Actuary in Trouble Read online

  The Actuary in Trouble

  The Calculated Risk Series

  K T Bowes

  Published by Hakarimata Press

  Copyright 2016

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  Four heroes to fall in love with and four mysteries to make your mind spin.

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  Acknowledgement

  This novel is dedicated to a lady who had a massive influence on my thirties and prayed for me every morning at nine o’clock. I underestimated the power of those prayers and felt the lack of them when she died and interceded for me no longer.

  Peggy Rapps taught me what grace and goodness looked like in the flesh and if I conjure up her face in my memory; everything else is eclipsed by her beautiful smile. She was one of the very best things about living in Market Harborough and I hope she won’t be too mortified about my fictional renovations of her apartment on Northampton Road.

  I suspect right now that she’s sorting out heaven from the comfort of her armchair and laying place cards bearing the names of her family, ready for the wedding feast at the coming of the King.

  She loved intrigue and excitement and had a wonderful view of the world. I wish I could tell her I’d finally written it all down.

  Chapter 1

  “Why won’t you tell me?” Emma postured, hands on hips and full lips pulled taut across her mouth. “You looked desperate to spill the gossip yesterday. What’s different today?”

  The tall Irishman screwed up his face and turned his body sideways, deflecting Emma’s perceptive gaze. “That was yesterday. And besides, the cop was right der in da kitchen. It isn’t easy having him showing up all the time.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. “He’s my manager’s son and he can visit at any time.” She jabbed a finger at the Irishman. “And you won’t be doing anything likely to pique his interest, will you, Christopher? So it won’t matter.”

  “Er, no, I don’t think so.” His weak smile was unconvincing.

  “So, tell me the big news,” Emma demanded, leaning her butt against the Aga. The warmth filtered through her maternity jeans like a sunburst and she shivered at the instant comfort. “What made you run along the hallway like a fishwife with a juicy piece of gossip.”

  “Aw, nuthin’ really,” Christopher said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “There’s doves nestin’ in da roof of da folly is all. I thought you’d want to know.” He ran a hand through the dark waves which surged across his head, a speckling of stubble beginning along his jawline and joining up on his chin. Mischievous brown eyes sparkled in his handsome face and a vein ticked just above his shirt collar.

  “Liar!” Emma spat. “Something’s going on and I will find out.” Fear crossed her expression like a scudding cloud. “It’s Rohan, isn’t it? He’s taken another job as The Actuary.” She chewed her bottom lip and anxiety filled her breast. “He promised he wouldn’t.”

  “No!” Christopher exclaimed. “Yer husband’s word is his bond. He said he’d punch my lights out and he did. Left me for dead, so he did. See, he means what he says.”

  “So what’s the big secret?” Emma begged. “You have to tell me.”

  “No, I don’t.” Christopher crossed the room in three strides and fixed his strong arms around her. He pressed his lips to her forehead with a fraternal kiss and then let go. “Stop worrying.” He opened the fridge door and pushed his face inside, rustling wrappers and poking at tubs balanced on the shelves. Emerging with a chicken wing he closed the stainless steel door with his shapely bum and winked at Emma. “There’s nothin’ to fear. Promise.”

  The kitchen door closed behind him and Emma forced herself to relax. Shaking fingers stroked the budding pregnancy which rose from her pelvis in a gentle arc and forced her into maternity jeans. “What are those men up to now?” she sighed. The warmth from the Aga soothed the backs of her legs and worked its magic into the aching small of her spine. Emma leaned her head back on her shoulders and closed tired eyes as her mind sifted through recent events. The scar on her neck from a knife attack smarted, reminding her how Rohan’s last job ended and she strengthened her resolve. He promised he’d be satisfied with a desk job as an actuary, but Christopher’s excitement the day before made her doubt. “I’ll bloody kill you,” she whispered. “There’s more at stake than just you now.”

  Strong fingers snaked around her hips and she smelled the familiar masculine scent which made her heart race. “Da?” he asked, his voice husky as his lips grazed the exposed underside of Emma’s jaw and a smooth, shaved cheek brushed against her soft skin. “Who will you kill?”

