He felt not one shred of remorse as he uttered the empty words and saw her nod in response, a misplaced look of trust settling on her features.
His mouth hardened as he turned away. Because promises were made to be broken. Hadn’t that been one of the very first lessons he’d learned in life when he was scarcely out of the cradle?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘AND this,’ said the housekeeper, opening the door with a flourish, ‘is your room.’
Blinking back her surprise, Zara followed the woman inside—because the small apartment wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Normally, waitresses were allocated rooms which would give a prison cell a run for its money—but not here. It seemed that even the staff accommodation in Nikolai Komarov’s south of France villa was luxurious. A big bed dazzled with snowy linen, there was a kitchen, an amazing bathroom—as well as shuttered windows which looked out onto a breathtaking view of the misty Provençal mountains in the distance.
‘This looks wonderful,’ she said slowly, her gaze drifting to a heap of black grapes which gleamed in a bowl as if they were waiting for an artist to paint them.
‘Yes, well—Mr Komarov always looks after his staff,’ said the housekeeper crisply. ‘He just expects hard work and discretion in return. Now I’ll leave you to get changed—you’ll be serving lunch within the hour. I hope the whistle-stop tour of the house didn’t confuse you? No? Good. Then come straight to the kitchens when you’re ready.’
Zara put her little overnight bag down on the floor and gave a bright smile. ‘Will do.’
At least the housekeeper’s words reminded her that she was here to work and, once the woman had gone, Zara stripped out of her travelling clothes and took a quick shower. The water on her skin felt delicious but the faint misgivings she’d felt since accepting this job simply wouldn’t go away.
She’d asked herself over and over again whether she’d been right to come here and put herself at the mercy of the powerful and sexy Russian. But there hadn’t really been any choice, had there? Not in the end.
Any second thoughts she might have had about agreeing to Nikolai’s offer had been swiftly quashed when a whole new raft of bills had arrived. Zara had opened up the brown envelopes, seen the bold red print screaming out at her—and there, sitting incongruously among all the final demands, had been a first-class air-ticket to Nice. She’d picked it up and studied it with a terrible sense of inevitability, knowing there was no way she could afford to turn down the kind of money he was proposing to pay her.
So she’d taken the plane from Heathrow and tried to quell her rising nerves, but it hadn’t been easy, especially when disturbing images of his cold face and hard body kept drifting into her mind. At Nice, a car had been waiting to drive her through the hairpin bends of the Corniche—with its stunning green mountains on one side, dropping dramatically down to sapphire sea on the other. And when she’d arrived at Nikolai’s villa it had been like stepping into something you saw between the glossy pages of lifestyle magazines.
The vast gardens were a picture of cascading fountains and curving paths, while flowers in every shade imaginable dazzled the eye. At the end of the long drive was the house itself, a building which dwarfed every other she’d ever seen. Coloured a beautiful pale rose, it stood contrasted against the magnificence of the mountains behind, and offered breathtaking views of the glittering Côte d’Azure.
Turning off the shower, Zara towelled herself dry and pulled on a clean uniform, telling herself that the lavish beauty of Nikolai’s world was irrelevant. And so was the fact that she found him overwhelmingly attractive. She was here to work and walk away with a hefty pay-cheque, and she’d better not forget that.
Going straight to the kitchens, she checked timings with the chef and had just carried a bottle of vintage champagne up to the terrace when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Fingers tightening around the cold silver ice bucket, she felt her heart skip a beat, because instinct told her that Nikolai Komarov was right behind her.
Act like you normally would if he were any other employer. Smile politely and say hello. But her legs felt wobbly as she slowly turned round, her heart now crashing against her ribcage as his cool gaze washed over her.
There was nothing of the billionaire about Nikolai Komarov today. He was wearing the kind of off-duty clothes worn by men the world over, be they billionaire or student, but Zara doubted whether anybody had ever looked as good in them as he did. Faded blue jeans skated over the narrow jut of his hips and skimmed down over the hard, muscular legs. A simple black T-shirt moulded his lean torso and the short sleeves showed off powerful forearms, his tanned skin looking as if it had been dusted with flecks of gold.
