Goodnight (Broken Heart Series)

Nick saw her from across the room and made a beeline for her immediately. He could not believe she was here at his family’s annual Easter party, of all places. For a moment he had a wild thought that she was here for Goodie, but then he noticed the man with his arm around the brunette’s shoulders. A Russian oligarch had bought one of the estates nearby in recent months, and Nick’s family had invited him as a welcome to the area.

Monty had visited the Russian’s home last week and described it as: ‘Bit more swish than when old Isaac Winthrope was living there, all very modern, acres and acres of marble. No clutter; not much stuff though.’ Seeing as the entire interior of the Chambers’ vast house was crammed with various stuff – from the overstocked library, to the ram-jam motley collection of paintings on the walls accumulated after decades of very ill-advised commissioned portraits – Nick wasn’t surprised that a bit of minimalism would have struck his dad as alien. Luckily for Nick, this minimalist, super-rich Russian had accepted the invite to Nick’s family’s Easter party that they held every year, and he’d brought along Natasha Alkaev, of all people.

‘Hello, Natasha,’ Nick said smoothly, holding out his hand and smiling wide enough for his dimple to make an appearance – he knew from years of experience, starting at a surprisingly young age, that his smile and his dimple could invariably get him what he wanted. He noticed Dmitry Alexandrov tighten his grip around her waist and fix Nick with an assessing look; he was almost as tall as Nick and his hair was as dark as Natasha’s but liberally sprinkled with grey.

‘Mr Chambers,’ Natasha said through her own wide smile, shaking his hand before her eyes darted over his shoulder to scan the room.

‘Nick, please,’ Nick told her, disconcerted when she just nodded distractedly, glancing behind herself with a slight frown on her face. ‘And you must be Mr Alexandrov; my family and I are so glad you could make it tonight.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Natasha put in, focusing back on Nick, ‘I was miles away. Dmi you remember? I told you I met Mr Chambers at Clarence House last month.’

‘Nick,’ Nick said through gritted teeth, extending his hand to shake the Russian’s.

‘Dmitry.’ Alexandrov’s handshake was just that bit too firm, but as far as Nick could see there wasn’t any reason for the Russian to be jealous: Natasha was ignoring them both very effectively.

‘Okay, Tasha?’ Dmitry asked as she glanced over her shoulder again.

‘I’m fine, Dmi, I just –’ She broke off as her gaze, which had been darting around the large ballroom, came to rest on whatever she’d been looking for. Her lips tilted almost imperceptibly into a smile, which ironically seemed a lot more genuine than the one she had bestowed on Nick earlier. Nick had a fair idea of whom she’d been searching for, and he waited. ‘I just might have had a little too much champagne on an empty stomach. Sorry, darling, I was miles away.’ She lifted her free hand across her body to pat Dmitry’s chest, then moved it to her own, resting it in the centre for a moment, her eyes fixed past Nick’s shoulder. He glanced behind him and he saw her. As always she was on the outskirts of the room, slightly set apart from other people. She looked almost painfully beautiful, her dark dress skimming the curves of her slim body, her smoky eyes contrasting with her pale lips, and her hair swept away from her face. Everything about her was perfect; her dress blended in with the others – in fact she was indistinguishable from the other guests. Nobody would realize from looking at her that she was part of his protection team, and he suspected that was her intention; she was the ultimate chameleon.

‘See someone you know?’ Nick asked as he turned back to Natasha. Dmitry had been approached by another of their neighbours and was being quizzed on whether they would be allowed to hold the village fête in the grounds of his estate; something which Old Man Winthrope had always allowed, and, by the look on his face, something that Dmitry would equate to being boiled in oil.

Natasha focused back on Nick; her eyes widened for a moment before she masked it and gave him a cool smile. ‘I thought I saw someone I knew but … but I was mistaken.’

‘Really?’ Nick asked, his eyes narrowing, ‘because I could have sworn you were looking at one of my protection team.’

‘I –’

‘What does this mean?’ Nick asked, dropping his voice to an almost whisper and laying his hand flat over his heart.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Natasha said, frowning at him like he was nuts. ‘Quite eccentric, aren’t you, you English aristocracy? I thought that was a myth.’

‘What ho!’ boomed Bertie, slapping Nick on the back and holding his hand out to Natasha. Nick closed his eyes slowly and gritted his teeth; Bertie’s timing, as always, was atrocious. ‘Dashed good to see you again,’ Bertie boomed on, shaking Natasha’s hand so vigorously that her whole body was jolted. ‘Natasha, isn’t it? Ah! And you must be the Russian chappy we’ve all been dying to meet. How’s Old Man Isaac’s place working out for you? Gotten rid of the fungal infection in the orchard yet? Monty Harris has a great spray which does the trick; splendid fellow, absolute bloody genius with fungal wood rot.’ Dmitry opened his mouth and closed it again as his body was also jolted with the force of Bertie’s handshake. Nick could imagine that in the world of Russian oligarchs conversations about fungal tree rot were few and far between.

‘I’ll …’ Dmitry gave a firm tug on his hand and Bertie released him, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Nick sighed and noticed Natasha’s lips were pressed together, her eyes dancing.

