by Pippa Roscoe
Casting aside the envelope, he turned to Ella and slowly, and most definitely deliberately, tore the papers in two.
And all Ella could do was hope upon hope that he wouldn’t do the same with her heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Cast your clothes into the fire, Red Riding Hood, for there is no need for them any more, said the wolf. Neither clothes nor lies will separate us. I will be all that you could ever need.’
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
AS ROMAN MANOEUVRED the sleek car that had been waiting for him on the tarmac of the private airstrip just outside of Toulouse around the small winding roads that sadly did not take up enough of his concentration he wanted to curse. Ever since Ella had demanded that he give up his plans to dismantle Vladimir’s business it had thrown everything into disarray. For what felt like his entire life he’d had but one goal. Even his grandfather’s death hadn’t prevented him from wanting to ensure that the company that had meant more to Vladimir than his own daughter was wiped from the face of the planet.
But now? He was going to be a father. A husband. A true husband.
He’d meant what he’d said to Ella. He would do anything to protect—to keep—his child. But a lifetime’s pursuit of vengeance didn’t stop on a dime. Nor did a lifetime of being a lone wolf. Which was why he was in the middle of this latest argument with his wife.
‘You just bought it?’ she demanded from the passenger seat beside him. ‘Without giving me the opportunity of seeing it, of making my own decision?’
She was working herself into quite a state and he couldn’t really see what the problem was.
‘What if I’d just gone out and bought a house?’
‘Then we’d simply have two houses which we could either keep or sell. And, either way, it’s moot because you didn’t go out and buy a house.’
‘No, you did. Without me knowing.’
‘Ella, if you don’t like it then we’ll sell it. It’s not a big thing.’
‘It’s a house. Of course it’s a big thing! It’s completely wasteful.’
‘You haven’t even seen it yet.’
This was why he preferred being alone. There was no one to question, to interrogate, second-guess or disagree with his decisions. He simply did what he wanted. It had been that way ever since he had escaped the clutches of his fourth foster home at the age of sixteen. None of the foster parents had been able to deal with a determinedly independent child who refused to listen to their rules. Even worse had been their attempts to break through the armour he had created around his heart. Nor had they been able to tackle a mind so quick and so intelligent they could barely keep up with his train of thought.
Looking back, he’d almost preferred the last couple, who had made their intentions clear. They didn’t want to see or hear from him, only to accept the maintenance cheque they’d collected at the end of each month. It was certainly better than the first couple, who had seemed to want him and professed to take him into their hearts, but had persistently turned a blind eye to the fact their natural son had hated him with such a passion that Roman had been lucky to only suffer a bloody nose and black eye.
If it hadn’t been for one of his teachers, sensing the fierce intelligence hidden behind a fair amount of bluster and anger—Roman ruefully admitted to himself—he might never have found his way into the invaluable scholarship programme that had led him to America. Ilyasov had been the first person, aside from his mother, who had seemed to genuinely want nothing from him. Because while his grandfather had seemed to want nothing from him, Roman knew that he had been the stick Vladimir had used to beat his daughter.
And the moment Roman had realised that he’d understood true power. True desire. To be able to identify or, better, create that which someone felt they wanted most in the world and to be the provider of that want...that was true control.
And while Roman hadn’t been able or desirous of creating such a want in his wife, not yet at least, he knew from his time spent as her fiancé—the other him—what she wanted from a home. At the time he’d entertained it without really realising that it had struck a chord in him. It was as if she had focused her future as much on her imaginary house as he had on his path of vengeance. And as much as she might protest, he knew, with a certainty that had driven him to pay almost twice the asking price, that she would love the house he had found for her. For them. A them that would, in six months’ time, include a small baby. A tiny, living, breathing part of him, of Ella, who would only have them to protect it, to put it first. A tiny baby whose equally tiny fist had already grasped his heart in its clutches.
Ella knew she was being unreasonable...to a point. She would love to have excused it as hormones from the pregnancy, but she knew she couldn’t. Neither could she fault Roman’s efficiency. Within three weeks he had apparently wrapped up enough of his business to take the time to find a property for them to share. And what had she done? Buried herself in her fledging business. Choosing to ignore the way Roman and her future with him seemed to loom over her. Instead attempting to reach out to more international business contacts who might want to offset some of their income and guilt by aligning with the charities that Célia had already brought to the table.
It might have struck her as a little strange that Célia, who seemed to positively shrink at the prospect of interacting with billionaires and businesspeople, was happy to reveal her inner core of strength and persuasiveness with the other half of their intent. Célia seemed to know everything and anything about the international charities she drew to their company, and planned to entwine them with Ella’s contacts, which was why the Venn diagram symbol on their business cards worked so well.
But in the short time since she’d last seen Roman, all Ella had been able to do was get Ivan Mozorov vaguely interested in a potential meeting. And she hated that her husband’s apparent efficiency seemed to make her feel...inadequate. As if she was failing. Had already failed.
