Chantelle Shaw: Ruthless Russian, Lost Innocence

‘I’m at the George V, not far from you. I have a car waiting outside-can I offer you a lift back to your hotel? Maybe we could have a drink together?’

‘Thank you, but I can’t rush away from the party,’ Ella mumbled, aware that a couple of minutes ago she had planned to do just that. But Vadim Aleksandrov’s blatant sensuality disturbed her composure far too much for her to contemplate socialising with him. The hungry look in his eyes warned her that he would expect a drink in the bar to lead to an invitation up to her room-and she was very definitely not the sort of woman who indulged in one-night stands.

But supposing she had been the sort of woman who invited a sexy stranger to spend the night with her? For a second her imagination ran riot, and a series of shocking images flashed into her mind, of Vadim undressing her and touching her body before he drew her down onto the crisp white sheets of her hotel bed and made love to her.

What was she thinking? She could feel the heat radiating from her face and hastily dropped her eyes from Vadim’s speculative gaze, terrified that he might somehow have read her thoughts.

‘The party is in your honour. Of course I understand your eagerness to remain,’ he drawled in a faintly mocking tone. ‘I’ll be in London next week. Perhaps we could have dinner one evening?’

Ella swiftly dismissed the crazy impulse to accept his invitation. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be busy.’

‘Every evening?’ His sensual smile caused her heart to skip a beat. ‘He’s a lucky man.’

She frowned. ‘Who is?’

‘The lover who commands your attention every night.’

‘I don’t have a lover-’ She stopped abruptly, realising that she had unwittingly revealed more about her personal life than she’d wished. The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes triggered alarm bells and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks when she caught sight of Marcus making signs for her to join him at the bar. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think my publicist has arranged for me to give an interview.’ She hesitated, while innate good manners battled with the urge to put as much distance as possible between herself and the disturbing Russian, and then said hurriedly, ‘Thank you for the invitation, but music takes up all my time and I’m not dating at the moment.’

Vadim had moved imperceptibly closer, so that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She stiffened, her eyes widening in shock when he reached out and stroked his finger lightly down her cheek. ‘Then I shall just have to try and persuade you to change your mind,’ he promised softly, before he turned and walked away, leaving her staring helplessly after him.

London -a week later

The Garden Room at Amesbury House buzzed with the murmur of voices as guests filed in and took their seats. The members of the Royal London Orchestra were already in their places, and there was the usual rustle of sheet music and a ripple of conversation from the musicians as they prepared for the concert.

Ella lifted her violin out of its case and gave a tiny shiver of pleasure as she ran her fingers over the smooth, polished maple. The Stradivarius was exquisite, and incredibly valuable. Several collectors had offered her a fortune for the rare instrument-more than enough for her to be able to buy somewhere to live and still leave her with a sizeable nest egg should her career falter. But the violin had belonged to her mother; its sentimental value was incalculable and she would never part with it.

She flicked through the music sheets on the stand in front of her, mentally running through the symphony, although she had little need of the pages of notes when she had put in four hours of practice that afternoon. Lost in her own world, she was only vaguely conscious of the voices around her until someone spoke her name.

‘You’re miles away, aren’t you?’ her fellow first violinist, Jenny March, said impatiently. ‘I said, it looks as though one of us has an admirer-although sadly I don’t think it’s me,’ she added, the note of genuine regret in her voice finally causing Ella to look up.

‘Who do you mean?’ she murmured, casting a curious glance around the room.

The orchestra had performed at Amesbury House in London ’s west end on several occasions. The Garden Room held an audience of two hundred, and provided a more intimate atmosphere than larger venues, but Ella preferred the anonymity of the Royal Albert Hall or the Festival Hall. Her eyes skimmed along the front row of guests and juddered to a halt on the figure sitting a few feet away from her.

‘Oh! What’s he doing here?’ she muttered, jerking her head away seconds too late to avoid the familiar glinting gaze of the man who had plagued her dreams every night for the past week.

‘You know him?’ Jenny’s eyes widened, and she could not disguise the hint of envy in her voice. ‘What a dark horse you are, Ella. He’s seriously gorgeous. Who is he?’

‘His name is Vadim Aleksandrov,’ Ella said in a clipped tone, aware that Jenny would badger her for information all night. ‘He’s a Russian billionaire. I’ve met him once-briefly-but I don’t know him.’

‘Well, it’s obvious he’d like to get to know you,’ Jenny said musingly, intrigued by the twin spots of colour staining Ella’s cheeks. Lady Eleanor Stafford was renowned for being cool and composed-so much so that she had earned the nickname of ice princess by a few of the other orchestra members-but at this moment Ella was looking distinctly flustered.

‘I can’t understand why he’s here,’ Ella muttered tensely. ‘According to the gossip column in the magazine I read, he’s supposed to be at the film festival in Cannes with a famous Italian actress.’ The photo of him and his voluptuous companion had lodged in Ella’s mind, and to her annoyance she had been unable to forget it, nor dismiss the shocking image in her head of a naked Vadim making love to his latest mistress. His private life did not interest her, she reminded herself sharply. Vadim Aleksandrov did not interest her, and she absolutely would not give in to the urge to turn her head and meet the piercing blue gaze she sensed was focused on her.

But her prickling awareness of him did not lessen, and she had to force herself to concentrate as the audience settled and the RLO’s principal conductor, Gustav Germaine, lifted his baton. She adored Dvorak’s New World Symphony, and she was annoyed with herself for being distracted by Vadim’s presence. Taking a deep breath, she positioned her violin beneath her chin, and only then, as she drew her bow, did she relax and give all her attention to the music that flowed from wood and strings and seemed to surge up inside her, obliterating every other thought.

An hour and a half later the last notes of the symphony faded and the sound of the audience’s tumultuous applause shattered Ella’s dream-like state, catapulting her back to reality.

‘Good grief! Gustav’s almost smiling,’ Jenny whispered as the members of the orchestra stood and bowed. ‘That must mean he’s satisfied with our performance for once. Too right-it sounded pretty well perfect to me.’

‘I wasn’t entirely happy with the way I played at the start of the fourth movement,’ Ella muttered.

‘But you’re even more of a perfectionist than Gustav,’ Jenny said, unconcerned. ‘From the audience’s response, they loved it-especially your Russian. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you the whole evening.’

‘He’s not my Russian.’ Ella did not want to be reminded of Vadim Aleksandrov, or learn that he had been watching her. She certainly did not want to glance over in his direction, but, like a puppet tugged by invisible strings, she turned her head a fraction, her eyes drawn inexorably to the dark-haired figure in the front row.