Meeting the mockery in his ice-blue eyes, she swallowed and tried to control breathing which had suddenly become shallow and erratic. Why had she stupidly discounted how gorgeous he was? As if a few days’ distance might have given her some kind of magical immunity to him. Well, she was going to have to acquire some—and quickly! Somehow she found her voice. ‘Good morning, Mr Komarov.’
‘Oh, please.’ His eyes gleamed sardonically as he took in the tremble of her lips. ‘I think we know each other well enough to dispense with unnecessary formality, don’t you? It’s quite acceptable for you to call me Nikolai when we are alone.’
Zara’s polite smile didn’t slip. ‘If that’s what you want.’
He thought that now wasn’t the moment to tell her exactly what he wanted—even if she did sound deli-ciously compliant. How huge her green eyes looked as they studied him, he mused. All startled and bright, yet somehow managing to be both wary and yearning all at the same time. ‘You know, I half expected you not to show up,’ he observed. ‘To have decided that this job might be a little more than you can handle.’
‘But we came to a professional agreement,’ she defended.
‘And the money was too good to turn your back on?’
‘There is that, of course.’ Her eyes were very steady as she looked at him because she was damned if she would let him make her feel bad about needing the money. What would he know about pinching and scraping and trying to get creditors off your back? ‘And I’m not in the habit of letting people down.’
‘I’m impressed,’ he murmured, noticing the almost imperceptible elevation of her chin and hearing the sudden note of pride which had entered her voice.
‘That wasn’t my intention.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m simply here to do a job and to do it to the best of my ability.’
And judging by her appearance, it occurred to him that she might be speaking the truth—because she didn’t look as he had been expecting her to look. Hadn’t he thought she might play the vamp? For her hair to be tumbling in provocative tendrils around her face and her skirt suddenly to have shrunk by a couple of sizes? Something more befitting her status as the kind of woman who was out for everything she could get than a lowly little waitress. But she looked nothing like that. He frowned. Her face was almost bare of make up, her hair was tugged back into a functional ponytail—and surely an off-duty nun would have found no fault in the respectable length of her dull black skirt.
And wasn’t it ironic that her very lack of adornment was only increasing his desire for her instead of diminishing it? So that for a moment he felt irritated that he couldn’t just pull her into his arms and kiss her and have done with it. That he was going to have to endure this charade of her waiting at his table in order to bed her. Reluctantly, he elevated his gaze to her face.
‘You look very…professional—although your uniform isn’t the most alluring I’ve ever seen,’ he remarked as, with another kick of surprise, he noted her soft rise of colour. ‘And now I’ve made you blush.’
His comment made her colour deepen even more. ‘I blush at the drop of a hat,’ she admitted.
‘Really?’ He slanted her a mocking glance. ‘And yet I didn’t really have you down as the shy, retiring type.’
> Zara remembered the way she’d responded to him in the back of his car—like some kind of insatiable maneater, devouring his lips and letting him suckle on her breasts when they’d only just met. Could she blame him if he’d leapt to the wrong conclusion about her? Feeling wrong-footed and with no way of defending herself, Zara heard the sound of approaching footsteps with a sigh of relief.
‘No time to stand around chatting,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I think your guests are about to make an appearance. I’d better go and start opening the champagne.’
His gaze held hers and in that moment he silently cursed his guests. ‘I suppose you must,’ he said reluctantly.
Zara reached for the champagne bottle as if it were a lifeline. Why the hell was he giving her that sexy sizzle of a stare? Hadn’t he heard her when she’d told him in London that this was going to be a purely professional engagement—or did men like him simply ride roughshod over someone else’s wishes if they didn’t happen to coincide with their own? And if that was the case, how the hell was she going to deal with it when she found him so completely irresistible? When part of her wanted him to tease her and mock her like that, while sexual tension fizzed in the air around them.
