Kitabı oku: «The Greek's Secret Son»

CHAPTER ONE

A FINE DRIZZLE was threatening. Low cloud loured over the country churchyard and the wintry air was damp and chill as Christine stood beside the freshly dug grave. Grief tore at her for the kindly man who had come to her rescue when the one man on earth she’d most craved had been lost to her. But now Vasilis Kyrgiakis was gone, his heart having finally failed as it had long threatened to do. Turning her from wife to widow.

The word tolled in her mind as she stood, head bowed, a lonely figure. Everyone had been very kind to her for Vasilis had been well regarded, even though she was aware that it had been cause for comment that she had been so much younger than her middle-aged husband. But since the most prominent family in the neighbourhood, the Barcourts, had accepted their Greek-born neighbour and his young wife, so had everyone else.

For her part, Christine had been fiercely loyal—grateful—to her husband, even at this final office for him, and felt her eyes misting with tears as the vicar spoke the words of the committal and the coffin was lowered slowly into the grave.

‘We therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection...’

The vicar gave his final blessing and then he was guiding her away, with the soft thud of earth falling on wood behind her.

Eyes blurred, she felt herself stumble suddenly, lifting her head to steady herself. Her gaze darted outwards, to the lychgate across the churchyard, where so lately her husband’s body had rested before its slow procession from the hearse beyond into the church.

And she froze, with a sense of arctic chill.

A car had drawn up beside the hearse—black, too, with dark-tinted windows. And standing beside it, his suit as black as the hearse, his figure tall, unmoving, was a man she knew well. A man she had not seen for five long years.

The last man in the world she wanted to see again.

* * *

Anatole stood motionless, watching the scene play out in the churchyard. Emotions churned within him, but his gaze was fixed only on the slight, slender figure, all in black, standing beside the priest in his long white robe at the open grave of his uncle. The uncle he had not seen—had refused to see—since the unbelievable folly of his marriage.

Anger stabbed at him.

At himself.

At the woman who had trapped his vulnerable uncle into marrying her.

He still did not know how, and it had been his fault that she had done so.

I did not see what ambition I was engendering.

It was an ambition that had spawned her own attempt to trap him—when thwarted, she had catastrophically turned on his hapless uncle. The uncle who—a life-long bachelor, a mild-mannered scholar, with none of the wary suspicions that Anatole himself had cultivated throughout his life—had proved an easy target for her.

His gaze rested on her now, as she became aware of his presence. Her expression showed naked shock. Then, with an abrupt movement, he wheeled about, threw himself inside his car and, with a spray of gravel, pulled away, accelerating down the quiet country lane.

Emotion churned again, plunging him back into the past.

Five long years ago...

* * *

Anatole drummed his fingers frustratedly on the dashboard. The London rush-hour traffic was gridlocked and had come to a halt, even in this side street. But it was not just the traffic jam that was putting him in a bad mood. It was the prospect of the evening ahead.

With Romola.

His obsidian-dark eyes glinted with unsuppressed annoyance and his sculpted mouth tightened. She was eyeing him up as marriage material. That was precisely what he did not welcome.

Marriage was the last thing he wanted! Not for him—no, thank you!

His eyes clouded as he thought of the jangled, tangled mess that was his own parents’ lives. Both his parents had married multiple times, and he had been born only seven months after their wedding—evidence they’d both been unfaithful to their previous spouses. Nor had they been faithful to each other, and his mother had walked out when he was eleven.

Both were now remarried—yet again. He’d stopped counting or caring. He’d known all along that providing their only child with a stable family was unimportant to them. Now, in his twenties, his sole purpose, or so it seemed, was to keep the Kyrgiakis coffers filled to the brim in order to fund their lavish lifestyles and expensive divorces.

With his first class degree in economics from a top university, his MBA from a world-famous business school and his keen commercial brain, this was a task that Anatole could perform more than adequately, and he knew he benefitted from it as well. Work hard, play hard—that was the motto he lived by—and he kept the toxic ties of marriage far, far away from him.