  “You.” Emma turned and fixed her gaze on the brilliant blue eyes which widened in surprise. Rohan Andreyev blinked once and then his pupils dilated, making his irises dance and sparkle as his eyes darkened.

  “Do it slowly then, comrade,” he whispered, bowing his blonde head to let his lips cover hers. “Slow and painful, with lots of screaming.” His breath felt hot on her face and Emma’s anxiety melted against her husband’s obvious desire. “Come upstairs with me. We can die together.” He pulled Emma’s hands away from the warm Aga and fixed them around his waist, pushing his body against hers. His hands got to work massaging her neck and the back of her head, his heavily accented whispers an aphrodisiac in their own league. “Syn is out for the night with friends, bloody Irishman just left and Ray went to town to see family. Come.” He ceased his ministrations and tugged at Emma’s hand, urgency in his face.

  Her lips twitched with the unasked question but then relaxed into a smile. “Ok.”

  The old house creaked and shuddered in the last of the winter storms as Rohan Andreyev clutched his wife’s hand and led her through the darkening corridors of the old mansion. Predating the Norman Conquest in 1066, it enfolded the Andreyevs in its bosom, thousands of square metres of living space being painstakingly renovated room by room. Emma smiled at her Russian husband in the gathering dusk, his haste masked by a limp which hindered his stride, despite his efforts to hide it.

  At the bottom of the stairs he pushed her up ahead, maintaining his grasp on her fingers so she turned to face him on the first step. “Ladies first,” he whispered, fixing his long arms around Emma’s waist. He dragged her into him and she smiled, pressing her lips over his and enjoying matching his extreme height.

  Her mouth tantalised Rohan’s senses, making him gasp for breath as she slipped her tongue between his full lips and let it dance with his. Soft fingers caressed the skin around the collar of his shirt and Emma deepened the kiss, feeling Rohan’s body tighten against hers. Once she possessed him she drew back, feeling his disappointment and confusion. Slipping her fingers through the buttons of her blouse, she popped the first five open, exposing a lacy bra which barely contained breasts that swelled daily with pregnancy induced hormones. His lips parted and pleasure turned his blue eyes to a stormy grey in the poor light.

  “Nyet!” Rohan jumped in alarm and swore, staring at his left trouser pocket in betrayal.

  “No!” Emma lurched for his phone and battled to yank it from his pocket, holding it between finger and thumb and backing up the stairs. She peered at the buttons as the screen flashed and an English sounding name beginning with ‘W’ scrolled across the screen. “Not now.” She dangled it over the bannister, watching Rohan’s face change from regret to annoyance.

  “Don’t, Em.”

  “I will,” she threatened. “Call them back later or I’ll drop it.”

  Something flitted across Rohan’s face, an almost impercep
tible emotion which Emma failed to read. It came and went, a threat of foreboding and she halted three steps away from him, fear beginning its familiar flutter in her breast. She held the phone out and he clasped it, strong fingers belonging to a tanned hand with blue veins standing out beneath blonde hairs. Emma held her breath, searching Rohan’s face as he pressed buttons until the screen went dark, shoving the device back into his front trouser pocket.

  He inhaled and Emma watched him replace the mask of indifference before looking up, his eyes regaining their sultry anticipation. Emma shook her head, the mood ruined but Rohan raised an eyebrow in challenge. He began the climb up to the first floor, gripping the bannister in his left hand and stepping with his left leg, bringing up the unwilling right side with an expertise born of practice. On the step below Emma’s he drew level, their faces close. She felt his soft breath against her skin, peppermint and warm. He leaned in, administering a soft nip to her lower lip while snaking his right arm around her waist. “Stop doubting me, devotchka,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  Emma nodded and swallowed the panic in her throat. She closed her eyes against the soft kisses on her cheeks and the whispers of promise in her ear, allowing her husband to herd her to the four poster bed in the opulent master bedroom. Rohan undressed her, his fingers kind as they breached clasps and buttons until her full breasts spilled into his palms and her burgeoning pregnancy pressed against the scratchy zipper of his trousers. His eyes never left her face, reading her and processing her inner fears like a mathematical formula being run through a computer program. The answer was always the same.

