Redemption Of A Ruthless Billionaire

CHAPTER THREE

IN TROUBLE, THAT was who she was.

‘I asked you a question,’ he repeated.

Yes, he had, and he expected an answer, she interpreted from the way he just stood there, arms folded, on closer inspection less like a bear and more like some angry Norse god.

‘Speak,’ he commanded.

She literally jumped but then her training kicked in. She handled tour groups of small children regularly and knew one had to establish rules and boundaries if chaos wasn’t to ensue.

‘I think you need to calm down,’ she said shakily, aware her heart was beating so fast she should probably take her own advice.

He took out his phone.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’

‘Ringing the police.’

Oh, that wasn’t good.

Sybella didn’t think, she just made a snatch for his phone. It wasn’t the cleverest thing she could have done, but once the area’s constabulary were involved this would be around the village in a flash. Her parents-in-law already thought she wasn’t handling her life to their satisfaction. It would be another reason why she and Fleur should move in with them.

He held the phone just out of her reach, which was easy for him, given he appeared to be a god stepped down from Asgard. Sybella wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d grabbed a stake of lightning while he was at it. Only he was looking down at her as if she were a puppy with muddy paws that had suddenly decided to jump on him.

It was beyond frustrating.

‘Please,’ she tried again, ‘this is just a misunderstanding.’

‘Nyet, this is trespass. I want you off my property.’

Sybella shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you going to let me explain?’

‘Nyet.’

She stepped up to him and laid her hand on his forearm. ‘Please, you have to listen. I’m not a trespasser.’

He frowned.

‘I’ve never trespassed in my life. Not knowingly.’

Which was when the committee members of the Heritage Trust appeared out of the side entrance of Edbury Hall, humming like a hive of wasps.

Sybella’s heart began to beat so fast she seriously thought she might pass out.

‘Who in the hell are they?’ he demanded, because clearly nothing was getting past this guy.

‘The Heritage Trust committee,’ she croaked. This was a disaster! She had to go and warn them.

Turning quickly, she didn’t notice the bag at her feet until her boot caught on it and Sybella found herself for the second time tonight arms extended, launched head first for the snow.

Strong hands caught her around the waist and literally lifted her, this time bringing her into contact with his big, hard body. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was the wrong move. Sensation zipped through her body like an electrical charge and it dipped right between her legs.

Sybella panicked and tried to pull away but he had her held tight.

‘Stop wriggling,’ he ordered gruffly and she stopped. Mainly because her face was dangerously close to his and a part of her was finding the physical contact thrilling.

‘Can you—just—look, stop holding me!’ She was mumbling this into his bare neck, because apparently he thought hugging her to him was a good idea.

It wasn’t. Even with the layers of fabric between them she’d been a man-free zone for so long it was like landing on planet Mars and discovering there wasn’t enough gravity to hold you down. Worse, he smelt awfully good, manly in a way she had forgotten, and, combined with his warm solidity, she was beginning to enjoy all the contact.

Not interested in sex? She’d clearly sent a message out into the universe and the sneaky gods had sent down one of their own to make a liar of her.

‘Please,’ she begged, turning her face to meet his eyes, which was a mistake because he was looking back at her and they were dangerously close.

She could see how thick his golden eyelashes were, and his eyes had seemingly soaked up the colours around them like the Northern Lights she’d seen on a documentary about the Arctic. She could have sworn a moment ago they were icy grey.

Her panicked breath caught and everything telescoped down to his amazing eyes before his gaze swooped to her mouth. He looked as if he was going to kiss her or was that just her idea?

Panic renewed, Sybella began to thrash about in earnest. ‘Please let me go before this all gets out of hand!’

* * *

On the contrary, Nik was confident he had it all in hand.

He would deal with the small tide of humanity edging towards them, and then he would find out why there appeared to be no security at all in operation at his grandfather’s home.

But first he needed to deal with what he had in his arms, the problem being he wasn’t sure what that was. He’d turned his head to find something other than what he’d first imagined. She had a vivid face, eyes that seemed to be searching his and the kind of sensuous full mouth that gave men creative thoughts. She also smelt of flowers, which was distracting him. He set her down in the snow.

‘Do not move,’ he told her.

He went around to the cab of the SUV and turned on the headlights to high beam, capturing the dozen rugged-up intruders like a spotlight on a stage.

‘I’m Nikolai Aleksandrovich Voronov,’ he said in a deep voice that didn’t need to be raised. On its own it carried across the front façade of the house and possibly beyond. ‘If you’re not off the estate in the next two minutes, I’ll have you all arrested for trespass.’

