The Throne He Must Take. Chantelle ShawЧитать онлайн книгу.
international clientele, and like most of the clinic’s staff Holly was fluent in several languages. She noted that the French, Italian and German newspapers all bore similar headlines to the English papers. But until the recent media interest in Vostov she—and, she suspected, many other people—had never heard of the tiny principality in the Balkans.
She turned her attention away from the newspapers, which were neatly arranged on a coffee table in front of an elegant brocade sofa. Large windows on three sides of the room offered spectacular views of the Austrian Alps. The gentle tick of an antique wall clock barely intruded on the cloistered quiet of the lounge, and the general ambience was one of discreet luxury.
Outside, the mountains stood guard like a craggy fortress, with their sharp peaks pointing towards a topaz-blue sky. Last night’s fresh snowfall glistened in the winter sunshine.
Holly scrutinised the road that snaked its way up from Salzburg. The snow-clearing machines had already done their job, but there were no cars on the road and her client was late.
She felt a flicker of irritation as she wondered why he had declined to be collected from the airport by a chauffeur and driven to the Frieden Clinic which was the usual arrangement. She hoped he was not going to be difficult, but all the indications suggested that Jarek Dvorska Saunderson was likely to be a pain in someone’s backside. Hers.
Jarek was a high-flier in the City of London, often described as ‘the man with the Midas touch’ after his success on the stockmarket which had earned him a personal multi-million-pound fortune. But a couple of years ago there had been problems at Saunderson’s Bank—one of the UK’s most prestigious private banks—where Jarek had held a senior position. He had been fired by the bank’s new chairman, who also happened to be his brother-in-law: Spanish business tycoon Cortez Ramos.
The blip in his career had evidently not impacted on Jarek’s jet-set lifestyle. He was pursued relentlessly by the paparazzi, and rarely did a week pass without another exposé in the tabloids of his outrageous exploits—usually accompanied by a photo of him with a blonde bimbo draped around him.
Stories of his heavy drinking, partying and womanising were legendary—as was his passion for the risky sport of motorbike racing. There had been intense news coverage recently, when he had crashed his bike during a race and afterwards assaulted a journalist who had tried to interview him. It was that event which had apparently prompted Jarek to seek help for his ‘issues’, Professor Franz Heppel, the medical director of the Frieden Clinic, had explained to Holly during a briefing about her new patient.
She glanced at the clock. Maybe he wasn’t coming? She knew only too well how hard it was to face up to personal demons, and from the sound of it Jarek Saunderson had his fair share of those.
A rumbling noise jolted her from her thoughts and she instinctively looked up at the higher slopes of the mountains. During the winter months the avalanche risk in the Alps was high, particularly after heavy snowfall. But there was no sign of the kind of fast-moving white mass that struck fear into the hearts of skiers and climbers. She looked back at the road as the throaty, roaring noise grew louder and saw a motorbike hurtling around the bends.
Minutes later Holly watched the bike turn onto the private road leading to the Frieden Clinic and wondered if the rider was her client. It would be typical of everything she’d heard about Jarek for him to ride a motorbike into the mountains in January, when there was the threat of treacherous black ice on the roads. A sports commentator who had watched him compete in the notoriously dangerous Isle of Man TT superbike race had suggested that either Jarek had a death wish or a massive ego which made him believe he was indestructible.
Her first assignment at the Frieden Clinic promised to be interesting, possibly challenging, and ultimately—she hoped—successful, Holly mused. She was keen to make a good impression with Professor Heppel during the three-month probation period of her new job. His world-renowned clinic employed the very best international experts, and her appointment as a psychotherapist was a huge boost to her career.
The noise of the motorbike stopped, and from her vantage point at the window she watched the rider dismount. As she passed the mirror in the entrance hall she glanced at her reflection, to check that her hair was neatly secured in its chignon. Her crisp white blouse, navy skirt and low-heeled black shoes were businesslike, although she noted with a grimace that the blouse gaped slightly across her bust. A result of too many helpings of the chef’s apfelstrudel, she thought ruefully.
It occurred to her that Stuart would not have approved of her more voluptuous shape. When she had shown him pictures of herself as a nineteen-year-old photographic model he had raved about her slim figure, even though she had clearly been unhealthily thin.
‘My modelling career was ten years ago and I survived on a diet of apples and black coffee,’ she’d told him when he’d nagged her to go to the gym. ‘Women were designed to have breasts and hips, and I have no intention of starving myself to conform to the fashion industry’s unrealistic ideal of how women should look.’
A few months after that conversation Stuart had dumped her and announced his engagement to willowy blonde Leanne, who was now pregnant with his baby.
Holly swiftly shut off the painful thought as she opened the door and stepped outside to the porch to welcome her patient. She had moved from London to Austria two weeks ago, and loved living in the mountains where the air was fresh and clean. But the smell of cigarette smoke drifting towards her now made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.
‘Mr Saunderson?’ The man had his back to her, but she was sure it was him. He had removed his crash helmet and the streaked blond hair spilling over the collar of his black leather jacket was recognisable from his too-numerous-to-count appearances in the tabloids. ‘May I remind you that there is a strict no smoking policy at the Frieden Clinic? The house rules are listed in the brochure.’
The broad leather-clad shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. ‘I didn’t read the brochure.’
Holly stifled the urge to knock the cigarette from his fingers and said tartly, ‘What a pity. If you had, you would have seen that the Frieden Clinic takes a holistic approach to treating nicotine addiction and has an excellent success rate for helping to break a dependency on cigarettes.’
‘I don’t have a nicotine addiction.’ He turned around then, and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘You wouldn’t begrudge the condemned prisoner a final cigarette, would you?’
He spoke in a lazy drawl and his mouth crooked into a careless smile as if he was well aware of his devastating effect on susceptible females.
‘Smoking is a filthy habit,’ Holly snapped, forgetting that she should take care not to reveal her personal prejudices. But her first sight of Jarek in the flesh, rather than in a photo in a newspaper, had made her forget everything. If he asked her name she would be unable to tell him, because the single thought in her head was that he was lethally attractive.
‘Not as filthy as some of my other habits,’ he murmured.
There was amusement in his voice, and a mocking gleam in eyes that even from a distance of a few feet away were like brilliant blue laser beams directed straight at Holly. She watched him grind the cigarette out against the sole of his boot and drop the stub into his pocket before he walked up the steps to join her on the porch.
While she groped for her sanity, and for something—anything—to say, his smile faded and there was a hard edge to his voice when he spoke again. ‘And I no longer use my English adoptive parents’ name: Saunderson. I prefer to be known by the name I was given at bir—’ He stopped abruptly and then said, ‘By my Bosnian name: Dvorska.’
‘Right... Mr Dvorska. Um...’ God, was that breathless voice really hers? Holly cleared her throat. ‘Welcome to the Frieden Clinic.’ She frowned as she recalled his comment. ‘Why did you call yourself a condemned prisoner? Frieden is the German word for peace, and the Frieden Clinic is a place of sanctuary—not a prison. I hope you will find a sense of peace and tranquillity here, while I endeavour to help you on your journey to a lasting recovery from the emotional issues that have created a negative