The Only Woman to Defy Him. Carol Marinelli

burial the two mourners stood silent beside Annika’s grave. The bleak service took place well away from the church and Demyan could almost hear his mother’s protesting screams as the coffin was lowered into unconsecrated ground.

      Her final resting place would have been Annika’s worst nightmare.

      ‘Why didn’t she tell me just how bad things were?’ Katia asked as they walked away from the graveside.

      ‘Slishkom gorda,’ was Demyan’s flat response as he turned and looked at his mother’s grave. Yes, Annika Zukov had been too proud to ask for help from anyone and yet, Demyan thought bitterly, she had been too weak to change for herself or her son.

      ‘Things will get better now,’ Katia said, putting her arms around her nephew’s shoulders, but Demyan shrugged her off.

      They flew from a harsh St Petersburg winter into an Australian summer. Dark, sullen and quietly grieving, for most of the trip Demyan sat beside Katia, staring unseeing out of the small oval window, yet he was hauled from his dark thoughts by the majestic beauty of the land beneath. He had heard that Sydney had one of the most naturally beautiful harbours in the world.

      Now he believed it.

      For the first time in a very long time, what he had been told had proved right.

      It was like seeing the sun for the first time. It hurt and blinded yet he could not help but look again. Demyan’s heart was still ice, as cold and dark as the ground his mother now lay in, but in that moment, as he approached what was to be his new home, as he saw for the first time the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, he swore never to return to Russia. He would take nothing for granted and he silently vowed that he would embrace each and every opportunity that this fresh start afforded him.

      Demyan had embraced every opportunity.

      Each and every one.

      He had soon learnt to speak English, albeit it with a strong Russian accent. His understanding, though, was excellent, as were his grades. They remained so when he entered university. Study always came first but when he closed his books, when his work for the day was done, then Demyan indulged.

      Few could resist his dark brooding looks and the occasional reward of that sullen face breaking into a smile. Sex was always on Demyan’s terms, though; he didn’t want to linger with kisses but what he lacked in affection he made up in skill, though he got bored easily and soon moved on.

      Nadia was a brief fling.

      A fellow Russian in Australia, it was nice to speak and hear his own language. His brain grew tired after half an hour of conversation in English.

      It was just one night, except there were consequences and at nineteen Demyan found out he was about to become a father. He gave up studying and got a job. He was soon in demand, many companies wanting his sharp mind on their books, but even back then Demyan refused to commit to one company—he hadn’t been able to control his mother’s world but he was in complete control of his own.

      His riches didn’t come soon enough for Nadia and by the age of twenty-one Demyan was divorced, yet he didn’t consider his brief marriage a failure for Roman, his son, was his finest achievement.

      Had been.

      As the wheels of his jet hit the tarmac Demyan closed his eyes and tried to block out Nadia’s appalling revelation, yet he forced them open. He was here in Sydney to face things.

      It was going to be a difficult visit. The press had found out that Nadia was marrying Vladimir and taking fourteen-year-old Roman to Russia to live.

      The Zukovs were the equivalent of Australian royalty and the press did not want to lose this glamorous, fractured family and were goading Demyan with cruel questions that he steadfastly refused to answer.

      Demyan was sped through customs and airport security did their best to shield him from the waiting press.

      Perhaps they would have been better shielding the press from Demyan, for though he walked with seeming nonchalance and his head held high, behind dark glasses his eyes were scowling. If one more camera got in too close they would have an amazing shot for the late editions because with the mood Demyan was in he could have taken them all down with his hands tied. Demyan didn’t even offer a sharp ‘No comment’ to the questions about Nadia and Roman.

      He had no desire to speak to the press when he couldn’t even discuss it with his own son.

      How, Demyan tried to fathom, could he possibly tell Roman that he might not be his?

      Even thinking it had pain shoot, like neuralgia, through his brain.

      ‘Dobryy den, Demyan.’ Boris, his Sydney driver, wished him good afternoon, and as they left the pack behind and headed towards home, Demyan called Roman and again got no answer.

      Finally, reluctantly, he called Nadia.

      ‘I want to speak with Roman.’

      ‘Roman’s away with friends for a few days,’ Nadia said. ‘He wants to spend time with them before we leave for Russia.’

      ‘No more games, Nadia. I want to spend time with him before he leaves. I am here in Sydney. You are to tell me where he is.’

      ‘Why don’t we meet and talk about it? I could come over...’ Nadia’s voice lowered and Demyan gave a black, mirthless smile into the phone. If Nadia only knew how cold her attempts at seduction left him, she’d surely save her breath. Less than a month before her wedding, it gave Demyan no pleasure that she would drop Vladimir in a moment.

      Demyan could have his ex-wife in his bed tonight if he chose to.

      He chose not.

      ‘I have nothing that I wish to discuss with you.’

      ‘Demyan—’

      He terminated the call, if he hadn’t, he might tell Nadia exactly what he thought of her and it wasn’t in the least complimentary.

      ‘Take me to a hotel,’ Demyan instructed his driver, unable to face going to his penthouse.

      It was no longer a home.

      ‘Any preferences?’ Boris checked, as Demyan stared out of the car window, watching as summer sped by.

      ‘When does the new casino open?’ Demyan asked.

      ‘Not till next week.’ Boris answered, suppressing a smile. Yes, Demyan was back in town! ‘I assume you’re invited?’

      ‘Of course,’ Demyan said, irritation scratching his throat, because the distraction of a brand-new hotel complex and high-rollers’ casino was, in his current mood, rather tempting. ‘Find a hotel where the presidential suite is free and will remain so for my duration in Australia. Probably a month.’

      Marianna, his PA, was based in the United States and would normally deal with any sudden requests from her boss, but Demyan chose his staff carefully and all were versed in his ways, so Boris made a few calls and it wasn’t long before they were pulling into the forecourt of a luxury hotel.

      The staff fell over themselves to assist with the unexpected arrival of this most prestigious guest.

      A teenage celebrity had that morning vacated the presidential suite and it had already been prepared for the next guest. However, that it was Demyan Zukov arriving ensured that as he swept through the foyer, twenty-four floors up, a multitude of staff were frantically doing their best to ensure that every detail was perfect for Demyan’s sudden arrival.

      The door was opened and Demyan stepped in and barely gave his surroundings a glance.

      Hotels, however luxurious, were all pretty much the same.

      ‘Can I get you anything?’ the butler asked. ‘A drink perhaps...’

      ‘My privacy.’

      ‘Would you like—?’

      ‘I would like to be left alone. I will call if I