He wished he had seen it.
‘Here’s another one.’ He picked up another piece of the puzzle and slotted it in. ‘Another baby, they must be twins.’ He looked at where she stood, saw her rapid blink and her face redden, and he mistook the reason. He thought she must be suddenly aware of how little she had on, or knew perhaps how much he wanted her.
And he didn’t want to want her.
‘I’m going to get changed.’ His voice was gruffer than intended and Constantine glanced up and frowned.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
He was far from fine.
Nico was uncomfortable, unsettled, because that walk up the beach, to the stairs, the conversation, for the first time he had felt as if he was coming home—that feeling he had got as he had seen the view of his house had been, Nico now realised, relief.
But it did not soothe him now.
There could be no getting used to it.
He heard a murmur from her room as he walked past, a small wail of distress, and he ignored it. Constantine would get him if he awoke, would soothe him if he cried.
And then it came again and Nico stopped in the hallway.
He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to walk away, yet his feet moved toward her room, to the scent of her, layered with another scent, that sweet, milky, baby scent that was becoming familiar. He had never really looked at the infant, had deliberately tried to separate himself from him.
Because if he was his, what then?
And if he wasn’t?
He moved towards the crib and peered in, with no intention of doing anything, for Nico had never so much as held a baby. But on sight instinctively he knew what was wrong. Leo had lost his thumb. His little hand was caught in the cotton and with heart racing Nico took the baby’s hand and moved it back to his mouth. He smiled at Leo’s relief as he popped his thumb in. His finger pushed up his nose to a snub, his eyelashes so long that they met the curve of his cheek, and Nico’s heart stilled as Leo opened his eyes to his saviour. Huge black eyes stared at Nico, and a smile flitted across the baby’s face. Then, soothed by what he saw, Leo closed his eyes again.
Nico’s heart did beat again but with something that felt like fear, for he recognised him.
Of course he did, Nico told himself, for he was his.
He walked to the bathroom, his breathing hard as if he had been running, sweat beading on his forehead. He felt ill, dizzy, that perhaps he, all six feet two of him, might fall to the floor in a faint.
‘Ridiculous.’
He moved to the sink, ran the taps hard and splashed water on his grey face.
So, the child was his—it could hardly come as a shock. He looked in the mirror to scold himself, to tell himself to pull himself together, but the eyes that looked back, the reflection that stared, only confused him more.
He put his hand to the mirror, and his reflection did the same, which must mean it was him.
He wanted them gone.
He did not love.
And it was love Constantine wanted, not passion or romance or just the house and land and the trappings—it was everything she wanted, and love was the one thing he could not give. This would not last. He lived in the fast lane, he liked his freedom. How soon would he be bored, how soon would she leave?
She would leave. Nico intrinsically knew that, and quite simply he wanted it done. Wanted it over.
He would show her his life, show her firsthand the world he inhabited; he would push her away by her own choice.
Prove how incompatible they were.
She was slicing salad in the kitchen, so confident in her own skin now that she had not gone and dressed. He could see her breasts moving as she sliced, see her brown, sun-kissed stomach, and he could not do this for another night.
He could not let her think this was how he lived. He would show her instead just how impossible they were, push her out of her comfort zone as much as she pushed him out of his.
‘I’m bored eating in.’ He saw her eyes jerk up. ‘We should go out.’ Because that was what he did—he ate out, not home-made salads and jigsaws afterwards, not the walk on the beach she might suggest later tonight.
‘Sure.’ She hesitated for a moment, just surprised, that was all. ‘I’ll get Leo.’
‘Just us.’
She was about to give a smart retort for his abruptness, but conceded she had perhaps misinterpreted his words, and anyway the prospect of a night out was tempting.
‘I’ll see if Despina can babysit.’
When Connie walked over to her house and asked her, Despina said she would be delighted to, of course. Not that Nico seemed particularly pleased by the news when she returned. ‘I’ve rung Charlotte and she’s arranged a table and driver—we leave in half an hour.’
‘Why would we need a driver when you’ve got a car?’ Connie asked, for there there was a sports car in the garage that she’d never seen him take out.
‘I might want a drink.’
‘Then it’s a beautiful evening to walk.’
‘You want to walk to Ravels?’ He looked at where she stood in just a bikini and shirt, and threw her his impossible order, and made sure she understood. ‘It’s quite a distance and I assume you’ll be wearing heels—it’s very smart.’
He wasn’t, Constantine realised, trying to impress her with his choice of venue.
Quite the opposite. Perhaps he was hoping she would change her mind, find an excuse or reason not to go.
Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she smiled to him.
‘Then I’d better get ready.’
Why she was putting herself through this? Connie wasn’t sure, except she would not be intimidated by Nico.
From the wrong side of Xanos she may be, and certainly wasn’t the sleek and groomed beauties he was used to dining with, but she refused to sit at home feeling not good enough.
She showered quickly and, realising there was no time to dry her hair as she usually would, she hung her head down and blasted it with a hairdryer. She would decide what to do with it later. She fled to her bedroom, wondering what on earth she should wear, because nothing Despina had brought her would be okay for the restaurant, and she’d worn everything so many times anyway.
It was hopeless. All her own clothes had been stretched out of shape by her pregnancy, except …
Connie pulled her suitcase from under her bed. There, still in the tissue paper, was the dress she should have worn as she was waved off for her honeymoon. Instead, that night had been spent telling Stavros and then her parents that a token wife she could not be.
Unwrapping the tissue paper, all Constantine could really remember of the dress was that it was purple, but as the paper parted she corrected herself. It was a very deep violet and made of the softest virgin cashmere and silk. It had cost a lot more than she had told her parents it had when she had come back from a day shopping with friends in Athens.
Her once guilty purchase was now her saviour, for her spending had been reckless that day, and Constantine blinked as she saw the forgotten underwear she had purchased. After months of being practical, it felt like heaven to pull on the delicate lace panties, and the bliss of a new bra gave Connie a boost in more ways than one.