His mouth thinned. So now he would find out just how rich Vasilis’s young widow would be. Just how much she had profited from marrying his middle-aged uncle. Oh, she had done very well indeed out of convincing him to marry her. To rescue her from Anatole, the man who had lifted her—literally—off the street!
I thought she was so devoted to me. But all along it was just the lifestyle I gave her. She couldn’t wait to ensure it for herself by getting Vasilis’s wedding ring on her finger after I’d made it clear to her that any hope she might have had of letting herself get pregnant to get me to marry her was out of the question.
That old familiar stab came again. It was anger—of course it was anger! What else could it be? It was anger that he felt when he thought about Tia abandoning him to snap up his uncle. Only anger.
Restlessly, Anatole shifted in his seat, impatient for the meeting to be done. Yet when he finally was free to get back to his office, to phone London, he knew he was reluctant to do so.
Did he really want to stir up in himself again those mixed emotions that his uncle’s death had caused? That his rash visit to England on the day of the funeral had plunged him into? Shouldn’t he just leave things be? He could not alter his uncle’s will—if his widow had all Vasilis’s money to splurge, so what? Why should he care?
Except that—
Except that it is not just about Tia, is it? Or about you. There’s someone else to think about.
Vasilis’s son. Nicky. The little boy he’d known nothing about—never guessed existed.
That scene burned in his head again—himself hunkering down to offer solace to the heartbroken child. Emotion thrust inside him, but a new one now—one that seemed to pierce more deeply than the thought that the woman he had once romanced, made love to, taken into his life, had abandoned him. It was a piercing that came from the sobs of a bereft child, that made him want to comfort him, console him.
He stared sightlessly across his office. Where did that emotion come from? Never had he thought about children—except negatively. Oh, not because he disliked them, but because they had nothing to do with him. Could never have anything to do with him. What he’d said to Tia, that grim day when she’d thought she was pregnant, was as true now as it had been then.
And yet—
What instinct had made him seek to comfort the little boy? To divert him, bring a smile to his face, light up his eyes?
It’s because he’s Vasilis’s son. Because he has no one else to look out for him now. Only a mother who married his father just to endow herself with a wealthy lifestyle she could never have aspired to otherwise.
His expression changed. Turned steely. He had told Tia that Nicky’s existence changed everything but she had rejected what he’d said. Sent him from her house. Banned him from making any contact with Nicky. His eyes darkened. Well, that was not going to happen. Someone had to look out for Vasilis’s child, and now that his widow had a free rein with her late husband’s wealth she could do anything she wanted with it! What security would there be for Vasilis’s son when his mother was an ambitious, luxury-loving gold-digger?
The phone on his desk sounded, indicating the call to London was ready for him. Grim-faced, he picked it up. Whatever he had to do, he would ensure that his vulnerable young cousin was not left to the mercy of his despised mother.
I’ll fight her for justice for her son—for Vasilis’s son.
Yet when he slowly hung up the phone, some ten minutes later, his expression was different. Very different. He called through to his secretary.
‘Book me on the next flight to London.’
* * *
Christine sat back in the car that was taking her up to London for the evening. Her nerves were jittery, and not just because she would be representing Vasilis at the exhibition’s opening. It was also because this would be the first time she’d been to London since he’d died—and London held memories that were of more than her husband.
She felt her mind shear away. No, she must not think—must not remember how she had met Anatole, how he had swept her into his life, how she had fallen head over heels for a man who had been to her eyes like a prince out of a fairytale!
But he hadn’t been a prince after all. He’d been an ordinary person, however rich and gilded his existence, and he’d had no desire for her to be a permanent part of his life. No desire at all for a baby...a child.
It was Vasilis who’d wanted that. Had wanted the child who’d given him a joy that, as Christine sadly knew, he’d never thought to have.
The knowledge comforted her.
However much he gave me—immense though that was, and eternally grateful though I am—I know that I gave him Nicky to love...
Now she was all Nicky had.
Her nerves jangled again. She must not think of Anatole, must only be grateful that he’d accepted her dismissal. Had made no further attempt to get in touch. Make contact with Nicky.
Her mouth set. Eyes stark.
His knowing of Nicky’s existence doesn’t change anything. And I won’t—I won’t!—have anyone near Nicky who thinks so ill of me, poisoning my son’s mind against me...
For the remainder of the journey she forced herself to focus only on the evening’s event.
Later, when the moment came, she felt a sudden tightening of her throat as she was introduced as Mrs Vasilis Kyrgiakis, then she took a measured breath and began her short, carefully written speech. She said how pleased her husband had been to support this important exhibition of Hellenistic art and artefacts, so expertly curated by the museum—giving a smiling nod to the director, Dr Lanchester—and then diverted a little on descriptions of some of the key exhibits, before concluding with a reassurance that despite Vasilis Kyrgiakis’s untimely death his work was being entrusted to a foundation specifically set up for that purpose.
After handing over to Dr Lanchester she stepped away, and as the formal opening was completed started to mingle socially with the invited guests.
Everyone was in evening dress, and although, of course, her dress was black, her state of mourning did not prevent her from accepting a proffered glass of champagne. She sipped it delicately, listening to something the director’s wife was saying, and smiling appropriately. She knew both the director and his wife, having dined with them together with Vasilis, before his final illness had taken its fatal grip on him.
She was about to make some remark or other when a voice behind her turned her to stone.
‘Won’t you introduce me?’
She whipped round, not believing her eyes. But it was impossible to deny who she was seeing.
Anatole.
Anatole in a black tuxedo, like all the other male guests, towering over her.
Shock made faintness drum in her head.
How on earth? What on earth?
He gave a swift, empty smile. ‘I felt it my duty to represent the Kyrgiakis family tonight,’ he informed her.
If it was meant as a barb, implying that she could not possibly do so, she did not let her reaction show. She gave a grave nod.
‘I’m sure Vasilis would have appreciated your presence here,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘He worked hard to ensure this exhibition would be possible. Many of the artefacts have been rescued from the turmoil in the Middle East, to find safety here, for the time being, until eventually they can be securely returned.’
She indicated