Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3)

by Sadie Matthews

  Promises After Dark

  Sadie Matthews

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Sadie Matthews 2013

  The right of Sadie Matthews to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 444 77588 4

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To

  J. T.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Fire After Dark

  The First Week

  Chapter One

  Secrets After Dark

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m in a sleek snub-nosed Bentley, leaning against the black leather seats and looking out of the tinted window at the snowy streets of St Petersburg. In front of me are the driver and the meaty bodyguard who sits beside him, their salt-and-pepper stubble blurring the toughness of their skulls. The doors of the car are tightly shut, the stub of lock sunk down into the black leather below the window. For a moment, I imagine trying to claw it up with my fingernails but I know that would be impossible. There is no way I can escape.

  But even if I could, where would I go? I don’t know this city, I don’t speak the language and I have no money; even my passport has been locked away in the hotel safe. And I’ve been warned that this place is dangerous. I’ve been told that I’m vulnerable and that’s why I will not be permitted to be alone at any point when I’m out of the hotel. I have my mobile phone but I’m not sure who I would ring. My parents are far away, at home in England. I wish with all my heart that I was there right now, walking into our cosy kitchen where my father is reading the paper over his afternoon cup of tea while my mother bustles around, trying to do six things at once and urging Dad to move his feet out of her way. On the stove something delicious is cooking and the radio is playing a classical concert.

  I can conjure it up so clearly, I am almost able to smell the stew, to hear the music. I want to rush to my parents and hug them, tell them not to worry.

  But they’re not worrying. They know where I am. They think I’m perfectly safe. And I am. I’m being very well looked after.

  Too well? I try to repress the shiver that threatens to convulse me.

  A pair of blue eyes is fixed on me. I know this even though I’m not looking at the man beside me. I can feel his laser-beam gaze burning on my skin, and I’m hyper-aware of the body only a seat’s width away from me. I don’t want him to know that I’m scared.

  Your vivid imagination! I scold myself. It’s going to be your downfall. You’re perfectly all right. We’re not going to be here for long. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow.

  This ought to be a dream come true for me. I’m here because Mark, my boss, is too ill to come himself but despite the sad circumstances, it’s an amazing opportunity. I’ve always longed to visit the Hermitage, to see some of its massive collection of art treasures, and now I’m being taken there, not just into the gallery but into the very heart of it, to meet one of its experts. He is going to give us the verdict on the lost Fra Angelico painting that Mark’s employer Andrei Dubrovski bought recently, now that it’s been properly analysed. This is the trip of a lifetime and I should be elated, excited.

  Not afraid.

  I try to stifle the words before they’ve sounded in my head. I’m not afraid. Why should I be? And yet . . .

  We arrived last night, touching down at the airport in Andrei Dubrovski’s private jet. As usual, the formalities were done quickly and confidentially. I wondered what it would be like when I had to go back to queuing at passport control, lining up for my security check and getting myself to some far-off gate to catch a flight. All this VIP treatment would spoil me for ever if I wasn’t careful. We went straight from the plane to a stretch black limo – a little flashier than I would have expected from a man of Dubrovski’s taste but maybe things were different when he was in Russia – and glided out onto the highway for the short trip into St Petersburg.

  ‘What do you think of Russia so far?’ Andrei asked as the car purred smoothly past the other traffic on the highway.

  I gazed out into the night but there was not much to see beyond the car window. Ahead the darkness was tinged with orange, the illumination of the big city leaking into the vast night sky above us. ‘It’s hard to tell,’ I replied. ‘I’ll let you know in the morning.’

  Andrei laughed. ‘I know what you’ll say. It’s bloody cold. Believe me, London will feel like a tropical paradise in comparison.’

  I laughed too, and hoped it sounded convincing. Ever since our flight, my emotions had been in turmoil. Andrei, for whom I’d been working for a few weeks, revealed that he knew about my relationship with Dominic, and that Dominic and I had parted. Even so, he didn’t bother to spare my feelings by telling me that as far as he was concerned Dominic was now his enemy. And then he said those three words, the ones that had turned my world upside down.

  No more games.

  Those were the words spoken in my ear by the man who made passionate love to me in the darkness during a party in the catacombs. I had thought it was Dominic but now I feared that it had been Andrei after all. The problem was, my perceptions were completely undermined by the fact that I had almost certainly been drugged, most likely by Anna, Andrei’s now ex-lover and employee, whose passionate feelings for Dominic caused us all sorts of trouble.

  Just thinking about that night at the strange underground party made my stomach swoop and churn.

  If I made love to Andrei then I was unfaithful to Dominic, consciously or not. And if Andrei is the kind of man to take advantage of a woman who is clearly not herself, what else is he capable of?

