Postcards From New York. Stefanie London

than ready to talk and expose everything he and his mother had fled from, probably putting the blame firmly at his mother’s feet. In a bid to protect his mother from their painful past, and prevent his name being linked to the family name of Petrushov once more, he’d had no option but to return.

      He stood back and watched the travellers climbing down from the train, scanning them quickly, trying to remember the image he’d seen of Miss Sanders on the Internet and match it to one of the disembarking passengers. Then he saw her, wrapped up against the cold in true Russian style, only her face visible between the faux fur hat and scarf. She looked about her nervously, clutching the handle of her small case in a gloved hand. She could have been Russian, she blended in so well, but her apprehension and uncertainty singled her out as a stranger to Vladimir.

      Accepting he had to do this and face whatever came from it for his mother’s sake, he pulled his coat collar tighter against the cold and walked towards her. She looked at him and he held her gaze as he strode along the platform, the determination to get this over with as fast as possible dominating all other thought.

      ‘Miss Sanders.’ He stopped in front of her, registering her height, which almost matched his, something he found strangely pleasing.

      ‘Mr Petrushov?’ Her voice was as clear and crisp as a frosty morning, but by contrast her eyes were a mossy green, reminding him of the depths of Russian forests in summer. Why was he noticing such details? She distracted him, knocked him off course, and only now he registered how she’d addressed him.

      Nikolai’s anger intensified. Beautiful or not, Miss Sanders obviously hadn’t done her research well. It had been seventeen years since he’d abandoned the name Petrushov in favour of his stepfather’s name, Cunningham.

      ‘Nikolai Cunningham,’ he corrected then, before any questions could be asked, continued, ‘I trust you enjoyed your train journey from Moscow?’

      ‘Sorry—and yes, I did, Mr Cunningham.’ He saw her dark brows furrow in confusion, but refused to elaborate on why he, a Russian-born man, had a distinctly American surname. That was none of her business and he had every intention it would stay that way.

      He looked down at the young woman, wrapped up against the cruel winds of winter, and although her alluring green eyes were a distraction he was unable to put aside his anger towards her. ‘And you must be Miss Sanders from World in Photographs?’ He added silently to himself, the woman who wants to rip open my mother’s past and delve into my childhood, no doubt in order to further her career.

      ‘Please, call me Emma,’ she said and held out her gloved hand to him. He didn’t take it but looked into the lustrous green of her eyes and wondered what colour her hair was beneath the fur of her hat. Her photo on the Internet hadn’t done her any justice: she was stunning.

      Irritation mingled with the anger. This was the last woman he wanted to stir his interests. Just being here in Vladimir meant she had the power to cause real hurt to his mother and he strongly suspected she didn’t know yet just how much. It was up to him to ensure she never realised just how dramatic the true story of his family was.

      He fully intended that she would be distracted by the undeniable beauty of a Russian winter and had already organised plenty of photo opportunities to keep her from the real story. A story that would destroy his mother and upend his world if it got out. All he had to do was prevent her meeting with the grandmother he hadn’t seen since he was ten but he didn’t yet know how to achieve that.

      ‘We should get out of the wind,’ he said firmly, trying to ignore the way the colour of her eyes reminded him of his childhood summers here in Vladimir. It was a place he hadn’t thought of for a long time and certainly didn’t want to think of now. ‘I took the liberty of booking into the same hotel; that way, I can be of as much help to you as possible.’

      His motives were much less honourable. All he intended to do was ensure she saw only what he wanted her to see and certainly not what he feared his grandmother wanted to share with her—a family torn apart by deceit.

      ‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at him and satisfaction made him return the smile. He was already winning her round. Just a few more days of this nonsense and he could head back to New York and put all this behind him. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’

      ‘The hotel has a very comfortable lounge where I suggest we go over just what you need for your article.’

      She believed he was being thoughtful. What would she say if she knew he was determined to hide all he could, despite his grandmother’s attempt to ruin the family name? That was another matter he had to deal with and one thing was for certain: Miss Emma Sanders wouldn’t be a witness to that particular showdown.

      ‘That would be a good idea.’ She laughed softly and, although the scarf around her face hid her lips and she drew her shoulders up against the cold, from the way her eyes sparkled he could imagine she was smiling at him. The image stirred sensations which contrasted wildly with the anger and irritation he’d been harbouring since discovering that his grandmother had agreed to be interviewed for the magazine.

      ‘Allow me,’ he said and reached for her luggage, pleased it was a small case and her photography bag. This meant she didn’t have any intentions to make her stay any longer than the three days World in Photographs had requested from him and his family.

      His family. That was a joke.

      ‘Thank you.’ This time, as she pulled her scarf a little lower with gloved hands, he could see she was smiling. It also had an unexpected effect on him. The idea of kissing those lips flashed through his mind, sending a trail of blazing lust hurtling through him. That train of thought would achieve nothing and he grimly pushed it away. This was not a time to allow lust to reign and certainly not with this woman.

      ‘This way, Miss Sanders,’ he said purposefully, ignoring her invitation to use her first name, and walked briskly away without ensuring she was following, heading for the hotel he’d booked into. He’d purposefully chosen the same hotel as the interfering Miss Sanders, enabling him to ensure she didn’t meddle in the dark, hidden past of his family. Had that been the right decision?

      Now that he’d met Emma Sanders he knew he’d be able to charm and distract her, making sure she learnt only the romantic ideals about his family story she was no doubt searching for. The only problem was that he suspected he himself was in danger of falling victim to her charms and distractions.

      ‘I expect you are used to this cold, but it’s a shock for me,’ she said as they stepped inside, out of the wind. The warmth of the hotel, set out as if a village of cosy log cabins, gave it an intimate and even romantic feel that would no doubt help his cause. Very soon he’d have Miss Emma Sanders believing he was more than pleased to talk about his family history.

      ‘My home is in New York, Miss Sanders.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said, pulling off her hat as they entered the lounge area of the main part of the hotel, the heat of the log fire a welcome relief from outside. ‘I’m sorry; I assumed you lived here with your grandmother.’

      He watched as she removed her scarf, revealing long, straight hair the colour of sable, and for a brief moment he forgot himself, forgot that this woman had the power to hurt his mother and expose him for what he really was, as that earlier trail of lust streaked through him again. Mentally he shook himself. He might have a history of brief and hot affairs with women, but this was one woman he could not want.

      ‘Never assume anything, Miss Sanders.’ Angered by his reaction at seeing beneath the layers of dark fur she wore, as if born to Russian winters, he fought to keep his tone neutral. She was a beautiful woman, and his body’s reaction to her meant that his voice was anything but neutral and much harsher than it should have been.

      She looked up at him, a question in her eyes, her slender dark brows furrowed into a frown of confusion. ‘Life has taught me that, Mr Petrushov.’

      ‘Cunningham,’ he corrected her again, but something in the way she said those words and the look of haunted fear which had rushed across her beautiful