He didn’t wait to see what they would do. He knew what they would do. Scatter and run.

Nik hoisted his bag over his shoulder and gave his attention to the unhappy girl, standing there encased in what looked like cladding. In the dark she no longer looked like the sensual siren he’d imagined a moment ago and was back to being the abominable snowman.

‘You can go with your friends,’ he said with a curt nod, before turning his back on her.

Sleet was falling more heavily as he approached the house.

He used the side entrance lit by lamp posts that glowed through the snowy gloom like something out of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, a book his Anglophile grandfather had given to him when he was a boy. No wonder the old man loved the place. Nik saw only an investment and right now a heavy oak door he pushed open with his shoulder.

He was aware he’d been followed, alerted by his companion’s crunching footsteps over the stones and her hitching breath, because clearly the woman was out of shape with all that extra weight she was carrying.

He waited for Rapunzel because he wasn’t in the habit of closing doors in women’s faces. Another glance reinforced what he already knew. She was tall, abetted by a pair of what looked like hiking boots, and the parka and trousers gave her a square look not identifiable as female in the dark.

‘What do you want?’

She had planted herself just inside the threshold.

‘To explain.’

‘I’m not interested.’

She stepped towards him, clearly reluctant, the light falling full on her.

She was wearing the ski mask now as a beanie, most of her astonishing hair caught up inside it. She had full cheeks pink from the cold and her hazel eyes he’d already established were bright, but it was her lush pink mouth that drew the eye.

‘Actually, about that...you probably do want to talk to me.’

Nik had it on the tip of his tongue to tell her while she looked like a Christmas angel he wouldn’t be changing his mind.

Instead he gave her a moment to clarify.

‘I work here.’

She was staff? Why in hell hadn’t she said so?

‘I’m Sybella,’ she said. ‘Sybella Parminter.’

Nik took a moment to reconcile the girl standing in front of him with the woman with the wellington boots and the face like a shovel. He’d underestimated his grandfather. The old man had rigged a honey trap.

Nik crossed the floor to her in a few strides and, before she could react, reached behind her head and yanked off the ski mask.

Her hair tumbled out.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, lifting her bemittened hands to her head in a protective gesture, as if he might start pulling at her hair again.

It was exactly as it had looked in the snow, heavy and flaxen blonde almost all the way down to her waist. The electric light made it shimmer, or maybe he was just tired and even ordinary women were beginning to look like goddesses.

That fast a picture took shape of a golden angel ministering to his grandfather and putting ideas in his head about English heritage and great-grandchildren while she eyed the title deeds to the house.

‘You can’t just manhandle me,’ she said, pushing back her hair self-consciously and eyeing him as if he were a wolf about to leap at her. He also saw the feminine awareness kindling in her eyes and knew exactly how he was going to handle this.

‘Call me Nik.’

‘Nik,’ she said warily, taking a big step back. ‘Well, I would like the opportunity to explain. If I could come back tomorrow?’

‘I think you will stay where you are.’

‘But you just told me to go.’

‘Glad you’re keeping up.’

She blinked.

‘What were you doing outside?’

Sybella didn’t know whether to run for her life or stand her ground. His pulling and pushing, not to mention the way he’d looked at her hair as if it were some kind of man snare, had left her unnerved. But she had people relying on her. She couldn’t let them down.

‘The Heritage Trust meet here on Thursday nights. I’m secretary. Assistant secretary.’ She took a breath. Honesty was the best policy. ‘I’m the only one who can do shorthand. We don’t use a recording device.’

‘You don’t run it?’

‘Well, no.’

He was shrugging out of his coat, looking around the entrance hall as if expecting minions to appear and help him. ‘So you don’t run it, you’re the secretary. How long has this been going on?’ he asked.

‘A little under a year. Mr Voronov was kind enough—’

‘For you to take advantage.’

‘No, that’s not—’

Sybella promptly lost her train of thought as the tailored wool slid down his arms and she discovered what had felt so solid outside when she’d been holding onto him. An expensive-looking charcoal sweater clung to broad shoulders and a long, hard, lean waist, apparently packed with bricks. Narrow muscled hips and long powerful legs filled out his dark jeans. By the time she reached his big, got-to-be-size-fifteen hand-tooled boots the tour had effectively rendered Sybella slightly dazzled and a whole lot mute.

She realised she’d just checked him out.

