The Devil Wears Kolovsky. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
dress, and without a word he walked off. But she caught up with him, trotting along to keep up with his long strides, and—annoyingly for Zakahr—carrying on with her incessant chatter.
‘I used to fall asleep dreaming about my wedding, and I swear that was the dress I was wearing—it really is the dress of dreams.’
‘You fell asleep dreaming of your wedding?’ They were in the lift now, and he couldn’t keep the derisive note from his voice.
‘I was eight or so!’ Lavinia shrugged, then coloured a touch as his eyes assessed her.
‘You don’t dream of it now?’ Zakahr checked, and he watched her ears pinken a fraction.
‘Sometimes I do.’ She shocked him with her honesty. ‘Then the alarm goes off and it’s back to the real world.’ She gave him a little wink as the lift door opened. ‘Or I hit the snooze button.’
Was she being deliberately provocative? Zakahr couldn’t be sure, and it irked him. There was an edge to Lavinia—an openness that was inviting, a smile that was beguiling—and yet there was a no-nonsense element to her too, almost a wall. The combined effect, he reluctantly admitted, was intriguing.
‘We have much work to do,’ Zakahr said as they reached the office suite. ‘We’ll start the one-on-one interviews tomorrow, but this afternoon I will address everyone—liaise with HR, but I want you to arrange it.’
‘It’s not possible,’ Lavinia told him. ‘People have meetings scheduled, and there are—’
‘Anyone not present has effectively handed in their notice.’ He cut her off mid-sentence. He would accept no excuses, and Lavinia’s lips pursed as he left her no room for manoeuvre. ‘Just do as I ask.’
‘The thing is—’
Zakahr halted her. ‘The thing is I am in charge now. Whatever your relationship with your previous boss— disregard it. When I say I want something done, it is not up for negotiation.
‘Which night do we dine with the King?’
‘Wednesday. But I don’t do dinner.’ Lavinia shook her head. ‘They only trust me with the occasional airport run.’
‘Well, for now you do the social side of things too,’ Zakahr said. ‘You have a promotion.’
‘I don’t want it,’ came her immediate response.
Lavinia loved her job—she’d vied for pole position with Kate at times—but she didn’t actually want to do Kate’s work. And it wasn’t just the fact that she wasn’t remotely qualified. There was Rachael, her studies, Nina—just so many demands on her time right now it really was an impossible task.
‘You will be remunerated.’
‘It’s not about money,’ Lavinia said. ‘I’m busy…’
‘Too busy to work?’ Zakahr frowned. ‘I’m not offering you a promotion—I am telling you that I need a PA, and you either step into the role or I will have to consider my options.’
‘You’ll fire me?’
‘If I don’t have a PA what is the point of employing her assistant?’
She felt the knight sweep towards her. Click-click: he knocked away her pawn, and of course it was checkmate. But instead of saying nothing, instead of pleading her case, Lavinia refused to give him the satisfaction. Rather, she blinded him with a smile and accepted defeat with grace. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Pardon?’
She loved that she’d confused him. ‘I’d love to accept the role, Zakahr.’
‘Good. Move your things out to the main office,’ Zakahr said. ‘Then go through your diary and cancel your social life.’ He was completely immutable. ‘For now your time is mine.’
CHAPTER THREE
LAVINIA had never worked harder in such a short space of time.
Firing off e-mails, replying to e-mails, then resorting to repeating—not quite verbatim—Zakahr’s warning, she sent a final e-mail with the word ‘COMPULSORY’ in capitals, and a little red exclamation mark beside it—though she did wrangle from an unwilling Zakahr exclusion for Jasmine’s design team. Then she cleared the main function room of a group of sulky models and designers who were trying to prepare for a photoshoot for the sulkiest of them all—Rula, a stunning redhead who was to be the new Face of Kolovsky. Finally checking the PA system, Lavinia had done in an hour what it would take most a full day to achieve.
Not that Zakahr thanked her as she raced back to her office to collect her bag. He merely glanced up as he came in.
‘Everything’s in place.’ Lavinia spritzed her wrists with perfume. ‘I’ll be back before two.’
‘Back from where?’
‘Lunch!’ From his expression she might just as well have sworn. ‘I’m surely entitled to a lunch-break?’ In support of her argument, Catering wheeled in a sumptuous trolley of delights for Zakahr, but it did not appease him.
‘We will work through lunch,’ Zakahr said. ‘Come and eat with me.’
‘I really can’t,’ Lavinia said. ‘I’ve got an appointment. A doctor’s appointment.’ She ran a hand over her stomach and Zakahr pressed his lips together.
She knew every trick, he realized. Knew with just that fleeting gesture no man would pry into women’s business—and Lavinia was certainly that: a woman.
‘Sorry!’ Lavinia added.
She didn’t hang around for his reaction. Instead she darted out to the lift, just a little bit breathless at her lie—because if Zakahr knew where she was going on her lunch-break he’d do more than sack her. It was, she knew, the ultimate treachery. He’d go ballistic if he knew where she was heading.
But she couldn’t not go.
‘Hi, Nina.’
Nina didn’t look up—she was talking to herself in Russian—but Lavinia hugged her. Trying to keep the shock from her voice, she chatted away—except Lavinia was shocked. In a couple of days the other woman had surely aged a decade.
Nina had somehow got through her son’s wedding. On day leave from the plush psychiatric hospital, and sedated from strawberry-blonde head to immaculately shod feet, she had worn a smile and a fantastic Kolovsky dress, and with Lavinia’s help had managed to get through the service. But clearly the public effort had depleted her.
Her hair hung in rats’ tails, her nail polish was chipped, and there was no trace of make-up. The silk she usually wore was replaced by a hospital gown, and all Lavinia knew was that Nina—the real Nina—would absolutely hate to be seen like this.
‘I’m going to do your hair, Nina,’ Lavinia said, rummaging in her locker and finding some hair straighteners. ‘And then I’m going to do your nails.’
Nina made no response. She just sat talking in Russian as Lavinia smoothed out her hair. Only when Lavinia sat and worked on her nails did Nina speak in English—the questions, the statements, always in the same vein. ‘He hates me. Everyone hates me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Nina,’ Lavinia responded, as she always had since the day the news had hit.
A terrible day that was etched for ever in her mind.
Aleksi had returned from his accident to find Nina had taken over, and a terrible struggle for power had ensued. Nina had taken advice from Zakahr, who from afar had fed her ideas that would make huge profits but, as Aleksi had pointed out, would also cause Kolovsky’s demise.
Then Zakahr had swept in, and for Aleksi realisation had hit: the man toying with Nina was actually his brother.
Lavinia