  Emma didn’t trust him.

  Chapter 2

  The fire in the huge grate cast a dusky glow over the furniture, turning the dark oak black and giving the room an ethereal hue. Emma shifted her head on Rohan’s chest, feeling his body shiver as her long curls caressed his flesh. With a lazy finger she traced the outline of a shrapnel scar on his stomach, knowing by heart its jagged, winding route but tracing it through an innate compulsion.

  “I regret so many things.” Rohan’s low, gravelly accent broke the silence, fracturing Emma’s peace like a hatchet blow.

  “What?” Alarmed, she raised her head and sought his vibrant blue eyes in the flickering light. “What do you regret? Us? Me?” Self-preservation dictated the pitch and tone of her question and Rohan brushed her rebellious fringe away from her forehead.

  “No, dorogaya. Not you. I regret my conduct only.”

  Emma moved so she could study his face, searching for the threat of rejection in his strong jawline or the glittering diamond blue of his irises. Her sitting distracted Rohan, his eyes roving over the silky smooth skin of her breasts and stomach as she sat between his arm and ribs and faced him. The firelight played across her nakedness and Rohan sighed and fixed his gaze on the ceiling high above his head. Emma nudged his hip with hers and the sheet slithered away from both of them.

  “Relax, devotchka,” he soothed, tugging at the soft fabric. When Emma kept hold of her end he relented and lay in the half light, his muscular chest like a brick wall against the mattress. She lifted her hand and traced a line from his hip to his navel, feeling the lumps and bumps of the scars which almost killed him.

  “What do you regret?” she demanded, her voice gritty with fear.

  “I regret lying to Mama about falling in love with my step-sister,” he replied and Emma inhaled, his answer unexpected. “So much of my life has been intrigue and deceit and I wonder if it could’ve been different.”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know, Rohan. We were children thrust together in a blended family by adults who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. I don’t regret the secrecy but I’m amazed it never blew up in our faces.”

  Rohan nodded. “Didn’t it? I think sometimes that Mama knew.”

  Emma stroked the line of hair below Rohan’s navel, smoothing her palm across his flat stomach. A smile touched her lips. “She didn’t. We fell in love, eloped to Gretna Green and married, all without interference. Even when you were deployed to Afghanistan and she discovered my pregnancy, she still didn’t realise you were Nicky’s father.”

  “Da, and that’s why I feel guilty.” Rohan’s exhale shook the bed. “She had a grandson and didn’t know until it was too late.”

  Emma winced. “Ro, I didn’t have a choice. She wanted to force me to abort my son. What did you expect me to do?”

  “Nyet, no blame.” Rohan sat up using his stomach muscles and Emma turned, dangling her foot over the bed. Coldness seeped up her leg, the heat from the fire leaving a void outside the range of its glow. His long arms reached out to pull her into an awkward embrace which bent her spine sideways. “Der was nothing we could do. I torture myself with the hope she might have accepted my syn if she’d known. It’s just fantasy, Em. My regret is not giving her the opportunity.”

  Emma shook her head and rolled her eyes against Rohan’s collarbone. It seemed pointless reminding him that Alanya’s medicinal herbs ended the lives of children and husbands alike. Her brand of maternalism involved poisoning and death. “I don’t want to go over it again,” Emma sighed. “We can’t change anything. Anton rescued me and made me promise to keep my baby away from his mother, which also meant no contact with you. You have us now, Ro. We need to look forward, not back.” Emma ran her palm across the growing mound below her belly button. “You can watch this baby be born and take its first smile and steps. It has to be good enough, Ro. I can’t give you back six years of Nicky’s life, so it’s this, or nothing.” The veiled threat hung over them both and Emma registered it at the same time it exited her lips.

