Redemption of a Ruthless Billionaire Read online

  Given her days were quite long, what with her part-time archivist job at the town hall, her volunteer work with the Heritage Trust and sole responsibility for her home-schooled five-year-old daughter, Sybella wasn’t quite sure which part of the day she wasn’t seizing.

  Besides, the idea of taking off her clothes in front of a man after six years of not having to endure that specific kind of embarrassment with Simon was not an encouraging one.

  ‘You know that film you love, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir?’ Meg asked. ‘Do you remember at the end when her daughter comes home all grown up with the fiancé? One day that will be Fleur, feeling guilty because she’s got a life and you haven’t!’

  ‘I will have a life,’ Sybella shot back, confident at least on this point. ‘I’ll be in the midst of a brilliant career as a curator and very 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?’ she said a little faintly.

  His eyes narrowed and Sybella felt as if she’d been knocked over in the snow for the second time tonight. Somehow, some way, she’d got this all wrong.

  He looked her up and down.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  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 gav
e 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.’