Secrets After Dark Read Online Free PDF Page A

comfortable. It’s all done in very good taste, but there’s nothing unusual about it. I suppose I’ve been a bit spoiled by being around Mark: everything he owns expresses character and charm, wit and intelligence. But now I see it’s perfectly possible to have lots of money and like everything to be as bland as can be.
    We have stopped in front of a pair of large white doors inlaid with gilt. The butler is knocking discreetly, then pressing down the golden handle and the door is opening. He is stepping inside, murmuring, ‘ Monsieur Palliser est arrivé, monsieur .’
    Then we are entering the room beyond. The first impression is of light. There are tall windows overlooking the garden through which the liquid sunshine spills in. I’m not accustomed to the brightness after the shady hall, and I blink. On the walls are blobs of colour, begging for attention. As my vision clears, I realise there are wonderful works of art on every wall, famous ones or else created by unmistakeable hands.
    Isn’t that a Renoir? And a Seurat? Oh my God...
    I resist the impulse to go over to them, and the next moment my attention is drawn to the heart of the room where there is a core of energy that cannot be ignored. A man is standing there, one hand pressing a mobile phone to his ear, the other in the pocket of his loose linen trousers.
    So that’s him. Dominic’s boss. Maybe that’s Dominic on the other end of the line... The possibility makes me feel trembly and loose-limbed. But he’s speaking Russian. I’m sure he’d talk to Dominic in English.
    Dubrovski waves at Mark and points towards the armchairs scattered around the room. He hasn’t noticed me at all, it seems, so I’m able to take in what he looks like. He’s taller than I imagined, not at all the short, stocky-looking mafia boss I’d painted in my imagination. Instead of a black suit and sunglasses, he’s wearing a summery white linen shirt over the baggy trousers and a pair of shabby deck shoes. He’s not dark but fair: hair once blond that’s darkened to gold-specked brown, with shards of grey at the temples. Mark leads the way and sits down, and I take the chair next to him. Dubrovski is talking away in Russian, his voice absolutely compelling despite the fact I cannot understand a word. It’s rough with a gravelly undertone, as though he’s smoked a million cigarettes, or sung so loudly and often that he’s cracked his voice into a permanent hoarseness. And it’s loud and commanding, the kind of voice that’s accustomed to being obeyed. He speaks, and people snap to it. No wonder he’s made such a fortune.
    His conversation comes to an end and he turns to face us full on for the first time. He has the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever seen: pale but fierce. I hardly notice the prominent nose, the broad expressive mouth and the jutting chin, I can’t take my eyes off that powerful gaze. But it’s so cold. There’s nothing tender or even smiling in it.
    ‘Mark!’ He walks towards us, his hand outstretched, still unsmiling. Mark leaps up and takes it, and they shake hands vigorously. His English is only faintly accented and sounds more American than Russian. I’d been expecting the full Bond villain voice, and he sounds more like the hero. ‘Great to see you. How are you?’
    ‘Wonderful, Andrei, and delighted to be here.’
    I’ve stood up too, mesmerised by the incredible energy that emanates from the man when he stands up close. He turns that brilliant blue gaze on me and I feel incredibly small and unimportant. A chill goes through me as I register how icy it is.
    Doesn’t he ever smile?
    ‘My new assistant, Beth Villiers,’ Mark says smoothly. ‘She’s my right-hand woman.’
    He grunts but doesn’t bother saying anything to me. He turns his attention immediately back to Mark and I’m relieved he’s taken that intense stare off me.
    ‘I’m glad you could come, Mark,’ he says. He seems agitated. Perhaps that’s normal for him.