CAROL MARINELLI - The Last Kolovsky Playboy

‘Georgina,’ Kate said.

‘Georgie.’ Aleksi smiled at his new friend.

‘Georgina!’ Kate corrected.

‘I wonder if I was this cute.’ Aleksi frowned. ‘Imagine two of them.’

Kate rolled her eyes. Two identical Kolovskys in a crib—they’d have had the maternity ward at a standstill!

‘I can’t imagine you cute,’ she said instead.

‘Oh, I was!’ Aleksi grinned. ‘Iosef was the serious one.’ He put Georgina down and his grin turned to a very nice, slightly pensive smile. ‘You’re going to be wonderful as a mother.’

‘How?’ And whether it was hormones, exhaustion or just plain old fear, tears shot from her eyes as her bravery crumbled. ‘I want it to be wonderful for her, but how will I manage it?’

‘It will be,’ Aleksi said assuredly. ‘My parents had everything and they managed to completely mess us all up. You, on the other hand…’ he stared into her soft brown eyes and didn’t see the bloodshot whites, just tears and concern and a certain stoicism there, laced with kindness too ‘…are going to get it so right.’ And then it was over. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Thank you.’

She braced herself for him to stand, tightened up her non-existent abdominal muscles as he went to stand, anticipating pain but getting something else. His arms came around her, that gorgeous face moved in and she smelt him—smelt Kolovsky cologne and something else, something male and unique that made her blush just as it had on that first day, just as she knew it always would.

‘Let’s leave your audience with no room for doubt.’

And then he kissed her.

Terribly, terribly tenderly—she was, after all, just twelve hours post-op—but there was this taste and this passion and this heaven that she found on his lips…this gorgeous, delicious escape that was delivered with his mouth and then the cool danger of his tongue. And to the nay-sayers on the ward he proved this wasn’t a duty call.

‘I have to get this flight.’

He should have been on the stage, Kate thought, because there was regret in his eyes and voice as he walked out of the ward. She lay back on the pillow, eyes closed, but basking in the glow of the curious looks from the other mothers and their oh, so plain partners.

Only she didn’t get to enjoy them for very long.

Lost in a dream, still basking in the memory, she was very rudely interrupted as a porter kicked off the brakes on her bed.

‘You’re being moved.’

‘Where?’

Oh, God—she so didn’t want this. Didn’t want to start again with three other mothers—or, worse, maybe she was being moved to an eight-bed ward.

‘You’re being upgraded.’

Five years ago, on a business flight to Singapore, her stingy boss had been overruled by ground staff and she had been invited to turn left, not right, as she stepped onto the plane.

It happened again that afternoon.

Her bed slid easily out of the public section, over the buffed tiles, and then stuck a little as it hit the soft carpets of the private wing, as if warning the porter—warning everyone—that she didn’t really belong there.

But who cared?

Not the staff.

Aleksi Kolovsky had covered her for a full week.

It was bliss to move into the large double bed.

Heaven to stare at the five-star menu as Georgina was whisked to the nursery to be brought back later for feeding.

It was, Kate reflected later that night, as a lovely midwife took Georgina for the night and clicked off the light, the second nicest thing that had ever happened to her.

The first nicest thing had been his kiss.

IT DIDN’T hurt as much as everyone said that it should.

His leg, fractured and mangled in a road accident, would, he had been told, mean six months of extensive rehabilitation—and then perhaps he might walk with an aid.

Four months to the day since the accident that had almost taken his life, Aleksi Kolovsky waded through the glittering Caribbean ocean unaided. The doctor had suggested two fifteen-minute sessions a day.

It was his third hourly session, and it was not yet midday.

Whatever he was advised to do, he did more of it.

Whatever the treatment, he headed straight for the cure.

After all, he had done this once before—under circumstances far worse than this.

He had been a child without doctors, without physios, without this stunning backdrop and the cool ocean that now soothed his aching muscles. He had rehabilitated his fractured body himself—first in the confines of his room till the bruises had faded, and then, without grimacing, without wincing, he had walked and returned to schooling. Not even his twin, Iosef, had been aware of his struggles; Aleksi had privately continued his healing behind the closed walls of his mind.

Iosef—his identical twin.

He smiled a wry smile. He had watched a show last night on the television. Well, he hadn’t exactly watched it, it had been on in the background, and he had not paid it full attention. His attention had instead been on the skilled lips working on his tumescent length to raise it to its splendid glory. It had been a different attention, though. Normally he switched off, sex the balm—not any more. The television had been too loud as it spoke of telepathic bonds between twins, and the woman’s sighs had been grating. Since the accident, chatter annoyed him, conversation irritated him, and last night her lips had not soothed him. He had hardened, but it had been just mechanical, an automated response that, despite her delight, had not pleased Aleksi. Though he’d yearned for relief, he had realised he wouldn’t get it from her. However, there was a reputation to be upheld, so he’d shifted their position.

He’d heard her cries as he did the right thing, pleasuring her with his mouth, and then had feigned reluctance at the disturbance from his phone.

His phone buzzed regularly.

There had been no need to answer it—except last night he had chosen to. Chosen to make excuses as to why she must leave, rather than give that piece of himself to her.

Was even the escape of sex to be denied him?

The sun beat on his shoulders—his skin was brown, his body lean and toned, and he appeared a picture of health above the water. But the scars stung beneath as he stretched his limits and made himself run in the water.

Now it hurt.

It hurt like hell, but he pushed through it.

Could his brother in Australia feel this? Aleksi thought as he sliced the water and forced himself on. Was Iosef, working in an Emergency ward in Australia, suddenly sweating and gripped by pain as he went about his day?

Aleksi doubted it.

Oh, he had no animosity towards Iosef—he admired that he had broken away from the company and gone on to study medicine. Still they chatted, and met regularly. Aleksi liked him, in fact. But there was no telepathic bond, no sharing of minds, no sixth sense…

Where had the twin bond been when his father had beaten him to a pulp when he was only seven years old?

Where had the sixth sense been when a week later his brother had been allowed in to see him?

‘Some fall…’ Iosef had said, in Russian of course—because even in Australia the Kolovskys had spoken in Russian.

‘Dad is getting you a new bike.’ Iosef had come to sit on the bed, laughing and chatting, but as the mattress had indented a white bolt of pain had shot through Aleksi and he had gone to cry out. Then he had seen the warning in his mother’s eyes.

‘Good,’ he had said instead.

There was no special bond Aleksi realised.

You did not ache, you did not bleed just because your brother did.

He ran faster.

Riminic, Riminic, Riminic.