  I glanced over quickly at Andrei, who had taken his eyes off me for a moment to lean forward and mutter something in Russian to his bodyguard. His physique was simultaneously attractive and a little menacing, his shoulders broad inside his dark overcoat, his hands large and strong. The perfectly tailored charcoal wool suit he was wearing did little to disguise the hard, muscled body within. His face was craggy, with piercing blue eyes and an unsmiling mouth with i
ts stubborn, jutting lower lip. Despite my love for Dominic, I had at times felt the shiver of attraction that his physical magnetism exerted over me. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it. Perhaps that was why I was in such agonies over the possibility that he and I had made wild passionate love against the cold stone wall of the cave: part of me knew I wanted it, despite what I told myself.

  It wasn’t as though he’d acted against my wishes. He had asked me if I wanted to and I had practically begged to be fucked as hard as possible. It had certainly been consensual.

  Except for the small matter of his identity. Did he know that I thought he was Dominic?

  It was impossible to know without asking him and I hadn’t yet gathered up my courage for that particular line of questioning.

  ‘What is it, Beth?’ Andrei’s rasping, almost harsh voice breaks into my thoughts. Startled, I jump. I haven’t realised that I’m still staring at him as my brain whirls round the recent events, trying to piece it all together.

  ‘N-nothing,’ I say. I regain my composure as quickly as possible. ‘Are we nearly there?’

  I realise that we’ve slowed down and have been edging forward at a snail’s pace for a few minutes now.

  ‘St Petersburg traffic,’ Andrei says shortly. ‘It’s renowned for being awful, especially when there’s snow on the roads, which you can imagine is fairly often. But I think we’re almost there now.’

  It’s only mid-morning but already it feels like evening, with the low grey clouds heavy with more snow pressing down upon us. I stare out of the window again, and realise that we are coming up to a vast broad river and on the opposite side is the most incredible façade of buildings: a collection of baroque palaces, their hundreds of windows glittering darkly, pressed close, distinct and yet a group. They are dominated by a palace so large and ornate, it looks as though it comes from a film or a storybook.

  ‘The Hermitage museum,’ Andrei announces proudly. ‘Surely the most beautiful museum in the world. Such grandeur, such beauty.’ He indicates the largest, most baroque of the palaces, with its vast stretch of white columns and dark green walls between porticoed windows. ‘That’s the Winter Palace, home to the Russian Emperors. From there, they ruled over 125 million souls and one sixth of the earth’s surface. Impressive, isn’t it?’

  He’s right; it’s a magnificent sight. For a moment I imagine I’m Catherine the Great being conveyed in a magnificent carriage towards my spectacular home, full of the extraordinary works of art I’ve collected. Then I remember what it must have been like to be an ordinary Russian, excluded from the luxurious, gilded life within, only good for toiling on its construction, or being taxed to pay for the glorious art on its walls without ever having the privilege to see it.

  But times have changed. These are now public buildings that can be accessed by all. Everyone can enjoy their beauty and the treasures that lie inside.

  ‘What do you think?’ Andrei presses.

  ‘Amazing.’ I can’t say more, I’m overwhelmed. We cross the river and approach the Winter Palace by the Embankment, then stop at a large wrought-iron gate that’s shut fast. A moment later, a man rushes out to open it and wave us through and then we’re inside a courtyard with a garden in the centre that’s blanketed in snow, its bare trees with their white-laden branches black against its walls. The gate is closed behind us.

  ‘Nicholas II’s daughters used to play here,’ Andrei remarks as the car swoops to a stop in front of an ornate front door. ‘Imagine, four little grand duchesses running around, laughing, throwing snowballs at the soldiers protecting them. Not knowing what a miserable death awaits them.’

  The driver has already got out and has opened the door on Andrei’s side. I shiver as icy air rushes into the warm interior, and push the thought of the fate of those children from my mind.

  I put on my hat and gloves as the driver comes around to open my door. He helps me step out onto the icy path and guides me around to where Andrei awaits me.

  ‘A private entrance,’ he says, a slight smile twisting his lips. He smiles so rarely, but even this small effort manages to lighten those craggy features and soften his icy stare. ‘These things can be arranged.’

  Not quite so open to everybody after all. Money still buys its way in where others are forbidden.

  The door opens and a man comes out. He’s in late middle age, wearing a big black overcoat and a fur hat and boots. He’s smiling, his small eyes crinkling behind thick black-framed glasses. He rushes forward towards Andrei, greeting him effusively in Russian. They talk for a moment as I try to hide the fact that I’m shivering already despite my warm coat. I look enviously at the lucky driver who is back inside the warmth of the car.