His frown deepened and his thoughts of Romola darkened. He’d hoped that her high-flying City career would stop her from having ambitions to marry him, yet here she was, like all the tedious others, thinking to make herself Mrs Anatole Kyrgiakis.

Exasperation filled him.

Why do they always want to marry me?

It was such a damn nuisance...

A dozen vehicles ahead of him he saw the traffic light turn to green. A moment later the chain of traffic was lurching forward and his foot depressed the accelerator.

And at exactly that moment a woman stepped right in front of his car...

Tia’s eyes were hazed with unshed tears, her thoughts full of poor Mr Rodgers. She’d been with her ill, elderly client to the end—which had come that morning. His death had brought back all the memories of her own mother’s passing, less than two years ago, when her failing hold on life had finally been severed.

Now, though, as she trudged along, lugging her ancient unwieldy suitcase, she knew she had to get to her agency before it closed for the day. She needed to be despatched to her next assignment, for as a live-in carer she had no home of her own.

She would need to cross the street to reach the agency, which was down another side street across the main road, and with the traffic so jammed from the roadworks further ahead she realised she might as well cross here. Other people were darting through the stationary traffic, which was only moving in fits and starts.

Hefting her heavy suitcase with a sudden impulse, she stepped off the pavement...

With a reaction speed he had not known he possessed, Anatole slammed down on the brake, urgently sounding his horn.

But for all his prompt action he heard the sickening thud of his car bumper impacting on something solid. Saw the woman crumple in front of his eyes.

With an oath, he hit the hazard lights then leapt from the car, stomach churning. There on the road was the woman, sunk to her knees, one hand gripping a suitcase that was all but under his bumper. The suitcase had split open, its locks crushed, and Anatole could see clothes spilling out.

The woman lifted her head, stared blankly at Anatole, apparently unaware of the danger she’d been in.

Furious words burst from him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Are you a complete idiot, stepping out like that?’

Relief that the only casualty seemed to be the suitcase had flooded through Anatole, making him yell. But the woman who clearly had some kind of death wish was perfectly all right—except that as he finished yelling the blank look vanished into a storm of weeping.

Instantly his anger deflated, and he hunkered down beside the sobbing woman.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

His voice wasn’t angry now, but his only answer was a renewed burst of sobbing.

Obviously not, he answered his own question.

With a heavy sigh he took the disgorged clothes, stuffed them randomly back into the suitcase, and made a futile attempt to close the lid. Then he took her arm.

‘Let’s get you back on the pavement safely,’ he said.

He started to draw her upright. Her face lifted. Tears were pouring in an avalanche down her cheeks, and broken, breathless sobs came from her throat. But Anatole was not paying attention to her emotional outburst. As he stood her up on her feet, his brain, as if after a slow motion delay, registered two things.

The woman was younger than he’d first thought. And even weeping she was breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly lovely.

Blonde, heart-shaped face, blue-eyes, rosebud mouth...

He felt something plummet inside him, then ascend, taking shape, rearranging everything. His expression changed.

‘You’re all right,’ he heard himself say. His voice was much gentler, with no more anger in it. ‘It was a narrow escape, but you made it.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ The words stuttered from her as she heaved in breath chokily.

Anatole shook his head, negating her apology. ‘It’s all right. No harm done. Except to your suitcase.’

As she took in its broken state her face crumpled in distress. With sudden decision Anatole hefted the suitcase into the boot of his car, opened the passenger door.

‘I’ll drive you to wherever you’re going. In you get,’ he instructed, all too conscious of the traffic building up behind him, horns tooting noisily.

He propelled her into the car, despite her stammering protest. Throwing himself into his driver’s seat, he turned off the hazard lights and gunned the engine.

Absently, he found himself wondering if he would have gone to so much personal inconvenience as he was now had the person who’d stepped right out in front of his car not been the breathtakingly lovely blonde that she was...

