicked through the selection of newspapers, there was one detail they had missed— Demyan exhaled as he saw a magazine with both himself and Vladimir on the cover and the quirky question—Who would you choose?
They missed the point entirely, Demyan thought bitterly—Nadia had no choice, even if she occasionally embraced the fantasy that they would one day be a family again, he would never take her back.
Still, the tabloids loved to play their imaginary games. Demyan thumbed through the pages till he reached the article. There was Vladimir, early fifties, extremely wealthy with a stable reputation; the one thing missing in his life—a son.
Then there was Demyan.
Thirty-three, his vast wealth made even Vladimir look poor and his relative youth, combined with dark, brooding looks, meant that in the handsome, rich stakes, Demyan undeniably won hands down.
The negatives?
He didn’t have to flick a page to find out what they were, but he did so anyway. Yes, he was a playboy, yes, he ricocheted across the globe, crashing in hotels, preferably with a casino attached. Yes, he disappeared at times to his luxury yacht and a selection of blondes.
Demyan worked hard and partied harder.
He was single—so why not?
As Demyan read on he saw that for once the press had almost played fair.
Yes, he had a scandalous reputation but that was tempered by his huge success and the fact no one could question that he was a good father and adored his son, and that his debauchery generally remained overseas rather than joining him when he returned to Australia.
Sydney was his base, his home, the rest of the globe his oyster.
But why wasn’t he fighting Nadia? The article demanded.
Why was he letting Nadia take his son to Russia without putting up a fight? Whatever Demyan Zukov put his mind to he seemingly achieved, so why didn’t he demand in the courts that his Australian-born son remain here?
Demyan read on, his gut churning at the questions and suppositions, especially knowing that Roman would surely be reading the same things.
The article was unrelenting. Perhaps Demyan didn’t really care, maybe the father-and-son images had been all for the cameras? Was there a new Mrs Zukov waiting in the wings perhaps?
God help her if there was, the article said.
Was Demyan perhaps weary of the frequent trips to Sydney and now only too happy to let Nadia fully take over the parenting of their son?
Demyan poured a drink and took a gulp and then walked to the window—not to take advantage of the view, more to torture himself with it.
From here he could see his penthouse—he was at eye level with it, in fact. Three stories of luxury yet it was the rooftop terrace that held his gaze now. So many evenings he had spent there with his son and his friends, listening to their God-awful band playing. It was there that Demyan had taught Roman to swim.
Demyan hurled the glass across the room in anger as he tore his eyes from his home.
He could not stand to set foot inside. He wanted it sold, he wanted it gone. There was also the farm in the Blue Mountains, his first home in Australia, that needed to be dealt with too. If Roman went to Russia then there was no reason for Demyan to be here. No reason to ever come back.
Demyan thought about calling his PA to join him here and deal with everything, but decided against it—though he liked her ordered, professionalism, in the bedroom she was getting far too clingy of late. Anyway, this wasn’t business, this was personal. If this was to be his last trip to Sydney then a lot of things needed to be taken care of and, Demyan conceded to himself, it was going to hurt.
Demyan picked up the phone. ‘I need an assistant for a couple of weeks, perhaps a month. Someone who is discreet and used to dealing with real estate.’
‘Of course. When would you like—?’
Demyan interrupted the question; he rarely made small talk.
‘Tomorrow morning at eight.’
Tomorrow he would deal with things.
Tomorrow he would start dismantling his life here and then leave it behind for ever.
There was nothing to hold him here any more.
Demyan headed for the decanter and filled a fresh glass.
What to do with himself this Wednesday night? He would hit another casino, Demyan decided. Tonight he would get blind drunk and, for once, his reputation would join him in Sydney.
Blonde, Demyan thought, inhaling the liquor.
No, brunette, or perhaps a redhead?
Why not all three?
Tonight he would party like tomorrow did not exist.
He took a drink and glanced once again towards the window, to a view that had once soothed him.
Just not today.
CHAPTER ONE
WHY HAD SHE LIED?
Alina Ritchie let out a long nervous breath as her taxi neared an incredibly sumptuous hotel.
Pulling her mirror out of her bag for perhaps the fifth time since the taxi had collected her from the apartment she shared with Cathy, she checked her appearance and wished again that, if she had one, her deeply buried sophisticated gene might today make itself known.
So far it hadn’t.
Alina had put her toes through her one pair of stockings but thankfully they hadn’t laddered and she had simply tucked the hole under her feet. Her carefully applied make-up had all but disappeared and even the short walk to the taxi had seen her pinned, long, dark hair start to coil and frizz in the humid, late-summer air. Alina set to work, taking the shine off her face with a brush and hopefully smoothing her hair with her embarrassingly damp palms.
Today had to go well, Alina told herself.
Even if she had only got this opportunity by default, it was the break that she had been waiting so long for.
Determined to forge a safe career and with her mother’s somewhat bitter but terribly sage advice burning in her ears, Alina had put aside her interest in art and opted instead to study for a business degree. ‘Ask yourself how many struggling artists there are, Alina,’ her mother had said when, at the final hurdle of her application, Alina had wavered. All she had wanted to do was paint but her repertoire, as her mother had all too often pointed out, wasn’t particularly vast.
Alina painted flowers.
Lots of them!
On canvas, silk, paper, and in their absence she painted them in her mind.
‘You need a decent job,’ Amanda Ritchie had warned. ‘Every woman should have her own wage. I can’t support you, Alina, and I hope I’ve brought you up to never rely on a man.’
Her mother’s disenchantment, the fact Amanda was losing her small working flower farm had sealed Alina’s fate—she’d