It was either her silence or the raptness of her regard that had him look up from shaking out his coat and give her that once-over thing men did, the subtle up and down assessment as to whether or not he’d consider sleeping with her...and Sybella had the humiliating thought he’d caught her staring and assumed she was doing the same thing.

Which she was. Unintentionally. Not because she was considering sleeping with him. Goodness, no. She hadn’t meant to ogle him. It had just happened. But he didn’t know that.

What made it worse was the Climb and Ski gear had currently turned her perfectly nice woman’s body into a flotation device and the likelihood of him finding anything attractive about her was zilch.

‘Care to tell me what you were really doing jumping out at me in the dark?’ His eyes held a new awareness now that she’d pretty much flagged she found him attractive. Sybella could feel her cheeks hot as coals. He made her feel like a teenage girl with a boy she liked. It was ridiculous at her advanced age of twenty-eight.

‘I didn’t jump out at you. You threw luggage at me!’ He had moved across to the open boot-room door to hang up his coat. Sybella followed him, a tiny tug boat to his tanker.

‘I expected to be greeted by staff,’ he said.

She guessed that put her in her place. Sybella surreptitiously admired his rear, which like the rest of him appeared to be pure muscle, which was when he just tossed the grenade in.

‘I also thought you were a man.’

And there went what was left of her self-image tonight.

‘Wh-what?’ she bleated, like a stupid lamb for slaughter.

‘I mean, obviously you’re not,’ he said, frowning at her as if he’d just noticed her stricken expression and was assessing what it meant.

‘No,’ she choked, ‘not a man. Thanks.’

‘It was dark and you’re wearing unisex clothing.’ He was hanging up his coat, drawing attention to the flex of muscles along his back.

‘This isn’t unisex.’ Sybella looked down at her considerable padded bulk. ‘It’s oyster-pink.’

His expression told her he didn’t make the connection.

‘Pink is traditionally a female colour,’ she spelt out.

He continued to look doubtful.

She huffed out a breath. ‘Look, this parka was clearly marked “Women Size L” on the rack,’ she insisted. Then stopped.

Had she just informed him she was size large?

Yes—yes, she had.

‘It was dark,’ he repeated, and the frown was back.

He closed the door behind him, crowding her back out into the corridor.

When she picked up her bruised and bloodied self-esteem from the floor, Sybella would remind herself she was tall, wearing layers and a ski mask, and he was right—it was dark. Her throat felt tight, because it wasn’t that dark.

Sybella only felt worse when he took the main stairs with an effortless stride that left her labouring as best she could in his wake, because by now she was not only wet through, the all-weather gear was making it difficult to move freely.

It begged the question how people climbed mountains in these things when she was finding a staircase hard going.

She was a little out of breath at the top.

‘You need to get a bit more exercise,’ he said, stopping to look down at her. ‘You’re out of shape.’

Really? That was what he had to say to her? The only time she ever got to sit down was on a quiet afternoon at the records office where she worked.

‘Shouldn’t you be on your way up to see your grandfather?’ she said instead, no longer at all keen to explain anything to him. She just wanted to go home. Preferably to a hot bath where she could enjoy a little cry.

‘He’ll keep.’

He’ll keep? What sort of grandson was he? Well, she knew the answer to that. The absent kind. She scowled at his back. If he hadn’t been absent she wouldn’t be in this fix.

Sybella followed him down the Long Gallery. She regularly conducted tours of this room, pointing out the features, recounting the history of the house. She suspected Mr I-thought-you-were-a-man wouldn’t be very happy if he knew.

There were six Jacobean chairs piled up in the middle of the room, awaiting a home.

‘What in the hell?’ he said, circling them.

She opted for a cheerful, ‘Don’t you love these? Your grandfather had them brought down from storage in the attics. We haven’t worked out where to put them.’

‘We?’ He rounded on her. ‘You’re interested in the contents of the house?’

As if she were some kind of criminal. Sybella found herself backing up a bit. ‘No, I’m interested in the past.’

‘Why?’

A little flustered by the way he was looking at her, all suspicious and hard-eyed but making her feel very much a woman despite what he’d said, she found herself struggling for an answer. ‘I don’t know. I just am.’

He looked unimpressed.

She had to do better. She rummaged around for something he’d believe. ‘If you grew up like I did in a very modern house in a relentlessly upmarket housing estate you’d see the beauty in old things too.’

He looked skeptical.

‘It was the most soulless place on this green earth. I knew from an early age there had to be something better. More meaningful.’

Sybella took a breath, realising she’d told him a little more than she had meant to.

‘Why does furniture have more meaning if it’s old?’