  Rohan’s eyes became hard like ice, his expression changing as he pushed Emma upright, holding her shoulders in his strong hands. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice shaking. He released her left shoulder and ran his index finger down her cheek, following her jaw line to brush across her bottom lip. “Never say that. You’re all I have left.”

  Emma nodded and swallowed, seeing the heartbreak behind Rohan’s curved eyelashes. “You’re grieving,” she whispered. “It’s normal, Ro. Your mother’s death was unexpected and after losing Anton too, it’s hit you doubly hard.” Emma wrapped her arms around his neck and inhaled the familiar scent of him, aftershave and male. She scooted closer, pressing her breasts against his bare chest and sensing him relax.

  “But she died in prison,” Rohan said, his voice bitter. “A murderess.”

  Emma squeezed him harder, her own fears pushed aside. “I know, baby. I know.”

  Rohan Andreyev wouldn’t cry. Emma doubted he knew how. Watching their families grafted together without skill from the age of six, Emma grew up with the Russian brothers in her life and never saw Rohan cry. His younger brother, effeminate and tender, cried like a girl over anything which tugged his heart strings; movies, sad stories, death. But he laughed with abandon also, his acting ability making it difficult for Emma to know when it was truth or charade.

  Thinking of Anton felt like picking at a loose scab, the wound underneath still fragile. Her saviour, gone without warning. Emma struggled with her own emotions, hiding her face in Rohan’s blonde hair and waiting for her equilibrium to right itself. Her husband’s emotional candidness flashed warnings in her brain and wariness replaced grief.

  “Is everything ok?” she asked, her tone guarded. “Is there something I need to know?”

  “Da,” Rohan replied, pushing her upright. His vulnerability back under control, he smiled at her, his blonde hair tickling her cheek as he nibbled the soft flesh beneath her ear lobe and nuzzled the ligament in her neck. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

  Emma sighed, recognising the Russian phonetics as she stroked a soft blonde curl at the back of Rohan’s neck. “I love you too,” she replied, meaning it and hoping it was enough to get her through the storm she sensed rolling across the horizon.

  Chapter 3

  “Mummy! I’m home!” The front door closed and there was a scuffling sound befor
e running feet padded down the hallway to the kitchen. Emma lifted her face, the smile already brightening her persona and she half stood to greet her son.

  “Hey, baby,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. He ran around the table, his coat flapping over his hips and pushed his face into Emma’s stomach. Nicky’s slender arms wrapped around her waist in his usual excited greeting and Emma breathed in the outdoor chill which rose from his clothing. “Where’re Allaine and Kaylee?”

  “Coming.” Nicky’s voice sounded muffled against Emma’s fleece. “But I wanted you first.” He gave a final squeeze and turned, trotting back to the kitchen door. Yanking it open, he yelled down the echoing corridor, “I’m in the kitchen.”

  Emma heard a faint reply and then the light patter of a female tread. “Nicky,” she hissed, coupling her rebuke with a look of sympathy. “Please don’t leave guests at the front door, sweetheart. It’s rude.”

  Her son’s brow furrowed as he processed her words before nodding. “Ok. I just wanted to see you first and make sure you was happy.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Emma asked, resting her fingers on the dimpled wood and feeling wrong-footed.

  “Coz you sometimes get sad,” Nicky replied and Emma swallowed, forcing a stupid grin on her face as a little girl with swinging pigtails danced into the room. Purple swinging pigtails.

  “We lost you,” she announced with a giggle and Nicky glanced towards Emma with a look of guilt on his face. “This house is massive.”

  “Where’s Mummy?” Emma asked, staring at the door in expectation of her friend’s arrival and sneaking a sideways look at the purple hair.

  “I’m here.” Allaine breezed through the kitchen door, closing it behind her. The heat from the Aga hit her like a humid wall and she shrugged out of her winter coat, revealing a slender body and gentle face with the inner beauty gifted by her Swedish forebears. She jerked her head towards Kaylee’s purple pigtails and waggled her eyebrows. “Don’t ask,” she whispered. “Wash-in-wash-out hair dye which apparently doesn’t wash out.”