She’d gone to his club the night of the funeral to ensure her freedom and only succeeded in tying herself to Roman in the most fundamental of ways. And as much as she’d hoped for a different future for them both, the fact that she was being driven to see a house he had already bought, already planned for them to share, proved to her that once again Roman was doing things without her knowledge. That, no matter what he said, he hadn’t changed at all. And the fierce wave of uncertainty caused by that realisation made her feel awkward and a little panicky. And guilty. Most awfully guilty, because she hated herself for the fact that all she’d wanted was to be free and now she felt trapped by him.
Roman guided the car down a dirt track in between sprawling, undulating fields. On one side an industrious farmer was hard at work slicing down the wheat, leaving tracks behind him that reminded Ella oddly of Van Gogh’s paintings. On the other side dark green cloudlike trees gathered between brief glimpses of a small terracotta-coloured town in the distance sitting against the pale outline of the looming Pyrenees.
It was the sight of the mountains slashed against the horizon, as if painted in watercolours, that poked and prodded at her memory. Of before. Before she’d known the truth of him. And once again Ella felt the loss of that man. Her fiancé. The one she had trusted implicitly before he’d revealed himself to be false. The one who had drawn from her unconscious the very things that she had wanted most. A child, a husband, a family. She was then struck with the painful irony that she now, in fact, had those things.
But she had not wanted them this way. Not with this man and not under these circumstances.
Resentment roared within her, but was it really her husband that was directed towards or her own naivety? She honestly couldn’t say any more.
Ella was about to launch into another verbal attack when they rounded an old stone wall and slowed before a set of wrought-iron gates. Even Dorcas poked her head up from the back seat, as if
knowing that something of great interest lay beyond. The gates slowly inched open, as if purposely teasing the car’s occupants before revealing the treasures that lay ahead.
The gravel driveway flicked up stones and crunched beneath the wheels of the car and she felt, with some not so small satisfaction, Roman flinch each time his precious paintwork came under attack. Then she caught sight of the sprawling converted farmhouse that sat at the top of the driveway.
And in the same way she had taken one look at the man to whom she was married and known that he would break her heart, she knew, knew, that this beautiful creamy-stoned estate was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d once told Roman she wanted.
And for some inexplicable reason that made her want to cry.
Dorcas whined in the back seat of the car as if sensing the conclusion of their journey, scratching against the leather and causing Roman to wince again. Good dog, she mentally praised her as she blinked away the gathering tears pressing against her eyelids.
Ella looked up at the two-storey building stretching across and beyond the top of the driveway. Several outbuildings loomed in the distance, drawing her gaze beyond the estate, down a sloping bank of grass and across to the forest, where sunlight glinted against a copper dome she couldn’t quite fathom.
‘It is the gazebo down by the spring-fed lake that borders the property lines.’
The gentle tones of a French-accented female drew Ella’s gaze back to the property with a snap. Expecting to meet the stranger’s eyes, Ella frowned as she took in the immaculately dressed woman who apparently had directed her statement to the man who would naturally have known what his money had bought.
‘Dominique Delvaux,’ she said with a feline smile, directed at her husband. ‘I am the estate’s guardienne.’
Ella just about managed to restrain the growl she felt vibrating within her throat. Dorcas, apparently, had no such self-control as a low warning rumbled from the beast in spite of the look of disdain the beautiful Frenchwoman cast in the dog’s direction.
Ella looked down at her clothes, creased and crumpled and slightly damp from the journey, despite the powerful air-conditioning that had at first sent shivers across her skin. At the time, Ella had allowed herself that small lie, pretending her body’s reaction had nothing to do with the impossibly handsome man beside her.
A handsome man whose charms were apparently not wasted on the guardienne. Ella had dressed for comfort, where Ms Delvaux seemed to have dressed for a fashion show. And now, as she looked at the other woman, she felt the slightly tight press of the waistband of her linen trousers and wished that she had listened to Célia’s suggestion that she think about purchasing a new wardrobe for her slowly developing bump.
She followed her husband as the guardienne beckoned them into the building and the enticing cool interior of the hallway. A small table by the entrance held a jug of water with cucumber, mint and ice, the white linen tablecloth beneath soaking up the condensation forming on the glass. Ms Delvaux filled two glasses and Ella nearly smiled as decorum finally won out over desire and the other woman offered her a glass before her husband.
‘Merci,’ Ella said overly graciously, while taking the glass with one hand and gently pressing her other to her abdomen, unnecessarily soothing the almost indistinguishable shape beginning to form there. The guardienne’s eyes snapped back and forth between Ella’s hand and face and Ella practically preened under the dawning realisation she could read in the other woman’s face.
Message received and understood, Ms Delvaux retreated into professionalism and began to outline the impressive attributes of the house.
‘The main building dates from the seventeenth century, when it was the heart of a growing estate. The charmingly renovated façade reveals large and light interiors. As you can see, the dramatic ninety square metre reception hall has a grand fireplace—as does the master suite on the floor above at the other end of the house. It is one of seven bedrooms and the restoration brought about an additional two bathrooms, bringing the number to five. Below you’ll find a garage and a generous wine cellar...’
