CHAPTER ONE
‘Always stay on the path,’ her grandmother had said. ‘For bad things lurk in the woods...dark things, monsters and wolves.’
But Little Red Riding Hood didn’t listen to her grandmother because she didn’t believe in fairy tales. Deep down, she knew that the most dangerous stories were the ones we told ourselves.
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
IT WAS THE smell of coffee, as strong and bitter as his quest for vengeance, that usually heralded the beginning of Roman Black’s day, not damp earth and tree bark. It was the richly carpeted floors of his office that he usually stalked at this hour of the morning, not the crunch of twigs and leaves.
The noise felt overly loud, as if the attempt to be stealthy had made him clumsy. But if there was one thing Roman Black was not, it was clumsy. Every thought, every move, every action had always held one purpose for Roman, and one purpose only. And finally, after years, the end goal was now within his grasp.
Ahead of him Dorcas, the dog he had acquired for the express purpose of his visit here to the Occitaine region of France, loped with huge, graceful strides, occasionally stopping to cast a curious glance at its new owner, or to ferret out some invisible treasure at the base of a large tree.
Twelve hours ago, Roman had received the vital information that revealed his quarry had left a party on the outskirts of Moscow and returned to France to visit an ailing relative. Nine hours ago, he had arrived in France himself and took up residence in a small villa barely three miles from here. Seven hours ago he’d been interviewing for a canine companion at the local dog shelter—for what was more predatory than a single man alone in the woods? Let alone a man of Roman’s imposing stature.
No. He had planned for this. He had worked out every possible variable. He needed to look, at the very least, non-threatening. Admittedly, he had thought to find something small and fluffy, perfect to lull his prey into a false sense of security. But Dorcas had been sitting there in the grey concrete cubicle, watching, as if she had known from the very beginning that he would come to get her. And whilst an Irish wolfhound was neither small nor fluffy, one look at her and Roman had not been able to stand the thought of such a glorious creature trapped in a cage. If he had been a more self-aware man, if, perhaps, he had had anything on his mind other than vengeance, he might have understood his decision better.
But as Roman stalked through the trees on his first reconnaissance of the woods where he knew he would find his prey—maybe tomorrow or the day after—he allowed himself to imagine the moment that victory would be his. That finally, after almost twenty years, he would make the old bastard pay for what he had done.
It was a sweet feeling, almost euphoric, rushing through his mind. Sublime in the sense that everything he’d ever wanted was nearly his, yet could easily be taken away at any moment. And it was while he was lost in that delicious imagining that Roman first laid eyes on his prey.
He stopped short. His breath stolen from his lungs.
For there she was, walking through the forest at this ungodly hour of the morning as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of his mother’s favourite fairy tale. His eyes snagged on the black ball gown visible through the opening of a scarlet velvet cloak. The hood had fallen back to reveal the creamy swanlike curve of her neck, framed by tendrils of blonde hair
that had escaped a complicated plaited knot. She was exquisitely beautiful. He’d known that, of course, from the photographs and extensive research he’d had his people compile. But nothing had prepared him for the effect of seeing her in person.
His swift gaze crossed her features back and forth, hunting for a blemish or flaw, but none were detectable beneath the overall impression of perfection. His pulse thrummed as he took in high cheekbones that perfectly framed an oval-shaped face, high arched brows that gave as much space as possible to large cornflower-blue eyes. Desire wound through him, as unwelcome as it was fierce, and he cursed this unexpected weakness within himself. The delicate arms holding the cloak against her waist looked almost vulnerable and for a moment he debated whether to stop, to turn back. But he knew he wouldn’t.
She looked impossibly innocent—no sign of the hard edges that he had been forced to develop by her age of twenty-two years. How that had been achieved under the guidance of such a monster as Vladimir Kolikov he simply couldn’t fathom, and as such cast it aside as an impossibility. Her beauty, her apparent innocence, was simply fancy dressing around one thing and one thing only.
The key to his revenge.
* * *
Exhaustion had settled deep into her bones and Ella barely knew where her feet were stepping. But years of summers spent walking the forest that bordered her grandmother’s cottage had left the path indelibly inked on her mind and body. Her grandmother. Ella’s heart ached, worry and grief twisting in her chest like a living thing. She had been at a party in Moscow when she’d received the phone call informing her that her grandmother had been found unconscious at the bottom of the stairs in her cottage and taken to hospital. Ella’s mind had gone instantly blank and if it hadn’t been for her guardian she didn’t know what she would have done. He’d arranged for a car to retrieve her from the birthday party of the British Ambassador to Russia, a private jet to fly her to an airfield just outside of Limoux, and another car to take her to the hospital.
