Modern Romance June 2016 Books 5-8. Tara Pammi
lounged in the chair. Or why there had been a middle-aged woman by his side.
Her throat had closed and her jaw had gritted as she’d watched the woman reach over and kiss him.
The glint of her wedding ring had caused Anya to frown and, for a brief moment, she had assumed that Roman was having an affair with an older, married woman.
That had caused enough pain in itself but then, with the kiss over, she had watched as he’d lifted his cup and everything in her world had seemed to dim as she’d seen that there was a ring on his finger.
The cry she had let out had gone unnoticed by passers-by. Actually, no, as she now properly recalled it, a woman had turned her head as she’d walked past.
And then, when she’d thought her heart had died, Anya had found out that it was, in fact, being tortured as Roman, her brooding, distant, lover, had taken his wife’s hand and held it and they’d shared a kiss again.
She had wanted to scream in rage, to dash over and stop them. To demand of Roman how the hell he could cheat on her. For that was exactly how it had felt—as if she had caught him having an affair.
Yet she’d been unable to bring herself to confront him. She’d been tempted to run back to the tiny hotel room, to lie on her bed and sob, such was her grief, but that night’s performance was a vital one.
For the first time in her life Anya had truly thought she could not perform. On the most vital night of her career to date, she had doubted that she could go on.
Somehow she had made it to the theatre and taken out all her tiny keepsakes, her earring, the foil from the chocolate and the label from the sheet.
Oh, she had thought about tossing them; instead she had wept on them, grieved again for the two of them.
But then she had risen.
Anya, that night, had danced better than she ever had, though her fury, to this day, remained.
‘So,’ Anya demanded as she wrapped a robe around herself and Roman did up his clothes, ‘how is she? Does she wait backstage...’ She looked at his immaculate suit. ‘She dresses her plaything well...’
‘My money is mine,’ Roman said.
‘Please...’ she scoffed. ‘You had nothing.’
‘When I knew you,’ Roman said, ‘I had nothing. I made my fortune myself.’
‘Rubbish—you found a rich wife. I saw her sitting there, dripping in jewels. So, tell me, how is she?’
‘She was wonderful,’ Roman said, and let her know in those words that his wife had died and that he would defend not just his late wife but the indefensible fact that he’d had another woman after Anya. ‘Don’t speak poorly of her again, Anya, or you shan’t like my response.’
A violent drenching of jealousy flooded Anya as he spoke.
‘Celeste died a year ago.’
There were two things that Anya hated about that statement.
That she knew his wife’s name and that she had died a year ago yet still he hadn’t sought her out.
But, then, what did she expect? Neither had he sought out his identical twin. Roman was the coldest, most complex of men, his dark eyes had always held mystery and she stared into them now.
‘Did you know I was performing in Paris, then?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you come and see me?’ Anya asked, for always she danced for him.
‘No,’ Roman said. ‘Celeste wanted to but I made an excuse not to go and she went with a friend.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t want to answer.
Roman knew exactly the night Anya referred to. He and Celeste had been sitting at a pavement café and waiting for her friend to arrive.
‘Why don’t you want to come to the ballet?’ Celeste had asked.
‘I just...’ He had shrugged.
‘We’re breaking up, aren’t we?’ Celeste had reached over and kissed him. ‘It’s okay, Roman, we agreed to two years.’
And those two years would have soon been over. But Celeste had just found out that she was seriously ill and had had only six months to live.
He had taken a drink of his coffee and his decision had been made.
‘I’m not leaving you to face this alone.’
He had taken her hand.
‘I’ll be with you all the way through this,’ he had promised, and it had been sealed with a tender kiss.
A kiss that, it turned out, Anya had witnessed.
‘Why?’ Anya demanded. ‘Why did you not come and see me perform? Didn’t you care?’
‘No,’ Roman said. ‘I promised that I would be faithful to my wife. To watch you dance would have felt like an affair.’
It was the only glimpse he gave her that, through the years, feelings had remained.
She didn’t understand him and he gave her nothing that might bring her closer to doing so. ‘Why haven’t you told Daniil that you are in London?’ Anya challenged.
‘You don’t know that I haven’t.’
‘Yes, I do because I was at Daniil’s this afternoon,’ Anya said.
Roman said nothing but she saw his jaw grit as she made it clear that she and his brother were in touch.
‘He is married...’ she told him.
‘I read in the news.’
‘They have a new baby.’
‘I read about that too.’
‘He still searches for you,’ Anya said. ‘He doesn’t know if you are alive or dead.’
‘Did you not tell him that you saw me in Paris?’
‘No,’ Anya said. She hadn’t told Daniil because she wished that she had never seen Roman sitting in the sun and kissing a woman that had not been her. ‘Perhaps I shall tell him next time I see him,’ she taunted. ‘Did you know that your niece gets christened next Sunday?’
She watched as his eyes shuttered.
‘You might have erased your past when you joined the legion but we all live on. Your niece’s name is Nadia...’
‘Anya...’ He put up his hand to halt her but she refused to be silenced.
‘Oh, and Sev will be there, with his new wife Naomi...’ She could hear his heavy breathing as she bombarded him with names from his past.
People he had loved yet had chosen to never contact again.
‘Nikolai is coming. You remember he loved ships, well, he has a superyacht now...’
‘You lie,’ Roman said. ‘Don’t you remember?’ He looked at her. ‘Of course not, you were off at dance school, but Nikolai ran away and committed suicide.’
They had been such dark, painful times. Roman could still remember the night that they had been informed that Nikolai’s body had been pulled from the river.
He had asked if he might speak with Sev, because he’d known that he would be devastated. After all, Nikolai and Sev had been best friends.
That request had been denied and Roman had been locked in his room instead. He hadn’t cried, he hadn’t even known how to, but that night, thinking of the torture that must have been in Nikolai’s head, he had been the closest he had ever come to breaking down.
Now Anya was here, telling him that Nikolai