Tearing gold foil from the bottle and easing out the cork with a quiet pop, she saw a couple walk out onto the terrace and began to study them with covert interest. She’d wondered what Nikolai’s house guests might be like—but this mismatched pair weren’t at all what she’d been expecting.
The man was short, rotund and aged about fifty and, despite his loose linen clothes, kept dabbing at his damp neck with a linen handkerchief. But it was his girlfriend who was the eye-catcher. She was about three decades younger than him, and wore red patent shoes which made her tower over her companion. A waterfall of blonde hair fell to her tiny waist and sawn-off denim hot-pants emphasised her long, tanned legs. She looked as if he’d picked her out of a catalogue, thought Zara. And in her plain A-line black skirt and flat shoes, she suddenly felt like a complete frump in comparison.
Nikolai lifted his hand in greeting. ‘Sergei—I can’t believe that I’ve prised you away from the attractions of Paris! Aren’t you already having withdrawal symptoms?’
‘Invitations to Paradis are too rare to ever be refused,’ laughed the man. ‘Though I guess you must be eager for a fellow Muscovite to confide in! Nobody sees the world in quite the same way as a Russian.’
‘Ah, but you must know by now that I confide in no one.’
‘No, I’ve heard you play your cards very close to your chest,’ gushed the blonde, and Nikolai raised his eyebrows.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’ he said.
‘No, we haven’t. I’m Crystal,’ said the blonde. ‘And you’re Nikolai. Mmm. Suddenly I can understand why all my girlfriends went green when I told them where I was staying!’ Her glossy lips sparkled in the sunlight. ‘God, we got stuck in a pig of a traffic jam outside Monte Carlo and I’m absolutely parched—can I have a drink before I pass out?’
Nikolai gave a cool smile. Perhaps her skills in the bedroom compensated for her apparent lack of social graces, he thought caustically as he gestured towards Zara. ‘Of course you can. Champagne okay for you? ‘
‘Mmm! I love champagne!’
‘I rather thought you might,’ observed Nikolai drily.
‘Well, why don’t we sit over here and enjoy the gardens—lunch won’t be long, will it, Zara?’
‘No, sir,’ she answered, her cheeks even redder now as she listened to Crystal’s shameless flirting. No wonder Nikolai thought all women had some kind of agenda.
With a dexterity borne of countless jobs, Zara kept their glasses topped up and soon began serving the deceptively simple lunch which had been prepared. She busied around with the seafood salad, making sure that Sergei’s glass was topped up with copious amounts of bourbon, which was the only thing he drank, but all the time she was listening to their conversation—at least, what she could understand of it.
Nikolai and Sergei kept breaking into bursts of Russian—while Crystal said, or ate, very little. In fact, the blonde spent most of the meal holding out her champagne glass to be filled up and moodily staring out at the distant glitter of the Mediterranean.
What must it be like for a woman to be ignored like that? Zara wondered as she served the dessert, a pale yellow tarte au citron. Didn’t Crystal mind that she was being treated like an ornament—or was that the price she paid for being brought to exquisite places like this? She was so lost in her thoughts that for a moment she didn’t notice the mocking blue gaze which was being angled in her direction, until she looked up and was caught in the cool crossfire of Nikolai’s gaze. Please don’t let me blush again, she thought. Don’t let him realise that he’s getting under my skin. For a split second his eyes were thoughtful as they skimmed over her and, beneath her thin white cotton shirt, she could feel the heated prickle of her skin.
‘We’ll have coffee now, Zara,’ he instructed softly.
She nodded, her throat feeling thick and dry. ‘Certainly, sir. Shall I serve it out here?’
‘If you would.’
It was an exchange she’d had countless times in her working life but for once Zara found it hard not to resent her subservient status as she hurried off to the kitchen. Having to wear a too-hot skirt and apron and to sweat slightly beneath the too-heavy weight of the coffee tray as she made her way back to the terrace. Having to fade into the background as if she were a ghost rather than a real person.
