The Russian Billionaire: A Romantic Suspense Novel by Georgia Carre (readict .TXT) 📕

I stare out of the window in awe. No Skyscrapers. There are rolling green fields around us dotted with grazing sheep! It all feels so unreal. To think that only a few hours ago I was in New York. Now it is thousands of miles away. Another world.

“How long before we get to London?” I ask.

He looks at his watch. “We’ll be there by 7:50 p.m.”

Eventually, the roadway gives way to a dual highway, which then becomes a big busy road.

“We are now coming into London,” Konstantin murmurs.

He names the areas as we pass through them. Earls Court, West Kensington, Knightsbridge. London is as different from New York as cake is different from steak. There are no skyscrapers made of glossy glass and steel anywhere. All I see are wonderful and often intricate stone masonry everywhere. The buildings are works of art, evidence of a form of expert craftsmanship that is lost forever.

“Oh my God, Harrods,” I cry, as I recognize the iconic building lit up. I suddenly realize I’m behaving like an overly excited child and sneak a look at him. I find him watching me curiously.

“Sorry, I’m not usually so unsophisticated,” I mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be sorry. It is refreshing to see someone so appreciative of life. I’m afraid all the people I deal with take great pains to appear world-weary.” His mouth twists. “It’s not as charming as they think it is.”

I smile shyly at him. “That’s good. Because you may see many occasions when I actually spontaneously explode with excitement.”

He grins back. It’s the first time I have ever seen him smile so openly. Usually, he is distant, measured, wary. Almost as if he distrusts me.

I turn back towards the window. For some weird reason my heart is singing. We pass by Hyde Park, London’s own Central park, and turn onto Mayfair and the car comes to a stop outside Claridges Hotel. There are art deco lamps on either side of the revolving doors. Two doormen in top hats, green ties, and long coats standing on either side of them come to help open our doors.

“Good evening, Mr. Tsarnov, Miss,” they greet, their voices crisp, their accents deliciously foreign.

We enter a lofty cream and off-white foyer with the iconic Masonic black and white square tile floor. I look around me in awe. It is pure British pomp with a twist of art deco. Reminders of a more dignified age. The strains of violins playing classical music fills the air.

Apparently, there is no need for us to book in. Everything has already been arranged by his assistants, or Konstantin has some sort of standing agreement. He walks through the vast space like he owns it.

Between the tall pillars are tables with people sitting and eating and drinking. The sounds of the voices float over to me. I cannot see them, but it almost seems to me as if they would be dressed in clothes that belong to a different era.

And then we reach the elevator and it is really like being frozen in time. It is made of wrought-iron with a comfy looking seat and a uniformed attendant. He too greets Konstantin by name.

We are booked in a penthouse suite. It has antique furniture and a grand piano! To my surprise I find out the suite comes with a personal butler. My gaze takes in the vases of fresh flowers and the bucket of champagne on ice laid out on one of the tables. While Konstantin deals with the butler, I walk over to the terrace. It has a superb view of London. It is nearly eight o’clock, dusk is falling over the city and the air is getting chilly. I can hardly believe I am here. It feels like a dream.

I take my phone out and text my mom.

Arrived in London.

In the hotel now.

It’s fantastic, mom. Just fantastic.

I know u are at work now.

Skype me when you get home?

I love, love, love you. xxxx

Raine

I hear a sound behind me and turn slightly. Konstantin is walking towards me. In his hands he carries two champagne filled flutes. He holds a glass out to me. This truly is the champagne lifestyle.

“May your trip to London be memorable.”

“It already is,” I murmur. “To be honest, it is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.”

He frowns. “Really?”

I nod and take a sip.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

His eyes never leave mine. “You never found anyone to lose your virginity to?”

I’m not about to tell him, I’ve never had the time. Ever since I was fifteen Madison has been in and out of hospital and Mom and me have been working all the hours God sends to pay her medical bills. I even left school early to bring in more money into the household.

“Nope,” I say with a grin that I hope will put matters to a rest.

“Hmmm,” he says thoughtfully. “We should get ready for dinner. Our table is booked for eight thirty.”

“Where are we going? What should I wear?”

“It’s just a private club around the corner from here. So nothing too fancy.”

My eyebrows rise. “Just a private club for billionaires?”

To my surprise a slight tinge of color touches his cheekbones. I have embarrassed him.

“Something like that,” he mutters, and quickly changes the subject. “There are two bathrooms. You can get ready in one and I’ll use the other.” Then he moves away.

I turn back to the magnificent view of London and take another sip of champagne. Sounds of people from the street below filter up. As the bubbles burst on my tongue I try to memorize the moment in my head. For the rest of my life I will remember this amazing moment when I stood on the rooftop terrace of the world famous Claridges hotel and drank champagne on my own.

Ten minutes later, I’ve showered in the fabulously luxurious marble bathroom, and smelling of the mango and passion fruit shower gel, I slip into my