Postcards From New York. Stefanie London

to fall for the charms of another man—especially one as unattainable as Nikolai Cunningham.

      ‘Where are we going now?’ The large black car seemed to have glided silently through the white landscape and she’d wished many times she could stop and take photographs. Not for the magazine, but for herself. Her creative mind was working overtime and she saw images as if through the lens all over the place.

      ‘To the place I knew as home until I was ten years old. It’s just on the outskirts of Vladimir.’ He looked straight ahead as he drove, his profile set into firm, determined lines. She had the distinct impression it was the last place he wanted to go and wondered at his motives for taking her there. He didn’t strike her as a compliant man. Far from it.

      ‘And who lives there now? Your grandmother?’ she couldn’t help but ask. The brief for the assignment and the need to be professional, to get the job done and leave on time, pushed to the forefront of her mind. She had to get this right, had to put the spin on it the magazine wanted, but everything she’d seen or been told so far was in total contrast to what she was supposed to portray. This wasn’t a happy-ever-after story, unless you counted the global success of Nikolai’s banking business that he’d created to complement his stepfather’s exclusive real-estate business.

      His silence deepened and she turned her attention to the road ahead. Moments later the car turned off onto a snow-covered lane that had no tracks on it at all, no hint that anyone had gone that way recently. Was the house empty?

      Nikolai spoke harshly, in what she assumed was Russian, and most definitely sounded like a curse. She looked from him to the crumbling façade ahead of what must have once been a great house. It had rounded towers, some with turrets and others with pointed roofs, which reached into the grey sky above. The black holes, where once windows of assorted sizes had looked out over the flat landscape, seemed like watchful eyes.

      Emma’s heart went out to Nikolai as she pieced together the small amount she knew about him. None of it made sense, but it was obvious he hadn’t expected this empty shell. She’d planned to take photographs of the place he’d grown up in, maybe even convince him to be in one, but now none of that felt right.

      He got out of the car, seemingly unaware of her presence, and for a moment she sat and watched him. Then the photographer in her made that impossible for long. The image of his solitary figure, dressed in dark clothes, standing and looking at the neglected building, stark against the white landscape, was too much of a temptation. She had to take the photo.

      Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she got out of the car, her camera in hand. The snow crunched under her boots as she moved a little closer. Seconds later she began taking photos. He remained oblivious to the clicks of the lens and as she looked back through the images she knew she wouldn’t be using them for the article. These told a story of pain and loss and they were for her alone.

      ‘This is where my family lived before my father died.’ He didn’t turn to speak to her, as if doing so would give away his emotions. Was he afraid of appearing weak? His tone had an icy edge to it, but she waited for him to continue. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen it since I was a ten-year-old boy. My mother and I left for a new life in New York after that.’

      ‘That must have been hard.’ She moved instinctively towards him, but the cold glare in his eyes as he finally turned to face her warned against it. She just wanted him to know that she understood what it felt like to be displaced in life, not to know who you really were. Just like her and Jess, he’d been pushed from one adult to another and had known great sadness.

      ‘Hard?’ Nikolai could barely control his anger—not just at this woman, who was bringing all he’d thought he’d forgotten about his childhood back out for inspection, but also at his grandmother for instigating it. ‘I don’t think you could possibly know.’

      He thought she’d say something, defend herself, but instead she shrugged, walked back to the car and took out her camera bag. He watched as she set up her tripod and again started to take photos of the old house. The camera clicked and, each time he heard it, it was as if it was opening yet another memory.

      ‘Do you have any happy memories of this place?’ She looked at him. Against the white snow and grey sky she looked stunning and he allowed this to distract him from the past. He didn’t want to go there, not for anyone.

      It was too late. A sense of terror crept over him as he saw himself, a young boy of eight, hiding beneath the antique table his father had been so proud to buy with his new-found wealth. He’d gone there seeing it as a place of safety, sure his father’s temper wouldn’t hurt his latest prized possession. He’d been wrong, very wrong. As his mother had begged and pleaded for his father to leave him alone, he’d been dragged out from beneath the table and lifted off his feet. He’d wriggled like mad, kicking and squealing, desperate to get away, yet knowing if he did his father would turn his attention to his mother. It was him or her and, in a bid to save her from at least one beating, he’d snarled words of hatred at his father. After that he couldn’t remember what had happened.

      He didn’t want to.

      He pushed the memories back. Analysing them wouldn’t help anyone now, least of all himself.

      ‘Not here, no,’ he replied sternly and walked over to Emma, who was looking over her shoulder as she viewed the images she’d taken. The house didn’t look so insidious on the screen of the camera, as if viewing it through the lens had defused the terrible memories of living there with his mother and father.

      Emma’s scent drifted up through the crisp air to meet him and he closed his eyes as summer flowers triggered happier memories. ‘I was happiest in the summer, when we visited my mother’s family.’

      Why had he said that? Inwardly he berated himself for giving her information she could act on. At the thought of the country home his mother’s parents had kept, he realised it was the perfect place to take her. He could hire a troika and sit back and watch as the romance of Russia unfolded. What woman wouldn’t resist such a romantic story? It would be just what he needed to charm her away from the dark secrets he had to keep hidden away.

      ‘Where was that? Close by?’ Her interest was caught and she looked up at him, smiling and looking happier than he’d seen her since she’d arrived on the train. Then she looked vulnerable—beautiful and vulnerable.

      ‘It is, yes.’ He could hardly answer her as the attraction wound itself round him, drawing him ever closer to her.

      ‘Can we go there?’ she asked tentatively, her genuine smile and soft blush doing untold things to him. Why, he didn’t know. He much preferred his women to be bold, dramatic and experienced at mutually beneficial affairs. Instinctively he knew Emma was not like that at all. She was the sort of woman who’d planned out a happy-ever-after, even as a small child. Definitely not for him.

      ‘We will go tomorrow,’ he said, stepping back from the temptation of this woman.

      * * *

      The next morning, as instructed by Nikolai, Emma waited, wearing her warmest clothes and even more excited than yesterday. Somehow they had drawn closer with each passing hour yesterday and, even though he didn’t talk to her about the past and let her into his thoughts, he had shown her many wonderful places and she already had lots of images.

      She also realised she liked him—perhaps a little too much. If she was honest, she was attracted to him in a way she hadn’t known before, not even with Richard.

      ‘Ready?’ he said as he met her in the hotel reception.

      Like a child about to be shown a Christmas tree, she couldn’t stem the excitement and smiled up at him. He was clean shaven this morning, and as wrapped up as she was, but that didn’t stop the pulse of attraction leaping between them. The only difference was this time his smile reached his eyes and they smouldered at her, making her pulse rate soar.

      ‘Yes; are we going to the house you told me about yesterday?’

      ‘We are, yes. The house I spent summers at with my mother and her parents.’