PENNY JORDAN - The Power of Vasilii

Vasilii had been pleased for him when he had met and married Alena’s mother. Again, though, he had been caught off guard by the depth of brotherly love he had felt at the birth of their child, his half-sister. Of course he had tried to keep that emotion hidden—especially from Alena as she grew up. She had been so adept at winding their father round her little finger that Vasilii had been determined not to let her see that he was also putty in her small hands.

He had grieved for her and worried over her when his father and stepmother had lost their lives in an accident, and yet at the same time he had, he knew, built up a wall between them. For Alena’s sake. It would have done her no good at all if she had seen him devastated, lost and made helpless, unable to protect her from her own loss. He had had to be strong for her. He had after all known the savage pain of that kind of loss. If he had been stern with her at times then it had been for her own sake, and now that she was happily married to the man she loved that wall had been justified.

Because she had her own life now, with her husband and the children they would have together, and he was once again alone.

He had known from his own experience just how intense was the longing to cling to anything or anyone connected with the memory and the lost love of the one who had gone, so it had been for her own sake that he had encouraged Alena not to become emotionally dependent on him, whilst at the same time doing everything he could to protect her from further hurt.

It was because of the pain the loss of his mother had caused him that he had vowed never to allow himself to be so vulnerable again—not to a woman, not to any children that woman might give him, not to anyone. Some people might be driven to pursue love after such an experience, desperate to replace what they had lost, but he was not like that. The pain had been too intense, too much of an affront to his youthful male dignity. He had decided that he would rather not have love at all.

Unwillingly Vasilii was obliged to acknowledge that he and Laura Westcotte had something in common, in that she had lost her parents, too—and at a similar age to the age he had been when he had lost his mother. He at least had had his father. She, on the other hand, had had only an elderly aunt. If there was one saving grace within her make-up it was her financial support of her aunt. What? Did he actually want to find some good in her?

Vasilii put down his mother’s photograph and turned back towards his desk. No, he did not. He thoroughly disapproved of and wanted to reject the way in which Laura Westcotte was managing to invade his private thoughts. Because whilst he knew that he had every logical reason to disapprove of and to reject Laura herself as well, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to do so.

If that was true—and he was by no means prepared to admit that it was—then he must make sure that he found a way, Vasilii warned himself.

IT WAS time for her to leave for Vasilii’s apartment. Quickly Laura checked her appearance in her bedroom mirror. After doing a brief check on Montenegro and its climate via the internet, she had decided to dress for the flight and their arrival there in a softly structured cap-sleeved tan silk jersey wrap dress that wouldn’t crease, looked smart, but was not too businesslike, given that their destination was, from what Vasilii had told her, an upmarket exclusive resort. Pulling on a three-quarter-sleeved cream cotton jacket, Laura checked that she had put all the documentation Vasilii had given her to study in her laptop bag.

Just as she was about to reach for her trolley case, she stopped and turned round, going back to her wardrobe. The jewellery box was tucked away, right at the back of the wardrobe on the floor. It had been a gift to her mother from her father. He’d brought it back from Hong Kong for her. Traditionally decorated and lacquered, the box was in its own right a valuable antique, but its real value to Laura was and always had been the fact that not only had it belonged to her mother, but it had been given to her by her father. Their hands had touched it; they had exchanged loving smiles over the giving and the receiving of it.

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