  Andrei suddenly switches to English as he gestures to me. ‘And this is Beth, my art adviser. She was there when I acquired the piece.’ He doesn’t bother to tell me who this man is, but I can guess he is someone important in the museum.

  ‘Madam Beth.’ The man speaks in accented English as he bows a welcome to me. ‘Please, let’s go inside. I can see you are cold.’ We follow him through the door and into the palace. At once I want to gasp out loud. No one else turns a hair at the magnificence within, they are obviously used to it, but I’m stunned by the opulence on show. Marble floors, gilt lamps with crystal shades, ornate mirrors, stunning paintings in vast gilded frames – everywhere there is colour and amazing, glittering, over-the-top decoration.

  The two men ahead of me are talking again in Russian, and I follow behind trying to drink everything in. Here I am, in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. There’s no one else around, so we must be in a private area shut off from the public. How lucky I am . . . and yet I can’t help feeling full of trepidation. I’m in a strange place, a vast palace, with no idea where I actually am.

  Andrei’s companion turns to me with a smile. ‘Is this your first time here, Madam Beth?’

  I nod. I wish he would drop the madam but I don’t know how to ask it politely.

  ‘It’s a big place, isn’t it? There are fifteen hundred rooms in this palace, and a hundred and seventeen staircases. Please, do not get lost, it will be no easy task to find you!’ He laughs and turns back to Andrei.

  Somehow I don’t find the prospect of being abandoned here quite as funny as he seems to.

  We walk on. The men in front of me are keeping up a swift pace, which means I can hardly take in the stunning sights and the many beautiful paintings on the walls before we have passed them. We climb a large dark-oak staircase to the first floor and then walk down several more corridors before we finally reach our destination, a large polished wooden door set with an ornate brass handle and escutcheon.

  Our guide opens it with a flourish. ‘Please come in!’

  He leads us into a grand room, the plain office furniture in odd contrast to the gilded ceiling, huge chandelier and the vast windows. The walls are covered in red silk, enormous gilt-framed paintings glowing against them. In one corner I notice a large easel on which is mounted a canvas that’s covered with a plain cloth.

  Our friend begins to speak in Russian but Andrei holds up one gloved hand and shakes his head. ‘No, Nicolai. English, please, for my adviser here.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly!’ Nicolai smiles over at me, obviously keen to please. ‘English it shall be.’ He gestures to us to sit on the plain black chairs in front of his grey Formica desk. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’

  ‘We’re not here to socialise,’ Andrei says almost roughly. ‘You know what I want. What’s the answer?’

  Nicolai slowly removes his fur hat, revealing a shiny bald spot on top of his head, and places it on the desk. He begins to unbutton his coat, frowning a little. As he shuffles it off, he says, ‘I can’t pretend, Andrei: this is one of the most complex cases we’ve ever been presented with. My experts here have been exceptionally thorough in their analysis.’

  Andrei goes very still. ‘And?’

  I glance at his face. His lips are set ha
rd, the lower one sticking out in that obstinate way, and his eyes are burning with intensity. I know he badly wants to hear the right answer. This painting has put us all through a lot. I’m anxious myself: my heart is pounding and I feel breathless. I realise that my hands are tightly clenched inside my coat pockets.

  Nicolai clearly has a taste for the dramatic. He slowly hangs his coat over the back of his chair and then makes his way across the room to the easel. He takes the corner of the cloth covering the canvas on the easel in one hand, pauses for a moment and then pulls so that the fabric slides slowly away. And there it is, in all its glory: the shimmering, beautiful painting that I last saw in a Croatian monastery. The Madonna still sits serenely in her gorgeous garden, her baby on her knee, the saints and monks around her. It truly is exquisite and the moment I see it, my faith is reborn. This is the real thing. Surely. Can anything that isn’t a masterpiece be so lovely?

  I’m surprised by a sudden stab of unexpected sadness. Something mournful fills me as I remember what else happened in that monastery: the glorious reunion I had there with Dominic. It felt as though our relationship had been rekindled and made stronger than ever. Now, we are apart again and this time I’m afraid that we’ll never be able to bridge the gap between us.

  I see him in my mind, just as he was when we were last together, so clear and so vivid I can’t help pulling in a sharp breath. But his beautiful face is set hard with anger and fear, his eyes are glowering. I hear his words again:

  ‘I want you to swear on your life that nothing has ever happened between you and Dubrovski. Come on, Beth. Swear.’

  But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be sure. And that sent us spiralling apart, the precious trust between us broken. For ever?

  No. I won’t let that happen. I’ll make sure it doesn’t.

  Andrei’s voice, harsh and jagged, brings me back to the present. I’m filled with desperate longing to be with Dominic, not here in this strange country with the man who was the cause of the trouble. This is sheer madness.