The Devil Wears Kolovsky. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
is about—beautiful gowns, beautiful women, and at the top of the food chain those blasted wedding gowns.’
He just sat there. Zakahr did not need to be told how things were done by some Assistant PA who fell asleep at her desk. Except he knew he just had been. She was a strange mix, Zakahr decided. Disorganised, yet conscientious. There was also a brazenness to her—a boldness in her slender stature as she awaited his response, hand on hip, toes resisting tapping. Still he said nothing.
‘Fine,’ she shrilled to the cold silence. ‘I’ll go myself.’
But first she had to make a phone call …
Back at her desk, Lavinia checked the Princess’s flight details, and that the cars were all ready, and waited anxiously for the clock to edge to nine before picking up the phone and dialling.
Ms Hewitt, Rachael’s case worker, sounded more angry than exasperated. ‘I spoke with you on Friday. You cannot ring in for daily checks—you are not her next of kin.’
‘I’m trying to be, though.’ Lavinia resisted the urge to say something smart, knowing that she needed these people to be on her side. ‘I just want to know that she’s okay, and to find out when I can see her.’
‘Rachael’s father is visiting her on Wednesday evening, and again on Sunday. Really, it’s very unsettling for Rachael to have so many visitors.’
‘She’s my half-sister,’ Lavinia bristled. ‘How can it be unsettling for her to see me?’
‘I’ll speak with her carers and see if we can arrange something.’
‘And that’s it?’ Lavinia asked. ‘Can I at least have a phone number so that I can ring her?’
‘We’ll contact you if we need to.’ Ms Hewitt would not be swayed. ‘I’ll see if I can arrange a visit.’
Lavinia somehow managed to thank her, then replaced the phone and buried her head in her hands. She hated the lack of speed—couldn’t stand what was happening to Rachael—and knew that Kevin, Rachael’s father, was still probably dredging up every piece of dirt he could on Lavinia. He’d done everything he could to shut her out of the little girl’s life. Maybe it was better that she was at work, because otherwise she’d be standing outside the kindergarten, waiting for Rachael to arrive, and that wouldn’t go down well. Lavinia knew she had to stay calm. Had to accept that nothing was going to happen fast—and that she had to prove she was the responsible one.
‘Sorry to inconvenience you with work.’
Lavinia looked up to the owner of the voice that dripped sarcasm. He was holding out her jacket, and she didn’t even attempt to explain herself. She knew how bad this looked. Instead she just took her jacket and clipped ahead, trying to switch her mind to the job, to being the happy, outgoing person she was at work, whatever the problems in her private life.
They used the rear entrance. A huge limo swallowed them up, with another following to accommodate the royal entourage, and they headed for the airport as Lavinia filled him in as best she could on Princess Jasmine’s details. Even Zakahr’s eyes widened when she told him what this gown and the dresses for the bridesmaids would be costing King Abdullah.
No wonder Kolovsky, despite everything, was still riding high.
For Zakahr, it was in fact a relief to get out of the office—to get away from the scent of Kolovsky, the surroundings—and for the first time since he had taken over he felt the creep of doubt. He had given himself a month to come to a decision. He was starting to wonder if he could stand to be there for even a week.
For years he had watched the House of Kolovsky from a distance, researching them thoroughly. Levander, Ivan’s illegitimate son, had been brought over from Russia as a teenager and given the golden key to Kolovsky. There was no mention of Riminic, Nina and Ivan’s firstborn.
Riminic Ivan Kolovsky they had named their baby, as was the Russian way—Riminic, son of Ivan—then at two days old they had taken him to Detsky Dom. Some orphanages were good, but Nina and Ivan had not chosen well. The Kolovsky name meant only hate to Zakahr.
At thirteen he had left the orphanage and had done what he had to to survive on the streets. At seventeen he had been given a chance—shelter, access to a computer, to a different path. Discarding his birth name, he had followed that path with a vision—and that vision included revenge.
As rumours had escalated that Levander had been raised in Detsky Dom, of course the House of Kolovsky had rapidly developed a social conscience, raising great sums for orphanages and street children.
Zakahr had been doing it since his first pay cheque.
And so he had made contact—attending a charity ball Nina had organised as guest speaker, telling the glamorous audience the true hell of his upbringing and his life on the streets. Nina had been sipping on champagne as she had unwittingly met her son.
‘It’s not just a gown.’
Lavinia dragged him from his thoughts. She was still in full flood, Zakahr realised. She’d probably been talking for five minutes and he hadn’t heard a word!
‘It’s the experience, it’s working out the exact colour scheme, it’s watching how she walks, her figure, her personality—that’s why she has to come to us. For the next few days the Princess will be the sole focus of our designers. Every detail has to be sorted out while she’s here. The team will be in regular contact afterwards, of course—and then a week before the wedding our team will fly to her and take care of everything. Hair, make-up—the works. All the Princess will have to do is smile on the day.’
‘And how many weddings?’ Zakahr asked. ‘How often do we have to do this?’
‘Once, sometimes twice a month,’ Lavinia said, and then, when she saw his face tighten, it was Lavinia who couldn’t resist. ‘And what with it coming in to spring in Europe we’re exceptionally busy now. You’ll be doing this a lot.’
‘Great,’ he muttered. Talking weddings was so not Zakahr.
They sat in silence, and the car was so lovely and warm, and she was just so, so tired, that Lavinia leant back in the sumptuous leather. She wasn’t at her desk now, so she did what she would have done had it been any of her old bosses there, and closed her eyes.
Even if she wasn’t quite what Zakahr was used to, he begrudgingly admired her complete lack of pretence. Rather more privately, after another sleepless night, he felt like doing the same, but instead he took the opportunity for closer inspection.
She really was astonishingly pretty—or was attractive the word? Zakahr couldn’t decide. Her jacket was hanging up, her arms lay long and loose by her sides, she had wriggled out of her stilettos, and sat with her knees together and her slender calves splayed like a young colt. Though there was so much on his mind, Zakahr wanted a moment’s distraction—and she was rather intriguing. He actually wanted to know more about her.
‘How long have you worked for Kolovsky?’
‘A couple of years,’ Lavinia said with her eyes still closed. ‘I did a bit of modelling for them, but I had an extra olive in my salad one day and Nina said I would be better suited in the office.’ She opened one eye. ‘I’m aesthetically pleasing, apparently, but I’m just not thin enough to model the gowns.’
She was tiny! Well, average height. But her waist could be spanned by his hand, her legs were long and slender, her clavicles two jagged lines. Zakahr, who trusted his personal shopper to sort out his own immaculate wardrobe, realised he knew very little about the industry he had taken on.
‘What did you do before that?’ Zakahr asked her once more closed eyes.
‘Modelling—though nothing as tasteful as Kolovsky. It wasn’t my proudest period.’
Zakahr didn’t say anything.
Lavinia just shrugged. ‘It paid the rent.’
It