‘It’s no problem,’ he said. ‘Now, where to?’

She stared blankly. ‘Um...’ She cast her eyes frantically through the windscreen. ‘That side street down there.’

Anatole moved off. The traffic was still crawling, and he threw his glance at his unexpected passenger. She was sniffing, wiping at her cheeks with her fingers. As the traffic halted at a red light Anatole reached for the neatly folded clean handkerchief in his jacket pocket and turned to mop at her face himself. Then he drew back, job done.

Her eyes were like saucers, widening to plates as she looked back at him. And the expression in them suddenly stilled him completely.

Slowly, very slowly, he smiled...

Tia was staring. Gawping. Her heart was thudding like a hammer, and her throat was tight from the storm of weeping triggered by the man whose car she had so blindly, stupidly, stepped in front of when he had laid into her for her carelessness. But it had been building since the grim, sad ordeal of watching an elderly, mortally ill man take his leave of life, reminding her so much of the tearing grief she’d felt at her mother’s death.

Now something else was overpowering her. Her eyes were distended, and she was unable to stop staring. Staring at the man who had just mopped her face and was now sitting back in his seat, watching her staring at him with wide eyes filled with wonder...

She gulped silently, still staring disbelievingly, and words tumbled silently, chaotically in her head.

Black hair, like sable, and a face as if...as if it was carved... Eyes like dark chocolate and smoky long, long lashes. Cheekbones a mile high... And his mouth...quirking at the corner like that. I can feel my stomach hollowing out, and I don’t know where to look, but I just want to go on gazing at him, because he looks exactly as if he’s stepped right out of one of my daydreams... The most incredible man I’ve ever seen in my life...

Because how could it be otherwise? How could she possibly, in her restricted, constricted life, during which she had done nothing and seen nothing, ever have encountered a man like this?

Of course she hadn’t! She’d spent her teenage years looking after her mother, and her days now were spent in caring for the sick and the elderly. There had never been opportunity or time for romantic adventures, for boyfriends, fashion, excitement. Her only romances had been in her head—woven out of time spent staring out of windows, sitting by bedsides, attending to all the chores and tasks that live-in carers had to undertake.

Except that here—right now, right here—was a man who could have sprung right out of her romantic fantasies...everything she had ever daydreamed about.

Tall, dark and impossibly handsome.

And he was here—right here—beside her. A daydream made real.

She gulped again. His smile deepened, indenting around his sculpted mouth, making a wash of weakness go through her again, deeper still.

‘Better?’ he murmured.

Silently, she nodded, still unable to tear her gaze away. Just wanting to go on gazing and gazing at him.

Then, abruptly, she became hideously aware that although he looked exactly as if he’d stepped out of one of her torrid daydreams—a fantasy made wondrously, amazingly real—she was looking no such thing. In fact the complete, mortifying opposite.

Burningly, she was brutally aware of how she must look to him—the very last image a man like him should see in any daydream, made real or not. Red eyes, snuffling nose, tear runnels down her cheeks, hair all mussed and not a scrap of make-up. Oh, yes—and she was wearing ancient jeans and a bobbled, battered jumper that hung on her body like a rag. What a disaster...

As the traffic light changed to green Anatole turned into the side street she’d indicated. ‘Where now?’ he asked.

It came to him that he was hoping it was some way yet. Then he crushed the thought. Picking up stray females off the street—literally, in this case!—was not a smart idea. Even though...

His glance went to her again. She really is something to look at! Even with those red eyes and rubbish clothes.

A thought flashed across his mind. One he didn’t want but that was there all the same.

How good could she look?

Immediately he cut the thought.

No—don’t ask that. Don’t think that. Drive her to her destination, then drive on—back to your own life.

Yes, that was what he should do—he knew that perfectly well. But in the meantime he could hardly drive in silence. Besides, he didn’t want her bursting into those terrifyingly heavy sobs again.

‘I’m sorry you were so upset,’ he heard himself saying. ‘But I hope it’s taught you never, ever to step out into traffic.’

