‘That is not your decision to make.’
‘You can’t cut me out of her life like this!’ Rhiannon cried, her voice jagged, desperate.
‘I can do whatever I want,’ Lukas said bluntly. ‘If you want to drag this through court, you can. But you will be bankrupted and vilified in the process. I will win any case, Rhiannon. Be assured.’
‘Would you be so cruel?’ she whispered, and he shrugged.
‘I have Annabel’s best interests at heart. I want to provide her with a secure, stable environment, and frankly I’m not sure you fit into that picture.’
Rhiannon shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving until Christos takes the paternity test. We have some time to think of a plan that is beneficial to everyone.’
Lukas nodded brusquely, his face tight. ‘Very well. We can speak about this later.’
Rhiannon nodded. She would have to think of a better game plan—a clearer idea of just how she could remain in Annabel’s life without being beholden to Lukas Petrakides. How he would let her.
Right now, it seemed impossible.
She opened the study door, saw Theo outside, and realised he’d probably heard every word. She couldn’t summon enough emotional energy to care. Jerking her head in a nod of goodnight, she walked stiffly out of the study and up the stairs.
In her room Annabel was sleeping soundly, and Rhiannon slipped out of the silky clothes and into her old pyjamas—a tee-shirt and pair of boxer shorts. A silky nightgown, modest and yet achingly sensual, had been included in the box of clothes, but she couldn’t wear something so intimate. Not if Lukas had had anything to do with the choosing.
Lukas. She couldn’t escape him, couldn’t run from the way he affected her. Angered her. And yet he made her ache, need. Wonder, want.
Want. Why couldn’t Lukas let himself want anything? What a cold existence—to deny yourself any pleasure simply because it was pleasing to you … made you happy. Was that why he hadn’t slept with a woman for two years?
There had to be a lot of sexual repression going on there. Rhiannon smothered a rueful smile. If anyone was sexually repressed, it was her. One burning look from Lukas and she was on fire. He moved towards her and she melted. She’d never reacted to any man like that. She’d never had the chance.
Like Lukas, she acknowledged, she hadn’t given in to desire. Hadn’t allowed herself to want. There had been no time, no opportunity. And duty to her parents had bound her with loveless cords.
Unlike Lukas, she wanted love … not duty. She wanted more.
Rhiannon watched the moon sift silver patterns over the floor, listened to Annabel’s soft breathy sighs of sleep, and felt miles from such relaxation herself.
Her stomach growled, and she realised that she’d eaten hardly anything at dinner.
She was hungry.
She slipped out of bed, opened her door as quietly as possible. It had to be past midnight. The house was quiet and still. Surely no one would notice—no one would mind—if she slipped down to the kitchen and grabbed a roll?
She tiptoed down the hallway, feeling strangely guilty. She stopped when she heard music.
It was coming from downstairs, floating from behind the closed door of the lounge, and it was haunting. Sad, melodious, beautiful.
Rhiannon walked downstairs, stood in front of the door, and listened. The music spoke to her soul and made her ache. Who was playing?
Stealthily, she pushed the door with the tips of her fingers and peeked in.
Lukas was at the piano, absorbed in his playing. His long, lean fingers moved gracefully over the keys, evoking that sound, that glorious emotion.
Rhiannon didn’t know if she’d made a noise, or if the door had creaked, or if perhaps Lukas had just sensed her, but he looked up, his face freezing into a blank mask, his hands stilling on the keys.
‘No … don’t stop. It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
She knew that polite, impersonal tone. Knew it and hated it. She took a step into the room. ‘I didn’t realise you played the piano.’
‘Not many people do.’
Rhiannon bit her lip. Something about that music, that soulful melody, made her want to breach his defences, to break that blank mask and find the man living, breathing, wanting underneath. ‘Did you take lessons when you were a child?’
‘No.’ Lukas eased the cover over the keys. ‘I taught myself.’
Rhiannon gasped in surprise; she couldn’t help it. Anyone who played like that had to have natural talent, but to teach himself …? He must have been a prodigy.
‘You’re surprised,’ Lukas remarked with a sharp little laugh. ‘No doubt you think such a cold, restrained man shouldn’t be able to play beautiful music.’
‘Lukas …’ Rhiannon didn’t know what to say—hadn’t expected him to remember her words from earlier. Hadn’t thought they might hurt him. ‘I always wanted to learn to play the piano,’ she admitted.
‘Did you have lessons?’
She shook her head, a sudden lump in her throat. She thought of the dusty piano in the front room of her parents’ house, never touched, never played. It had been strictly off-limits to her.
Lukas watched her for a moment, his eyes dark, fathomless, then he slid over on the piano bench and lifted the cover up again. ‘Come here.’
‘Wh … what?’
He patted the seat next to him. ‘Your first lesson.’
Surprised, touched, Rhiannon moved forward. She sat next to him, thigh to thigh, creating a spark of awareness deep within her.
‘Here.’ He placed her hands on the keys, then laid his own hands gently on top. ‘This is an E.’ He plucked one note, moving her own fingers. ‘And this is a D.’ He continued playing notes, moving her fingers, until Rhiannon recognised the tune.
‘“Mary Had A Little Lamb”!’
He smiled, a flash of whiteness. ‘You need to start somewhere.’
‘Yes …’ She was suddenly achingly conscious of his hands on hers, the closeness of their bodies, the intimacy of the moment. Her heart began to thud, desire pooled in her middle, and she could only sit there helpless. Shameless.
‘Why did you come down here?’ Lukas asked, breaking the moment.
‘I was hungry,’ Rhiannon admitted. ‘I didn’t eat much at dinner, and then I heard …’
‘Then you should go to the kitchen.’ He rose from the piano bench. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
She followed him into the wide, friendly room at the back of the villa, its stainless steel counter-tops and appliances softened by the colourful prints on the wall and the scrubbed pine table.
Lukas opened the refrigerator. ‘What would you like?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Bread, salad, or …?’ His smile glinted with sudden mischief as he brought out a plate. ‘The nectar of the gods?’
He proffered a tray holding a large slice of baklava, the traditional Greek dessert, dripping with nuts and honey. Rhiannon’s mouth watered.
‘Definitely the nectar,’ she said, and, smiling as if he had expected no less, Lukas cut her a generous slice.
She’d thought he would give it to her on a plate,