Ella let the woman’s voice recede into the background as she drifted off into the large living area she could see on the left, Dorcas nuzzling her hand and keeping her company while her husband and the guardienne remained behind in the ‘dramatic ninety square metre reception hall’. It was impressive, but it made her only think of Vladimir’s hall, the one she had spun in the night that Roman had revealed his deceit.
But all thoughts of that night fled under the beautiful streams of light filtering in from the windows as she took in the soothing cream tones of the living area, centred around an incredible fireplace that she thought she might actually be able to stand within. Two sprawling sofas stood sentinel either side of it and the terracotta stone flooring beckoned her further into the large room. Rounding a corner, she came to a stunning open-plan kitchen, connected by beautiful aged oak beams running across the ceiling, giving the space a warmth and cosiness despite its size. Utility rooms sprang off to the side, her eyes eating up every inch of the incredible space.
She looked to Roman, sensing the heat of his gaze. The smug look of satisfaction across his features at having recognised that she’d fallen in love with the house took the wind out of her sails somewhat.
Ella approached the staircase and moved through the rooms slowly, as if scared that she’d miss something or move too quickly, in case it would all disappear. It was everything she’d ever wanted. There was enough to remind her of her grandmother’s cottage, a homeliness and simplicity that could only be afforded by extreme wealth. A wealth that her husband had brought to bear against her. Or for her? She simply couldn’t tell any more.
She felt overwhelmed, confused and strangely hurt by the fact that he’d found a home that was almost straight out of the fantasies she’d discussed during their engagement. Because she was desperately trying to see Roman as two different men—the fantasy she had fallen for and the man who had destroyed all that she had known. But this blurred the lines—this confused her because it meant that she could not keep them separate. She loved the house immediately and her heart ached. Because it meant that she would have to admit that he knew her. He knew her well enough to give her this house—her dream house. But, more importantly, she didn’t know him at all.
Roman dismissed the overly attentive guardienne and, as he waited for Ella to return from inspecting the rooms upstairs, he stood in the living room, trying to imagine what his life would look like in a month’s time, a year’s time, five years’ time even. Would there be a child’s toys scattered about this room? Would there be the subtle touches of Ella on the walls and in the rooms as she placed her own mark upon the house? And what traces would there be of him? Would there, his inner voice questioned, be any trace of him?
His thoughts were cut off as he heard the click of Ella’s heels coming down the staircase. And suddenly he didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know what she thought of the house he had conjured from the descriptions she had given him during their engagement. Because if he had got it wrong...
But when he turned he saw neither love nor disappointment. No. His wife surprised him yet again with her anger.
‘What is wrong?’ he demanded, his voice rough and guttural, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair in frustration. He had been so sure of it. So sure of her.
‘Nothing,’ she said bitterly, causing him to frown. ‘Absolutely nothing is wrong with it. You’ve apparently thought of everything.’
‘And that is a bad thing?’
She glared at him mulishly. And suddenly he wanted nothing more than to kiss away that anger, to use it, to bend it to his will. But he couldn’t. Because she was his wife and she deserved more than that. Even if she was glaring at him with a strange combination of anger, resentment and hurt. The former he could handle, the latter not so much. Beca
use he was beginning to think that even a lifetime’s worth of compensation wouldn’t atone for his sins. Sins he was apparently still committing, though he couldn’t quite fathom what this one could have been.
‘Words,’ he bit out.
‘What?’
‘You’re going to have to use them to tell me what I’ve done wrong this time.’
She scowled again and Dorcas chose wisely to vacate the room. For there was a storm brewing, one of quite spectacular proportions if he wasn’t mistaken. One he felt echoing in his own chest for release.
‘I...’ she said as she paced the length of the room and then turned on her heel. ‘You...’ she said, trying again, as if she were afraid of what would be released if she lifted the lid on the ferocity of what she was clearly struggling with.
‘Ella,’ he warned. ‘If you try to keep all that in—’
‘I don’t think you want to know. Truly,’ she ground out.
‘I know how damaging anger can be. How it can scorch you from the inside out and twist every last good thing in you and make you dark, make you...vengeful.’ And suddenly it was the most important thing to him. He wanted, needed, to hear whatever it was she had to say, because it was killing him to see the beautiful, innocent, joyful young woman so tormented.
‘It’s perfect. It’s absolutely everything I ever wanted. Everything that I never knew I wanted until I met a man in the woods and he offered me a future I had yet to realise I desperately sought.’
She turned away from him, trying to hide the overwhelming ache that beat in her chest. An ache borne from the past, into the present and a future she now feared she’d never have. But Roman was right, she did need to find the words to explain...to release this overwhelming hurt.
‘I was young when I lost my parents. Five. Too young to articulate what I was feeling, too young to understand Vladimir when he tried to explain that my parents were never coming back. That I’d be living with him now. Too young to understand why everything hurt and why I could not stop playing with the doll’s house and the small wooden figures of two parents and a child. Why in my mind I had them eat dinner together every day. Why the mother and father used to tuck their child into bed each night and read her stories.