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she said again. Her voice was husky now. ‘And I’m so, so sorry for...for crying like that. It wasn’t you! Well, I mean...not really. Only when you yelled at me—’

‘It was shock,’ Anatole said. ‘I was terrified I’d killed you.’ He threw a rueful look at her. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t because of that—not really,’ she said again. ‘It was because—’

She stopped. All thoughts of daydream heroes vanished as the memory of how she’d spent the night at the bedside of a dying man assailed her again.

‘Because...?’ Anatole prompted, throwing her another brief glance. He found he liked throwing her glances. But that he would have preferred them not to be brief...

Perhaps they need not be—

She was answering him, cutting across the thought he should not have. Most definitely should not have.

‘It was because of poor Mr Rodgers!’ she said in a rush. ‘He died this morning. I was there. I was his care worker. It was so sad. He was very old, but all the same—’ She broke off, a catch in her voice. ‘It reminded me of when my mother died—’

She broke off again, and Anatole could hear the half-sob in her voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because it seemed the only thing to say. ‘Was your mother’s death recent?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was nearly two years ago, but it brought it all back. She had MS—all the time I was growing up, really—and after my father was killed I looked after her. That’s why I became a care worker. I had the experience, and anyway there wasn’t much else I could do, and a live-in post was essential because I don’t have a place of my own yet—’

She broke off, suddenly horribly aware that she was saying all these personal things to a complete stranger.

She swallowed. ‘I’m just going to my agency’s offices now—to get a new assignment, somewhere to go tonight.’ Her voice changed. ‘That’s it—just there!’

She pointed to an unprepossessing office block and Anatole drew up alongside it. She got out, tried the front door. It did not open. He stepped out beside her, seeing the notice that said ‘Closed’.

‘What now?’ he heard himself saying in a tight voice.

Tia turned to stare at him, trying to mask the dismay in her face. ‘Oh, I’ll find a cheap hotel for tonight. There’s probably one close by I can walk to.’

Anatole doubted that—especially with her broken suitcase.

His eyes rested on her. She looked lost and helpless. And very, very lovely.

As before, sudden decision took him. There was a voice in his head telling him he was mad, behaving like an idiot, but he ignored it. Instead, he smiled suddenly.

‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Look, you can’t move that broken suitcase a metre, let alone trail around looking for a mythical cheap hotel in London! So here’s what I propose. Why not stay the night at my flat? I won’t be there,’ he added immediately, because instantly panic had filled her blue eyes, ‘so you’ll have the run of it. Then you can buy yourself a new suitcase in the morning and head to your agency.’ He smiled. ‘How would that be?’

She was staring at him as though she dared not believe what he was saying. ‘Are you sure?’ That disbelief was in her voice, but her panic was ebbing away.

‘I wouldn’t offer otherwise,’ Anatole replied.

‘It’s incredibly kind of you,’ she answered, her voice sounding husky, her eyes dropping away from his. ‘I’m being a total pain to you—’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘So, do you accept?’

He smiled again—the deliberate smile that he used when he wanted people to do what he wanted. It worked this time too. Tremulously she nodded.

Refusing to pay any attention to the voice in his head telling him he was an insane idiot to make such an offer to a complete stranger, however lovely, Anatole helped her back into the car and set off again, heading into Mayfair, where his flat was.

He glanced at her. She was sitting very still, hands in her lap, looking out through the windscreen, not at him. She still looked as if she could not believe this was really happening.

He took the next step in making it real for her. For him as well.

‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly? I’m Anatole Kyrgiakis.’

It was odd to say his own name, because he usually didn’t have to, and certainly when he did he expected his surname, at least, to be recognised instantly. Possibly followed by a quick glance to ascertain that he meant the Kyrgiakis family. This time, however, his name drew no reaction other than her turning her head to look at him as he spoke.

‘Tia Saunders,’ she responded shyly.

