‘Tell me about it.’ He saw her soft lips compress and for a moment she was incredibly like her mother. ‘So I didn’t bore her, huh?’
‘No.’ Milos knew an unexpected surge of compassion, and for the first time he realised he wanted her to like him. ‘Were you?’
‘Me?’ He tried to ignore the way she wedged her foot against the console before continuing. ‘Hell, no. It was wicked!’
Wicked?
It wasn’t Milos’s usual understanding of the word, but judging from Melissa’s expression it meant something good. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, and he meant it. ‘Maybe we can do the same thing again?’
‘Maybe.’ Melissa regarded him critically. ‘So long as you don’t start telling me what to do.’
‘People do that, do they?’
Melissa shrugged. ‘They say I’m uncontrollable.’
‘And are you?’
‘No.’ She was indignant. ‘But I can’t help it if I find school a drag.’
‘Why do you find it a drag?’
Melissa lifted her shoulders again. ‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘I’m sure you do.’
Her jaw jutted. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You think getting me to talk about school and stuff will make me start to like it?’
‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,’ said Milos drily. ‘But sometimes if people don’t enjoy things, it’s because they don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Are you implying I’m thick?’ Melissa huffed. ‘You have to be kidding! I can do their assignments standing on my head!’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘Yeah, and be known as a nerd!’ Melissa was scornful. ‘No, thanks, I prefer to hang with my friends.’
Milos shook his head. ‘Are you sure they’re not the—what was it you said?—the thick ones? It seems more sensible to me to use your brains if you want to be a success.’
‘Hey, did I say I wanted to be a success?’ asked Melissa sharply.
‘You said you wanted a car like this,’ Milos reminded her. ‘Cars cost money.’
‘What would you know about it?’ retorted Melissa rudely. ‘I doubt if you’ve ever had to work for anything in your life.’
Milos expelled a breath. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’
‘Yes. No.’ Melissa looked a little shamefaced now. ‘I just mean, we’re not like you.’
You could be, thought Milos, the realisation that he had a responsibility here striking him with sudden force. But would Helen let him help her? He somehow doubted he would be given the chance.
It didn’t surprise him to find Helen perched on the low stone wall that edged the terrace waiting for them. ‘Oh, boy, a welcoming committee,’ muttered Melissa gloomily. ‘Are you gonna tell her what I’ve said?’ She frowned. ‘Or were you given orders to sort me out?’
‘No one gives me orders,’ retorted Milos shortly, and then, meeting Melissa’s I-told-you-so look, he pulled a face. ‘Not usually, anyway,’ he amended, knowing exactly what she was thinking, and they were sharing a smile of mutual understanding when the car halted beside her mother.
Helen was still wearing the skirt and halter she’d had on earlier. The skirt was shorter than she usually wore and Milos’s eyes were instantly drawn to her slim arms and long, slender legs. Her hair had come loose from the pony-tail, too, and he wondered if it was because she’d been running anxious hands through it that thick damp strands were clinging sensuously to her flushed cheeks.
She reached for the door as soon as the car had stopped, pulling it open for Melissa to alight. ‘I can do it,’ Melissa grumbled, and Milos hoped she was sorry because the trip was over. She gave him a rueful look. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, and, without waiting for her mother to join her, Melissa sauntered up the steps and into the villa. Which left Milos alone with Helen. The ideal opportunity to confront her, he thought. So why did he feel such a reluctance to do so? What if he was wrong?
Her sudden outburst startled him. ‘You had no right to be so long,’ she exclaimed. ‘You must have known I’d be worried about her. What on earth have you been doing?’
Finding out I had a daughter?
But he found he couldn’t say that. What if she denied it? What would he do then? Did he really want to find out?
‘You knew I was taking her to meet my sister,’ he said instead. ‘Melissa wanted to have a swim and I didn’t think it would be a federal offence.’
Helen wrapped her arms around her waist. ‘You should have said so.’
‘I thought I just did.’
‘No. I mean—oh, it doesn’t matter. I expect Melissa enjoyed herself.’
‘We all did,’ said Milos mildly and saw how her eyes flickered warily to his. ‘Rhea, too,’ he added, taking pity on her. ‘She’s not that much older than Melissa.’
‘I thought you said she was eighteen?’
‘So?’
He dared her to contradict him, but she didn’t. ‘Well,’ she said, with a careless lift of her shoulders, ‘Melissa’s home now. That’s the important thing.’
‘Is it?’
She stiffened. ‘What else is there?’
Milos gave her a studied look. ‘I was wondering if you’d told your father about—us yet.’
‘No!’ Her denial was vehement, and with his new knowledge he realised how revealing that was.
‘Why not?’
‘You can ask me that?’ Helen’s face burned with colour. ‘Have you no shame?’
Milos’s brows arched. ‘Have you?’ he countered, stung by her persistence in blaming him for what had happened between them. ‘I’d have thought you’d be eager to tell him how I betrayed his trust. But perhaps you have other reasons not to?’
Helen’s eyes widened now, giving her the look of a rabbit that had been caught in the headlights of a passing car. ‘Wh—what other reasons?’ she stammered, evidently caught off guard by his question, and if Milos had had any doubts about Melissa’s parentage, her reaction erased them.
‘You tell me,’ he said, despising himself for feeling sorry for her now. And before she could answer him, Melissa appeared at the top of the steps.
‘Hey, Sam says I’m to invite you in for a drink,’ she called, addressing herself to Milos, and he could almost feel Helen’s relief at the interruption.
But Melissa wasn’t finished. Coming down the steps towards them, she took in the evident tension between him and her mother and her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on? Did I interrupt something?’
CHAPTER SIX
HELEN stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom the following evening regarding her appearance with definite misgivings. Why had she let Melissa persuade her that the black silk top, with its spaghetti straps and plunging neckline—with which, actually, she’d discovered she couldn’t wear a bra—was suitable for a family occasion? It looked as if she were wearing her underwear, she fretted. And although the striped black-and-cream skirt that went with it was long, it was also slit almost to her waist.
She groaned. The cheesecloth