‘Because old things have stories attached to them, and the furniture that’s survived tends to have been made by craftsmen and women. Artists.’

‘You’re a romantic,’ he said, again as if this were a crime.

‘No, I’m practical.’ She’d had to be. ‘Although I guess as a child I read books about other children who lived in old houses and fantasised that might be me one day.’

‘Is that so?’

Nik was tempted to ask her if she could see herself in this house.

‘It’s not unusual,’ she said defensively. ‘Lots of children have thoughts like that, and I had a good reason to.’

Nik suspected he was about to hear a sob story. He was also aware if he gave her enough rope she’d probably happily hang herself. She was nervous around him and it was making her talk.

‘I’m more curious about your interest in this house,’ he growled.

‘No, you asked me why I was interested in the past.’

He added pedantic to overweight and possibly a con-artist.

‘Old houses, miserable childhood, check.’

‘I didn’t say I had a miserable childhood.’ She looked affronted. ‘I said the house was soulless,’ she said firmly. ‘We were the only people who had ever lived there. Which was ironic.’

‘I’ll bite—why?’

She tried to fold her arms, which was rendered difficult by the bulk of her clothing. ‘Because the woman who raised me was obsessed with genealogy. Her genealogy, not mine, as it turned out.’

‘You were adopted?’

She nodded, for the first time looking less communicative. Her pretty face was closed up like a fist.

He’d been fifteen when he was told his father was not his father, and Nik had always looked at his life in terms of before and after.

‘When did you find out?’

She looked up at him as if gauging whether to tell him. ‘I was twelve. It was when my parents separated.’

‘Must have been difficult.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was more difficult when they handed me back.’

‘They handed you back?’

She was radiating tension now. ‘Dumped me in a very nice boarding school and left me there for six years.’

He almost laughed. That was her complaint?

Spoilt upper-class girl still bemoaning her school years at what—going by her elocution—was an upmarket school. He wondered what else she had to complain about. And here he was, actually feeling sorry for her.

She was good, he had to give her that.

‘Have you ever considered they were giving you a good education?’

‘They gave me a very good education,’ she said tonelessly, looking down at her clasped hands. She probably understood her bid for sympathy was going nowhere. ‘But I saw them very rarely in the term breaks and now not at all. It was as good as handing me back.’

Sybella was pleased with her command of herself and that she could talk about her adoptive parents in a forthright way. He’d asked the questions; she’d merely answered them. No external emotion needed.

Only for all her firmness on the subject she could feel the cold running like a tap inside her and she would have trouble turning it off tonight.

‘That is a sad little story,’ he said, something in his tone making her think he didn’t quite believe her.

She suddenly felt self-conscious and slightly annoyed. ‘I guess it is. I don’t know why I told you all that. I’m sure it’s not at all interesting to a man like yourself.’

‘You’d be surprised what interests me.’

Sybella discovered she didn’t have anything smart to say in answer to that. But she couldn’t help running her gaze over his broad shoulders, remembering how strong and sure he’d felt holding her.

His eyes caught hers and something flared between them. ‘And what exactly interests you, Miss Parminter?’

Sybella knew what interested her, and it wasn’t going to happen.

She could feel her face filling up with heat.

‘It’s Mrs,’ she stated baldly in a desperate attempt to deflect whatever he might say next. ‘Mrs Parminter.’

‘You’re married?’

There had been a current of awareness zipping between them from the time she’d been grappling with him in the snow, only Sybella didn’t know that until this very second as it was sucked back to nothingness and what was left was a tense, awkward silence.

Sybella didn’t know what to say.

But he did.

‘Does your husband know you’re out at night running around with other men?’

CHAPTER FOUR

WITH TOO MANY bad memories still beating around in her head something snapped inside Sybella, enough to have her hand arcing through the air.

Fortunately his reflexes were quicker than hers and he gripped her wrist, holding her immobile.

There was a fraught silence in which all she could hear was her pulse drumming in her ears. Then he said quietly, ‘That was out of line,’ releasing her arm so that Sybella could slowly lower it to her side.

‘It’s none of my business,’ he added. Which was when she realised he wasn’t talking about her trying to hit him. He was apologising for what he’d said.

The fight went out of Sybella, and with it flooded in the knowledge she’d almost hit another person.

Last year Fleur had pushed over a little boy in her social group and Sybella had sat down and had the talk with her. Physically hurting someone was wrong. Whatever the provocation, she must use her words, not her fists. And here she was, mother of the year, trying to slug a perfect stranger!