Was that because she’d had a brief taste of what Nikolai’s life was like—tasted it and liked it—and wasn’t that dangerous? So stop thinking about it, she told herself fiercely as she slid a chilled plate of truffles onto the table.
Nikolai watched as she bent to pour him coffee and noticed the tiny pinpoints of sweat which were beading her pale brow. Through the cheap white blouse she wore, he could make out the outline of a bra which looked more functional than decorative. His eyes drifted to the appalling, heavy-soled black shoes. And suddenly, he felt bemused. There were a million women who could be his at the snap of a finger—so what was it about this little creature which had so captured his imagination? Surely now that he had seen her for what she really was—a waitress and not a goddess—then his hunger for her would wane and he could forget all about her.
So why the hell did he feel an aching throb of frustration whenever he looked at her?
Crystal suddenly stood up, and gave a rather theatrical yawn. ‘Well, I’m off to sunbathe—anyone else fancy joining me? Sergei—are you coming?’
‘No, not now.’ Shaking his head, Sergei withdrew a phone from his pocket. ‘I have to talk business.’
Crystal turned her head to look at her host and her smile changed. ‘How about you, Nikolai? ‘
Nikolai realised that the blonde was gleaming him a hungry look. Now this was a textbook predator, he thought as he shook his head. Some glossy accessory of a woman who wore her rich lover’s jewels and then flirted with his younger and more virile associate. Not some pale-faced waitress who hadn’t put a foot wrong since she’d been here.
He watched as Zara piled another set of dishes on her loaded tray and another unexpected stab of conscience hit him. Had he misjudged her? Did he only want her because she had misled him—so that his resulting anger had provided an extra frisson to the sexual hunger he already felt for her? Surely that was the only logical explanation?
‘When you’ve finished clearing away you can go, Zara,’ he said abruptly. ‘Just be back to serve cocktails at seven—okay? But until then, you’re free.’
Zara thought how shuttered his face had suddenly become and that there were no traces of lazy sensuality being directed at her now. In fact, he was behaving exactly as an employer should behave—dismissing her in that slightly curt manner which seemed to emphasise the differences in their status. And if she was experiencing a sudden pang of disappointment because that brief intimacy between them had faded, then she should be ashamed o
f herself. She gave a little nod. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Back in her room, Zara pulled off her hot uniform and hung it in the wardrobe with a sigh of relief. She had come through her first test unscathed and now she had a free afternoon ahead of her. How free was free? she wondered as she splashed cold water onto her face. Free enough to slip on a pair of shorts and to wander around this Mediterranean paradise of his?
But there were unspoken rules in her job. You merged into the background and became invisible. You certainly didn’t sunbathe in the grounds of a client’s mansion, no matter how extensive they might be. Imagine the embarrassment of being discovered sprawled out, half naked and covered in suncream! Instead, she opened up the guidebook she’d bought at the airport that morning and saw that there was a picturesque little village close enough for her to reach by foot. Her eyes scanned the tempting photos as she read up about St Jean Gardet—one of those tiny, magical places up in the mountains, which looked as if it hadn’t changed for decades.
No one except the man at the main security gates saw her as she slipped out of the grounds and felt the warm breeze on her face as she set off. She walked upwards through the scented hills, hearing nothing other than the occasional bleat of a goat or the whispery buzz of crickets—and was hot and thirsty by the time she reached the tiny village.
The place seemed to have gone to sleep for the afternoon because there didn’t seem to be a soul around. It was a beautiful ghost town of a place, with scarlet geraniums tumbling from window boxes. A dog slept beneath the shade of a tree and the clock chimed loudly in the baking square. Eventually she found a small tabac where a woman dressed in black looked at her with suspicious eyes and effected not to understand Zara’s schoolgirl attempts at French. But she bought herself a bottle of water and gulped it down thirstily before setting off to explore the cool interior of the small church which was at the very heart of the village.
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