The Price Of His Redemption

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a62dfdd4-1ade-5fa1-90ac-c2db3710a7fa)

TECHNICALLY, LIBBY TENNENT LIED.

She had made it through the gold glass revolving doors and had walked across the impressive marble floor and was just at the elevators when a uniformed security guard halted her and asked where she was going. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Zverev,’ Libby said.

‘Perhaps you do, but before you can take the elevator, first you have to sign in at Reception.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Libby responded airily, trying to look as if she had simply forgotten the procedure.

Everything about the place was imposing.

It was a luxurious Mayfair address and, even before the taxi had pulled up at the smart building, Libby had realised that getting in to see Daniil Zverev might not prove the cinch that her father had insisted it would be.

Libby walked over to the reception desk and repeated her story to a very good-looking receptionist, saying that she had an appointment to see Mr Zverev, silently hoping that the woman wouldn’t notice that the appointment was, in fact, for her father, Lindsey Tennent.

‘And your name?’

‘Ms Tennent.’ Libby watched as the receptionist typed in the details and saw that her eyes narrowed just a fraction as she looked at the computer screen.

‘One moment, please.’

She picked up the phone and relayed the information. ‘I have a Ms Tennent here. She says that she has an appointment with Mr Zverev.’ There was a moment’s pause and then she looked at Libby. ‘Your first name?’

‘Libby,’ she said, but then, realising that given the way the security was in this place she was likely to be asked for official ID, she amended, ‘Short for Elizabeth.’

Libby tried to appear calm and avoided curling a stray strand of her blond hair around her finger or tapping her feet, as she did not want to appear nervous.

She was nervous, though. Well, not so much nervous, more uncomfortable that she had agreed to do this.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to because the receptionist shook her head as she replaced the phone. ‘Mr Zverev cannot see you.’

‘Excuse me?’ Libby blinked, not only at the refusal but that it came with no apology or explanation. ‘What do you mean, I have—?’

‘Mr Zverev only sees people by strict appointment and, Ms Tennent, you don’t have one.’

‘But I do.’

The receptionist shook her head. ‘It is a Mr Lindsey Tennent who has a 6:00 p.m. appointment. If he was unable to make it then he should have called ahead to see if sending a replacement was suitable—Mr Zverev doesn’t just see anyone.’

Libby knew when she was beaten. She had rather hoped they might not notice the discrepancy—as most places wouldn’t. She was almost tempted to apologise for the confusion and leave, but her father had broken down in tears when he’d asked her to do this for him. Knowing just how much was riding on this meeting, she forced herself to stand her ground. She pulled herself as tall as her petite five-foot-three frame would allow and looked the receptionist squarely in the eye.

‘My father was involved in an car accident earlier today, which is the reason that he couldn’t make it, and sent me as a replacement. Now, can you please let Mr Zverev know that I’m here and ready to meet with him? He knows very well the reason for my visit, or perhaps you’d like me to clarify that here?’

The receptionist glanced at whoever was standing behind Libby and then to the left of her. Clearly Libby had a small audience. The receptionist must have decided that the foyer wasn’t the place to discuss the great man’s business because she gave a tight shrug.

‘One moment.’

Another phone call was made, though out of Libby’s earshot, and eventually the immaculate woman returned and gave Libby a visitor’s pass. Finally she was permitted past the guarded barrier that existed around Daniil Zverev.

The elevator door was held open for her and she stepped in.

Even the elevator was luxurious. The carpet was thick beneath her feet. There was no piped music, just cool air and subdued lighting, which was very welcome on a hot summer evening after a mad dash across London to get here.

She should never have let her father talk into this, she thought.

In fact, she hadn’t. When Libby had said yes to trying to persuade this man to come along to his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary celebration, it had been a Daniel Thomas she had expected to be meeting.

But just as she had been about to leave her father had called her back.

‘Oh, there’s something I forgot to tell you.’

Her father, who had been begging Libby to the point of tears, had then looked a touch uncomfortable and evasive. ‘He goes under a different name now.’

‘Sorry?’ Libby had had no idea what he was talking about.

‘Or rather it would seem that Daniel Thomas has recently reverted to his real name—Daniil Zverev. He was adopted.’

‘Well, if he’s gone back to his birth name, clearly there’s a serious rift. I’m not going to interfere...’

‘Libby, please,’ her father begged. ‘All Zverev has to do is show up and make a speech.’

A speech? The list of demands for Daniil had again increased. Show up, dance with aunts, be sociable, and now she had to ask him to make a speech!

No, Libby was not comfortable with this at all. She lived in her own dreamy bubble where the role of negotiator didn’t exist. She was very forthright, in that she had an expressive face and a tendency to say what she was thinking. She also, to her parents’ disquiet, had always refused to quietly toe the line.

‘You never said anything about him having to make a speech.’

‘Can you just talk to him for me, Libby? Please!’

Why the hell had she said yes?

Of course, she had looked Daniil up on her taxi ride here. Her father had said that face-to-face he was sure that Libby would be able to appeal to his conscience but it would seem, from her brief skim through several articles, that the esteemed financier previously known as Daniel Thomas didn’t have one.

It was, one article observed, as if he saw everyone as the opposition and would step over whomever he had to if it meant he achieved his aim.

As for women—well, it would take far longer than a thirty-minute taxi ride to read up on that part of his history! The word heartbreaker was thrown around a lot. User. From what Libby could glean, his longest, for the want of a word, relationship had been a two-week affair with a German supermodel, who had been left devastated by their sudden ending.

Well, what did these women expect? Libby had thought when she’d read how some considered the break-up to have been cruel.

Why would anyone ever get involved with him?

Libby had never been one for one-night stands but it would seem Daniil Zverev was a master of them. She was cautious in relationships, never quite believing men who said that her dancing wouldn’t get in the way and that they had no issue with the hours she devoted to her art.

Always she had been proved right to be cautious. Invariably the reasons for the break-ups were the same—that she was obsessed with ballet, self-absorbed and hardly ever free to go out.

Correct.

She’d told them the same at the start.