Postcards From New York. Stefanie London

voice and he turned to face her. ‘Is that what this is all about? Extracting yet more from me and my family? Exposing even more details to bargain for money?’

      As his words sank in she realised with shock what he was asking. ‘It’s not about that at all, Nikolai, I just wanted to take the photographs for my own enjoyment. I’ve never been to New York, let alone in a swanky apartment with views over Central Park.’

      ‘I haven’t yet seen what you submitted to World in Photographs.’ He turned to look at her, his dark eyes black with veiled anger.

      ‘That is easily sorted,’ she said as she headed to the room he’d had her small amount of luggage delivered to. She’d been relieved to discover that he had no intention of spending the night in the same bed as her, but to her dismay that relief had been tinged with disappointment.

      When she returned to the large open-plan living space of the apartment, he was still looking out of the window, his shoulders more tense than ever. What was he so worried about? What could a few photographs and a small piece about his family really do?

      She put her laptop down on the table and fired it up, the question as to what he was so worried about going round in her mind. All families had troubles they kept hidden from the world. She knew that more than most. She opened the piece she’d written for World in Photographs to go with the stunning images she’d taken and stepped away from the table.

      ‘It’s there for you. Richard liked it,’ she said softly and sat down on the large cream sofa which dominated one corner of the apartment.

      ‘Richard has seen it?’ From across the room, Nikolai glared at her.

      ‘He’s been very helpful, and I wouldn’t have got that contract without his help.’ She fixed her gaze on the view of the park, not daring to look at him as he walked towards her laptop and began reading.

      After five minutes of heavy silence he turned to look at her, his handsome face set in a forbidding frown. ‘This is what you submitted?’

      ‘Yes; what did you expect, Nikolai?’

      ‘Not this light-hearted, romantic stuff about life in Russia. You have turned what I told you into something quite different.’

      He walked towards her, his footsteps hard on the polished wooden floor, and she wished she hadn’t chosen to sit down. He was too imposing, too dominating. ‘You told me very little, Nikolai, and as I didn’t get to meet with your grandmother I had to come up with something.’

      ‘None of it true.’

      ‘What is the truth, Nikolai? Why were you so worried I would meet your grandmother?’

      He sighed and sat down next to her on the sofa, the air around them suddenly charged with something she couldn’t yet fathom out. ‘My family’s story is complicated.’

      ‘I know all about complicated, Nikolai. Jess and I have experienced it first-hand.’ Why had she said that? She wanted to find out about him, not spill out her own sorry story. Would he still want her as his wife if he knew what kind of upbringing she’d had?

      ‘Then we have that in common at least.’ Sadness tinged his voice and her heart constricted, just as it had done when she’d taken the photo of him outside the ruins of what had once been his family home. She wanted to reach out to him, but kept her hands firmly together in her lap.

      ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked, knowing full well he didn’t, that he wanted to keep it all hidden safely away. It was what she’d done all through her childhood, mostly to protect Jess, who didn’t know half of it.

      ‘No but, as you are soon to marry into my family, then you should know.’

      Her mouth went dry with fear. Would that mean he too would want to know about her childhood, her family? ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

      ‘You should know something of how I came to be living in New York and why I no longer use Petrushov, the surname I was born with.’

      She looked at him, unable to stop herself from reaching out to touch him. She placed her hand on his arm, trying to ignore the jolt of something wild which sparked between them from that innocent touch. ‘We don’t have to do this now.’

      He ignored her and continued, his face a firm mask of composure. ‘My mother’s marriage to my father was not happy, neither was my childhood, and when he died it was a release for both my mother and I.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly but her words didn’t seem to reach him. Instead they only brought forward her own painful childhood memories—and she wasn’t ready to share them yet.

      ‘My mother was helped by a business acquaintance of my father and I guess it was one of those rare moments when love conquered all.’ He looked down at her hand, still on his arm, and frowned, as if he’d only just realised she was touching him. Obviously her touch didn’t do to him what his did to her.

      ‘You say that as if you don’t believe in such a concept.’ She pulled her hand back and kept it firmly in her lap.

      ‘I thought we’d already established that love is something neither of us believe in.’ His dark eyes bored into hers, accusation and suspicion filling them, and she recalled their conversation in Vladimir. She remembered being blasé about looking for a fairy-tale wedding and happy-ever-after. She knew no such thing would ever happen to her, but from the way he was looking at her now he thought she wanted such things.

      ‘We did; you just threw me when you said it was one of “those rare moments”. As if you really believe they happen.’ She smiled at him, injecting lightness into her voice. It was far better he thought she didn’t believe in love in any shape or form. The last thing he needed to know right now was that she did believe in love and happy-ever-afters; she just didn’t believe it would ever happen to her. It never would now she’d agreed to marry him as part of a deal.

      ‘Well, whatever you believe, it happened for my mother. She changed from the constantly scared woman who lingered in the shadows of her marriage and blossomed into someone very different—and it’s all thanks to Roger Cunningham. Even in my early teens I could see that, and at sixteen I changed my surname legally to his, although I’d already spent all my years here in New York as Nikolai Cunningham.’

      ‘I did wonder,’ she said, remembering his insistence that his name wasn’t Petrushov when she’d first met him, and the card he’d tossed on the bed just before walking out on her. She pushed the pain of that moment aside and focused on the present. ‘And now your child will take that name too.’

      ‘As will you when we are married.’ He looked at her hand, at the emerald ring on her finger, and she wondered if he was regretting what had seemed an impulsive move, telling her they would be married.

      ‘We don’t have to get married, Nikolai. I would never keep you from your child, not after having grown up without a father myself.’ She swallowed down the nerves as she waited for his response. He looked into her eyes, as if he was trying to read her thoughts, and as much as she wanted to look away she held his gaze.

      ‘Is the idea of being my wife that abhorrent to you?’ His voice had deepened and a hint of an accent she’d never noticed before came through. The idea of being married was terrifying, but the idea of being this man’s wife was less so. Was that because he was the only man she had truly known?

      She shook her head, not able to speak.

      He lifted his hand and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘I will never do anything to hurt you, Emma; you do know that, don’t you?’

      The words were so tender she had to swallow down the urge to cry. His fingers brushed her cheek, bringing their night together vividly back to her mind. ‘Yes, I know that.’

      He leant towards her, his hand sliding round beneath her hair, holding her head gently, and before she could say or do anything his lips were on hers, the same gentle, teasing kiss as in the store. Her