Redemption Of A Ruthless Billionaire. Lucy Ellis
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fulfilled in my life’s ambition, thank you very much.’
‘Okay, maybe that analogy doesn’t work in the twenty-first century,’ Meg grudgingly allowed. ‘But are you really going to wait another twenty years before you pull the “take a detour” sign down off your bed?’
Sybella pushed open the heavy wooden door and made her way outside. She blew out a breath and watched it take shape in the air.
Blast, it was cold.
‘It’s not a priority for me, Meg.’
‘Well, it should be!’
Sybella looked around to make sure no one was lurking in the bushes to overhear this.
‘I really don’t want to discuss my sex life, or lack of. I’m just not interested,’ she said firmly. ‘There, I’ve said it. Not. Interested. In. Sex. I am, however, very interested in what I’m going to say to Mr Voronov’s grandson when he prosecutes us!’
Which was when she noticed a pricey-looking off-road vehicle coming up the drive, followed by another and another.
Mr Voronov hadn’t mentioned guests. She was familiar with his schedule, given she came and gave him a hand with a few things he refused to entrust to the personal assistant his grandson had engaged for him.
She told Meg she’d call her tomorrow and stowed her phone, pulled the ski mask down over her chin to repel the cold and headed out across the drive to see what they wanted.
* * *
Nik parked in the courtyard, slammed the door behind him and crunched through the snow to open the boot and retrieve his overnight bag.
He’d never seen England’s little tourist Mecca from this vantage point. Driving in, he thought it looked very much as if he’d stumbled onto the film set of the dramatisation of an Agatha Christie novel. Or maybe it was a recreation of Shakespeare’s youth because if he wasn’t mistaken, as the road had opened out into the town square, there had been a maypole.
Sticking up like a needle without a thread.
Everything else was under a ton of snow and ice.
He glanced up at the looming walls of Edbury Hall, with its multifaceted windows and grey stone. Snow drifts had made clumps of the carefully tended hedges and topiary.
It was a picture postcard of Ye Olde England.
No wonder those crackpots and loonies from Edbury’s branch of the Heritage Trust were bombarding his offices in London every time something got raised or lowered on the property.
He sensed rather than heard movement coming up behind him.
Good. Someone around this place was doing their job.
‘Here.’ He bundled the luggage at the rugged-up figure hovering at his shoulder. Then he slammed the back of the vehicle closed and hit the lock device on his keys.
He turned around to find the help was staggering under its weight. Which didn’t last long because the next thing he knew the guy was lying flat on his back in the snow.
He waited. The man wasn’t getting up. He did, however, stick a gloved hand in the air and wave it around. He also made a noise that sounded like a cat being drowned in a barrel. Nik liked animals; he didn’t much like incompetence in people.
Which was when he noticed the black ski mask under the hood of the guy’s coat and Nik lost his easy stance, because in Russia personal security was often a matter of life and death, and right now instinct was telling him this guy was not one of the people he had authorised to work for his grandfather.
He grabbed the interloper by the scruff of his coat and heaved him to his feet.
Sybella tried to cry out but her voice box was currently lodged somewhere in the snow after the impact of hitting the ground.
She found herself being lifted by the scruff of her neck until she was almost hanging, her parka cutting up under her arms, the toes of her new boots scrambling for purchase.
‘Give me your name and your reason for being out here.’
Her assailant had a deep, growly baritone that corresponded with his size. His rich Russian accent meant he probably had something to do with the current owner of this property. Given his size and strength he was possibly a bodyguard.
He was also clearly a bear.
‘Imya?’ he barked out when she didn’t immediately respond.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ Sybella gasped through the fine wool barrier formed by the ski mask over her mouth.
‘What are you, journalist, protester, what?’ He gave her another shake. ‘I’m losing patience.’
‘Put me down,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’
But even to her ears her plea was muffled into incoherence by all the wool and the wind.
Nevertheless, he dropped her and she landed heavily on the soles of her boots. Before she could react he whipped back the hood of her parka and gathered up a handful of her ski mask, yanking on her hair in the process. The ski mask came away and with it her long heavy flaxen curls. Freed, they began whipping around her face in the frigid wind.
His arms dropped to his sides.
‘You’re a woman,’ he said in English as if this was entirely improbable. His voice was deep and firm and weirdly—given the circumstances—reassuring.
Sybella pushed the wildly flapping hair from her eyes and, finally able to be understood, choked out a little desperately, ‘I was the last time I looked!’
He stepped in front of her, and if she didn’t suspect a little brain damage from all the pushing and shoving, she’d think it was to shield her from the wind and elements.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded, his head bent to hers.
‘N-no.’ Scared the life out of her, but she was in one piece.
At least she no longer felt in danger of ending up on her bottom again. She was also staring, because you didn’t see men like this every day in Edbury.
He was a good head taller than her and she couldn’t see around his shoulders and up close he had slightly slanted grey eyes, thick golden lashes, high flat cheekbones and a strong jaw stubbled in gold. He was gorgeous. His mouth was wide and firm and she found her attention constantly returning to it.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded.
She could have asked him the same question.
Trying to gather her wits, Sybella took her time checking the seams on the arms of her parka. They appeared intact. Seams, that was. Apparently the fabric could withstand being dangled by a bear, but not the ingress of water. She was soaked through.
And cold.
‘I asked you a question,’ he repeated. He really was very rude.
‘Minding my own business,’ she said pointedly, making a show of brushing the snow off her cords to cover the fact her hands were shaking.
‘Never show them you’re rattled’ was one of the few useful lessons a draconian English public boarding school education had taught her. Also, ‘be the one asking the questions’—it made you look as if you knew what you were doing.
‘Maybe the better question is what are you doing here?’ Pity her voice shook a bit.
‘I own this house.’
Her head shot up. ‘No, you don’t. Mr Voronov does.’
‘I am Voronov,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Aleksandrovich Voronov. You are talking about my grandfather.’
Sybella’s knees turned to jelly and a funny buzzing sound began to ring in her ears.
‘Kolya?’