Billionaire Without A Past. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
instead he stated his requirements. ‘I want you to purchase a charcoal suit and I also need a shirt and tie that would be suitable to wear to a church wedding. Oh, and I shall need shoes too.’
‘You want me to buy you clothes off the peg?’ his butler carefully checked, and well he might—Nikolai was tall and broad shouldered and dressed exquisitely. His outfits came from top designers—all of whom wanted him wearing their name, just for the chance that his dark, brooding good looks would be photographed in one of their creations. Why on earth would he send his butler to a department store when his dressing room was lined with the best of the best?
‘Yes,’ Nikolai said, ‘and I need you to go soon. The wedding is at two.’
Nikolai then told him the price range that he had in mind for his outfit and he saw his usually impassive butler blink—after all, the champagne that had been in the empty bottle he had removed from the bedside that morning had cost only a little less than had been allocated for today. That said, Nikolai spent thousands on champagne. Still, for him, it was a modest budget indeed.
‘I wasn’t aware that it was that time again and so soon!’ The butler made a small joke and, given it was late spring, Nikolai conceded a small smile.
For a couple of months each year his life of luxury living aboard a superyacht ceased and Nikolai worked on the huge icebreakers in the Atlantic. He had recently returned. There he wore thick layers and an ushanka. The rest of the time he wore his wealth well. He was rich, successful in many endeavours and, Nikolai had been sure, the ghosts of yesteryear had long since been laid to rest. No one could have guessed his dirt-poor origins or the shame and fear that had used to wake him at night in a drench of cold sweat.
‘Am I to purchase a wedding gift?’ The butler asked.
‘No.’
Only when his somewhat bemused butler had left to carry out his instructions did Nikolai pick up the cup from the saucer. He had been right to wait for his butler to leave for, yes, his hand shook slightly as he pondered how best to face this difficult day in what had once been a difficult life.
It was a good life now.
He had fought hard for it to be just that.
Nikolai had battled against the odds and had refused to become another statistic. Instead of allowing his abuser to break him, he had fought not just to survive but to thrive. Instead of turning to drink or drugs to dim the pain of the past, he had faced it.
Dealt with it.
Of course he had, Nikolai told himself.
Now he owned a fleet of superyachts and his presence was regularly requested at A-list events—a party on his yacht was the place to be.
He had it all, thanks to Yuri, who had been both his mentor and his saviour.
How Nikolai would kill for one more conversation with that man. How badly he needed his advice today.
The only person who knew the truth about his past had been Yuri.
‘Beris druzhno ne budet gruzno,’ he had told Nikolai. It was an old Russian saying—if you share the burden it won’t feel so heavy.
Nikolai had only told the truth so that Yuri would not alert the authorities who would have sent him back to destky dom, the orphanage from where he had run. But, as it had turned out, Yuri had been right—with the burden shared he had felt lighter.
But Yuri wasn’t here and so Nikolai had had to turn to himself to work out how best to deal with today.
Nikolai wanted to see his friend married but he did not want to be seen. No doubt Sev would, if he saw him, ask why he had run away without a word to his friend and that was something Nikolai did not want to discuss.
His past must not taint his present, Nikolai had decided. He would slip into the church unnoticed and leave the same way. There was nothing he needed to do, no secrets he needed to reveal.
A small knot of disquiet tightened in his chest as Nikolai could almost hear Yuri refute his handling of the matter.
Yuri would say that by hiding, by slipping into the back of the church, he was taking the easy way out, and that was not like Nikolai.
He stood and walked across the suite and looked out to Canary Wharf, where he had docked last night. The glass was treated to ensure no one could see in—a necessary measure, for the press would love to capture images of the rich and famous and of the decadent goings-on on board his yacht. He stared out, unseen, at families and couples who were pointing and taking pictures of the attraction that his home was.
Nikolai was used to it.
His yacht was named Svoboda, the Russian word for freedom and it drew crowds whenever it docked, especially as it housed its own car and the sight of the ramp opening and Nikolai driving out was impressive. More often than not his home was docked in more glittering surroundings. The south of France was a favourite, as was the Arabian Gulf.
It had been there, cruising down the Gulf of Aqaba, that Nikolai had first found out about Sev and Naomi. Lying in bed, unable to sleep, he had considered waking the blonde beauty beside him in his usual way but instead he had got up and headed up to the sundeck and, under the stars, had opened up his laptop.
As he often did, Nikolai had looked for news of his friends from detsky dom days and he had read the latest news about Sev.
The New York City–based Internet security expert, Sevastyan Derzhavin, was spotted in London sporting a black eye and a nasty cut. With him was his personal assistant, Naomi Johnson, wearing a huge black diamond ring on her engagement finger.
The picture that had accompanied the small piece was of Sev and, presumably, Naomi, walking hand in hand along the street, and, despite the mess of his face, Sev had looked happy.
He deserved to be.
Growing up, Sev had been the closest thing to family that Nikolai had ever known.
In the orphanage, there had been four dark-haired, pale-skinned, dark-eyed boys who had challenged the carers. They had been born with no hope but all had had dreams.
At first they had dreamt that one day they would be chosen by a family.
They never had been, though, and finally they had been cruelly told why. Their pale skin, which didn’t turn pink, and their dark hair had meant they were black Russians and far harder to place than blond, blue-eyed children.
Still they’d dreamt.
The twins, Daniil and Roman, would become famous boxers, the boys were all sure. Sev, with his clever mind, would go far, and as for Nikolai, though he had no idea who his parents were, he was certain his father had been a sailor.
Certain.
Nikolai’s love of the ocean had been born into him long, long before he had even glimpsed the sea.
But in detsky dom dreams had died easily.
At twelve years of age Daniil had been chosen and placed with an English family. His identical twin, Roman, had then run wilder than ever before and had been moved to the secure wing.
At fourteen, as Sev had started to shine, he had been moved to a different class and hope had been high that he would receive a scholarship to a prestigious school. Nikolai and Sev had still got the bus to school together and they’d shared a dormitory at night, but without his friend Nikolai’s grades had slipped and he had been singled out by a teacher he’d loathed.
‘Tell me, Nikolai, why your grades have suddenly gone down?’
Nikolai had shrugged. He hadn’t liked this teacher, who had always picked on him and given him detention, which had meant he would miss the bus and have to walk.
‘Was Sevastyan helping you?’ the teacher asked.
‘Nyet.’ He shook his head. ‘Can I go now? Or I will miss the bus.’
It was cold and snowing and his coat was