How sad was that?
She still hadn’t got it, had she? If he was seeing other women then there was no getting round him and neither should there be. The relationship was essentially over—it just depended on whether she wanted it to have a painful, protracted death or do the kindest thing and kill it off quickly.
‘You’re not dressed for the party,’ he observed, when still she didn’t move.
‘No.’
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Not really.’ She sucked in a deep breath and looked at him. ‘How was New York?’
‘Somehow I get the feeling there’s a sting in the tail of that question.’
‘And is it guilt which gives you that feeling, Nikolai?’
‘Guilt?’ His mouth tightened with growing comprehension as he pulled off his jacket and threw it onto one of the sofas. Impatiently, he loosened his tie—as if it had been a noose hanging around his neck. ‘If I am to be accused of something, isn’t it only fair to let the prisoner know what he is being accused of?’
Prisoner? His bizarre choice of description jarred. Zara shook her head, searching for words which would allow her to keep her dignity—and not make her sound like some discordant fishwife. And acknowledging that there was no point in berating him just because—for all his money and possessions—he could not give her the one thing she most wanted.
‘How was Marie-Claire?’
‘Who?’
She swallowed. Was he going to make a fool of her into the bargain? Effecting ignorance and making her wonder if she was going crazy? ‘The French actress you’re so close to!’
‘The French actress I’m so close to,’ he repeated slowly.
‘In every sense!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘This is what I’m talking about!’ She picked up the newspaper and shoved it at him. ‘Here it is, in black and white! Deny it now, if you dare!’
Nikolai looked down at the photo and gave a ghostly smile of recognition. There had been many photos like this published over the years. Sometimes the images had been faithful to the truth and sometimes they had been as far away from it as it was possible to imagine. A captured split second when someone smiled at you and it looked as if you were in your own private little world of love. He had learned many things during his time in the public eye and one of those had been that the camera could be a very unreliable witness.
‘You’d believe this rag?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Without bothering to ask me first?’
‘Who is she?’ Zara demanded.
‘I thought you knew exactly who she was! Why should I bother answering your accusations since you already seem to have made your mind up?’
‘She’s just been in New York!’
‘Along with about ten million others!’
Her heart was racing and her mouth felt like sandpaper. ‘Don’t you think you owe me the courtesy of an explanation, Nikolai?’ she questioned quietly.
‘And don’t you owe me the courtesy of showing me a little trust?’
Zara blinked at him. He was in the wrong, surely—and now he was twisting it round and making her feel as if she’d done something wrong. ‘When was the picture taken?’
With a weary sigh, he walked
over to the cabinet where the drinks were kept and poured himself a small glass of vodka. He drank only a little of it before putting the glass down and turning to stare at her. ‘It was taken while we were on a break—’
‘See!’
‘I went to a party and she was there. We talked and she asked me for a lift home.’