SLAVE TO YOUR LOVE
The cold, dull, gray English day around them had been so depressingly real, she’d almost wondered if Bora Bora, the yacht in the Adriatic, the terrace in Milan, and everything that had happened between them had been no more than a fevered dream.
The attorneys had been real, however, sliding papers at her one after the next in the coffee shop near her flat. She’d signed the last five years of her life away with every pen stroke. At his command. With his blessing.
Andrey Romanoff, who never gave in, who had never heard the word no, had let her go, at last. Just as she’d told him to do, she’d reminded herself. Just as she’d asked. And then she’d gone back home, carefully taken the tin that held
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