‘Hello, Tia,’ Anatole said in a low voice, with a flickering smile.

He saw a flush of colour in her cheeks, then had to pay attention to the traffic again. He let her be as he drove on, needing to concentrate now and wanting her to feel a little more relaxed about what was happening. But she was still clearly tense as he pulled up outside his elegant Georgian town house and guided her indoors, carrying her broken suitcase.

The greeting from the concierge at the desk in the wide hallway seemed to make her shrink against him, and as they entered his top-floor apartment she gave a gasp.

‘I can’t stay here!’ she exclaimed, dismay in her voice. ‘I might mess something up!’

Her eyes raced around, taking in a long white sofa, covered in silk cushions, a thick dove-grey carpet that matched the lavish drapes at the wide windows. It was like something out of a movie—absolutely immaculate and obviously incredibly expensive.

Anatole gave a laugh. ‘Just don’t spill coffee on anything,’ he said.

She shook her head violently. ‘Please, don’t even say that!’ she cried, aghast at the very thought.

His expression changed. She seemed genuinely worried. He walked up to her. Found himself taking her hand with his free one even without realising it. Patting it reassuringly.

‘Speaking of coffee... I could murder a cup! What about you?’

She nodded, swallowing. ‘Th...thank you,’ she stammered.

‘Good. I’ll get the machine going. But let me show you to your room first—and, look, why not take a shower, freshen up? You must have had a gruelling night, from what you’ve said.’

He relinquished her hand, hefted up the broken suitcase again, mentally deciding he’d get a new one delivered by the concierge within the hour, and carried it through to one of the guest bedrooms.

She followed after him, still glancing about her with an air of combined nervousness and wide-eyed amazement at her surroundings, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life. Which, he realised, she probably never had.

An unusual sense of satisfaction darted within him. It was a good feeling to give this impoverished, waiflike girl, who’d clearly had a pretty sad time of it—both parents dead and a poorly paid job involving distressing end-of-life care—a brief taste of luxury. He found himself wanting her to enjoy it.

Setting down the suitcase, which immediately sprang open again, he pointed out the en suite bathroom, then with another smile left her to it, heading for the kitchen.

Five minutes later the coffee was brewing and he was sprawled on the sofa, checking his emails—trying very, very hard not to let his mind wander to his unexpected guest taking her shower...

He wondered just how far her charms extended beyond her lovely face. He suspected a lot further. She was slender—he’d seen that instantly—but it hadn’t made her flat-chested. No, indeed, Even though she was wearing cheap, unflattering clothes, he’d seen the soft swell of her breasts beneath. And she was petite—much more so than the women he usually selected for himself.

Maybe that was because of his own height—over six foot—or maybe it was because the kind of women he went out with tended to be self-assured, self-confident high-achieving females who were his counterparts in many ways, striding through the world knowing their own worth, very sure of themselves and their attractions.

Women like Romola.

His expression changed. Before Tia had plunged in front of his car he’d made the decision to cut Romola out of his life—so why not do that right now? He’d text her to say he couldn’t see her tonight after all, that something had come up, and that it was unlikely he’d be back in London any time soon, Say that perhaps they should both accept their time together had run its course...

With a ruthlessness that he could easily exercise whenever he felt himself targeted by a woman wanting more of him than he cared to give, he sent the text, softening the blow with the despatch of a diamond bracelet as a farewell gift as a sop to Romola’s considerable ego. Then, with a sense of relief, he turned his thoughts back to tonight.

A smile started around his mouth, his eyes softening slightly. He’d already played out King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid in offering Tia the run of his flat, so why not go the whole hog and give her an evening she would always remember? Champagne, fine dining—the works!

It was something he’d take a bet that she’d never experienced in her deprived life before.

Of course it went without saying that that would be all he’d be offering her. He himself would not be staying here—he’d make his way over to the Mayfair hotel where his father kept a permanent suite. Of course he would.

Anything else was completely out of the question—however lovely she was.

Completely out, he told himself sternly.