If any of the hospital staff had thought it odd that she had arrived dressed in a ball gown and velvet cloak, none had said as such. The doctor had explained that her grandmother had suffered a broken hip and fractured shoulder from the fall but the knock to her head had been what had worried him the most. Strange medical terminology, stretching her usually quite good hold on the French language, had made her want to shake the man and demand he tell her that her grandmother was going to be okay. But after nearly thirteen hours in the hospital, Claudette hadn’t yet regained consciousness and the medical staff had ushered Ella out of the building to get some rest. And to change. Because if she’d looked dishevelled when she’d first arrived, Lord knew what she looked like now.
When she’d asked the taxi to stop on the other side of the woods, she’d given no thought to her clothing. Instead she’d wanted to make her way to her grandmother’s cottage on the path that felt achingly familiar and yet strange and unknowable at this time in the morning. But the hems of the cloak and dress had dragged along the floor, soaking up the damp earth, making them impossibly heavy. As the material caught on twigs and thorns, Ella felt as if she were battling something physical, not just emotional, on her journey back to her grandmother’s.
She pulled up short, wanting to wrench the damn thing from her shoulders, wanting to wail and shout and cry all at once. She forced herself to breathe in a long, slow breath, in and out. She had almost recovered when she heard the snap of a twig. The hairs on the skin of her arms rose in the early morning air, sending tingles and shivers down her back. Casting a glance around her, Ella’s gaze snagged on something in the dense foliage and she took half a step towards the bush before she saw the gleam of yellow eyes staring at her. Before she could run, the beast crashed out of the tree cover and loped towards her in an alarmingly lazy gait that covered the distance between them in seconds and, just as it was about to pounce, she closed her eyes and—
‘Dorcas, sit!’
Prising her eyes open, she watched as the massive beast careened to a halt barely a foot from Ella and sat on its hind legs, tongue lolling out of its mouth and a look of almost indescribable happiness at having found something for its master spread across its wolfish features.
An almost hysterical laugh of relief bubbled in her chest, until it caught there the moment she saw the beast’s owner making his way towards her.
He was over six feet fall, more lean and lithe than broad, his every step almost graceful as he wove his way through the trees. Ella’s heart thudded in her chest the moment he locked eyes with her, trapping her gaze as easily as the breath in her lungs. Longish dark hair swept carelessly around his head and hung down towards a low brow that appeared almost forbidding. Assessing eyes, squinting slightly against the pale morning sun, were a shocking shade of light blue, almost yellow, as if he shared some kinship with the animal which sat at her feet. Lips that were neither thick nor too thin made her wonder whether they would feel as perfect as they appeared to her... The fanciful thought momentarily startled her before she hungrily ate up what else she could see of him. The sharp edges of his cheekbones and jawline were strong and proud, and Ella’s eyes tripped down to where the collar of his grey linen shirt peeked above a deep rich blue pullover, revealing a glimpse of the hollow that she inexplicably wanted to press her thumb to.
Ella’s heart pounded in her chest. Never had a man had such an effect on her before. And never had her mind betrayed her with the errant thought that rang through her entire being.
This man is going to break my heart.
The shock and sheer ridiculousness of the thought made her shake her head, causing the figure to stop in his tracks. Ella used the brief respite to breathe. Despite his imposing stature, she couldn’t sense any form of threat coming from him.
‘I’m sorry about Dorcas—she gets excited when we meet other people.’
At this, the beast—Dorcas—decided its master’s command had been lifted and she unfolded her giant frame and came close enough to nudge Ella’s hand with her nose. As Ella absentmindedly stroked the huge hound, it took a moment for her tired mind to understand the source of her confusion because, although she understood him completely, she couldn’t quite understand why he’d spoken in Russian.
Interpreting her confusion, the man pressed on. ‘Je suis désolé, vous m’avez surpris.’
He smiled apologetically, as if this strange encounter were his fault and not hers for walking through the woods at some awful hour of the morning dressed in...dressed in... Oh, God! Ella almost groaned, but turned it into a rueful laugh.
‘Perhaps we could continue in English, if you speak it. It’s been a...long day.’
‘It is only six o’clock in the morning, so I must assume a very long day.’ He looked her over and she suddenly realised that he could quite easily misinterpret the reason for her appearance, which made her think of all the reasons she was in the woods in a ball gown and red velvet cape after spending twelve hours by her grandmother’s bedside.
The forest’s dew had soaked into the cloak and, more than its heaviness, she now felt cold. Cold and hungry and tired. But as she began to shiver she realised that it was not from the damp or the temperature, but the effect of being this man’s sole focus.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked gently, as if not wanting to scare her further.
‘My grandmother’s house. It’s just up the path and not far.’