The Innocent Behind The Scandal - Abby Green Page 0,29

showcased her body—her small waist and gently flaring hips, the modest swells of her breasts. Maks remembered how they’d felt in his hands, under his tongue, and his body surged into hot life. As if he had no control over it.

Her gaze was lifted to the ceiling, rapt. The sleek hair and make-up only enhanced what he’d seen that first day. He found it almost impossible to see her scars now, and not because they were covered. They were too deep to hide, but she eclipsed them.

He squeezed her hand. ‘Okay?’

She looked at him, and for a second he saw something unguarded in her eyes, but then she pulled her hand out of his and said brightly, ‘Yes, fine. This place is...amazing.’

Maks curled his hand into a fist and put it into his pocket, feeling strangely off-centre. He hadn’t expected that. Then he mocked himself. He was concerned that Zoe might expect too much or get hurt, but at every step of the way she demonstrated her independence. She might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive.

Zoe hadn’t known that Maks could speak Russian, although it made sense, his having a Russian mother. He was speaking it now, to another man, at the drinks reception before the performance started.

She had to admit that Maks speaking Russian was seriously sexy. As if he wasn’t already sexy enough. And she couldn’t fault him for excluding her. He’d introduced her in English to his acquaintance, but the other man had apologised profusely and claimed his English was not good.

Zoe didn’t mind. She was happy to people-watch and revel in the fact that she wasn’t the one serving the drinks on this occasion. She knew it wouldn’t last long, so she was enjoying it while she could.

They were soon moved to the main auditorium, and when they went into their private stall Zoe stopped in her tracks. She’d never seen such magnificent opulence in her life. There were at least four tiers of seating around the auditorium, reaching high into the gods. The ceiling was frescoed with angels and cherubs dancing around a spectacular central chandelier.

‘Wow...’ was all she could manage.

Maks said, ‘My mother was here on a shoot once, and for some reason she brought myself and Sasha with her—which was not usual. We were normally left with the nanny. I remember seeing it for the first time and being blown away.’

Zoe looked at Maks. They were in a private booth, just to the left of where the main elaborate box was situated, facing the stage. Maks had told her it was the box reserved for local officials.

‘You seem very comfortable here in St Petersburg.’

Maks shrugged. ‘In spite of my mother I have an affinity with Russia. I guess it’s where my roots are. And I have always loved the Russian writers, whereas Sasha prefers the French classics.’

‘It’s nice that you’re so close.’ Zoe felt that pang again, thinking of her lost brother.

Maks’s mouth quirked. ‘She complains that I’m over-protective, but she’s my baby sister.’

‘My brother would be twenty-three now. I often think about him and wonder what he’d be like.’

Maks took her hand just as the lights went down. ‘I’d wager that he’d be a lot like his sister. Independent, passionate...’

Zoe was glad the lights had gone down, Maks’s words had affected her more than she liked. She knew she should pull her hand away from his as an expectant hush settled around them, but she couldn’t.

Then the curtain went up and Zoe forgot everything around her—even Maks—as the powerful music and the performance swept her up in a lush and magical embrace.

‘You enjoyed it, then?’

Zoe scowled at Maks and saw him smirk. They were in the back of his car, leaving the Mariinsky Theatre behind. She’d been bawling like a baby at the end of the performance, and she knew well that her overload of emotion had come more from the memories it evoked than the actual performance itself—which had been spectacular.

‘It was amazing. Thank you. Although I think all the work the make-up artist did has probably been washed away.’

Maks looked at her. ‘You look perfect.’ Then, ‘Did people comment on your scars when you were growing up?’

Zoe was taken aback by the abrupt question, but she also appreciated it. She hated it when people looked at her scars but said nothing.

Absently she touched the one at her lip, tracing the indentation. She dropped her hand. ‘Sometimes, in school, they called me Scarface.’

‘Children can be cruel. Were you ever tempted to