‘Hello!’ Tils cried, pushing Nick to the side as she inserted herself into the group. ‘You must be the Russian fellow I’ve heard so much about, I’m Tilly.’

‘Dmitry,’ Alexandrov ground out whilst enduring an equally vigorous handshake from Tilly. ‘And this is Natasha.’

‘Gosh,’ Tils breathed, dropping Dmitry’s hand as she moved to shake Natasha’s. ‘You’re frightfully pretty, aren’t you?’ At this point Natasha lost her battle to keep her amusement under control and let out a chuckle.

‘So are you,’ she told Tils, who just waved her hand in the air dismissively.

‘Pah! That’s a good one. Now, Dmitry, I was wondering if you might be interested in my manure. Terribly good fertilizer you know, and we’ve so much we don’t know what to do with it.’ Nick shuffled Natasha back slightly whilst Dmitry was distracted by making excuses as to why he was not in the market for horse shit; but as Nick went to speak, Tasha laid her finger on his mouth for a moment, silencing him.

‘I don’t know why you’re interested, but I can’t tell you what you want to know.’ She flicked her eyes nervously across to Dmitry who was still trying to extricate himself from an increasingly bizarre conversation with Tils and Bertie, then fixed Nick with a stare, ‘I’m sorry you need protection,’ she told him. ‘But you’re lucky. I know you’ll be safe.’ She held his eyes for a moment longer before turning back to the group. ‘Tilly, I wonder if you could help me find your parents? We wanted to thank them for inviting us along today.’ As the women moved away Nick felt a tingling at the back of his neck, but when he looked behind him the space where Goodie had been standing was empty.

*****

He was waiting. He was going to nip the shit in the bud. He didn’t know where she was but he knew her eyes were on him. The last of the guests were staggering out towards the taxis waiting in the drive, with Bertie’s repeated, over exuberant farewells somewhat hampering their departures – as if the people currently leaving were about to embark on a trek into the unknown Amazon never to be seen again, rather than the rather short taxi ride back Little Truddlington, which was where most of them were staying.

Once he’d finally given Nick one last drunken side hug and stumbled up the stairs, Nick turned on his heel and walked slowly to the library.

‘You can come out,’ he said slowly, focusing on pouring the brandy from the decanter into one of the crystal glasses they kept on the oak desk in the centre of the room. ‘I know you’re there. I can feel you watching me.’ He turned and rested back against the solid wood, crossing his legs in front of him and taking a sip from his glass. Goodie stepped forward out of the shadows at the far end of the room. In stark contrast to the guests who had just stumbled their way out of his house, Goodie’s appearance was still unnaturally perfect. She took a few more steps towards him, then paused a good ten feet away, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head to the side.

Nick took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if you didn’t want to come to the party tonight. I didn’t … most women don’t mind … I mean, I didn’t think dressing up would be a chore. I –’

‘I know you overheard me with your niece,’ she told him.

‘Uh … right, well …’ Nick was at a loss for words, he didn’t know whether to apologize for being a nosy bastard as well. All he knew was that the thought of Goodie forcing herself to wear what she was wearing, to go to a party he and his family had insisted she attend, made him feel slightly ill; as did the reasons he suspected she didn’t enjoy doing it.

‘I know what you’re thinking; I don’t need your pity, Nick,’ she said, allowing her arms to uncross and fall to her sides, then clenching them into fists.

‘Okay, fine,’ Nick snapped, deciding to move on to the next item on his agenda. ‘I don’t want you sleeping in the boot room again,’ he told her, trying to inject his voice with the kind of steely authority that always worked in the boardroom. He would not spend another night thinking about her lying on the cold fucking floor with the fucking dogs; for some reason the thought of it made him want to scream. 

She nodded and remained silent for a moment before asking: ‘How do you know Dmitry Alexandrov?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know him. I just met him tonight.’ She turned her head away from him to look out of the large windows into the gardens, lit only by the small lamps they had set up to line the drive for the party. Nick clenched his jaw in frustration; without exception all the females of his acquaintance were quite happy to let him know even the most trivial of their thoughts. The one woman whose head he actually wanted to get inside used silence as some sort of weapon.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘How do you know him?’

‘I don’t know him; I know of him,’ she said to the window, the small tic in her jaw the only sign of her anger. ‘In future I would like to have a complete guest list for my team to go over before events like this.’ Her eyes shot to his and there was no mistaking it now: she was furious.

Nick shrugged. ‘Mum and Dad asked him at the last minute. They must have forgotten to –’

‘If you and your parents want me to do my job effectively then I would appreciate it if you would follow the few simple rules I have laid out.’ She turned to go and Nick pushed off from the desk.

‘Wait a minute.’ When she didn’t look back or even pause he huffed in frustration, slammed his drink down on the table and strode over to her, catching hold of her arm before she disappeared through the door. ‘Wait, I have some questions I’d like to –’

‘Is that an order?’ Goodie asked in a low, dangerous voice, her cold gaze fixing on his, then dropping to his hand on her arm as if it was diseased. He released her and stepped back, showing her his palms in a gesture of surrender. She shot him one last filthy look before turning on her heel and exiting the room on silent feet – something that Nick was surprised she could achieve, given the height of her stilettos.