by Julia James
Her voice was broken, choking on what she was saying, facing up to. It was as if she couldn’t stop the words pouring from her—couldn’t stop the hot, stinging tears streaming down her face.
‘He let her live on child benefit, grateful for a council flat! He let her and he didn’t care! Not even when he got rich! He could have sent money, made some maintenance payments for me—he could have helped her!’ The sobs were tearing from her now, and her voice was choking and broken. ‘He has so much and we had nothing! But he didn’t care—he just didn’t care!’
She couldn’t say any more. Her face was convulsing, her shoulders shaking with emotion. All those years of struggling and making do, of her poor, sick mother coughing up her lungs in their damp flat, eking out every last penny, dreading every bill that arrived until finally the end had come and she had died in poverty and bleakness. And she herself, homeless after the flat had been repossessed by the council, reduced to living in that stinking dive of a bedsit, working every hour of the day cleaning up other people’s filth, studying into the small hours of the night to get the qualifications she’d need to lift herself out of the grinding poverty she’d lived in all her life.
And her father had known and done nothing—nothing—to lift a finger to help either of them!
It burned in her like acid and she could not bear it—she just could not bear it.
She was shaking like a leaf, choking and trembling, sobbing out hot tears...
CHAPTER FIVE
AND THEN ARMS were coming around her. Arms that were holding her, cradling her, letting her sob and sob for all the sadness and bleakness of her mother’s life, of her own...sob for the cruelty and callousness of the man she had to call her father when she would have torn every shred of his DNA from her body if she could.
She sobbed until there were no more tears in her, barely conscious of the hard chest she was collapsed against, of the strong arms around her, holding her. The same hands that were now carefully, slowly, setting her back on her feet as her anguished sobs died finally away. A handkerchief was being handed to her, fine cotton and huge, and she took it, blowing her nose and wiping away the remnants of her tears, blinking to clear her blurred vision.
Alexandros Lakaris was speaking, and his voice held something she’d never heard in it before. It was the last thing she’d expected from him after the impersonal brusqueness he’d treated her with in London.
Kindness.
‘Come, let me give you a lift—it’s the least I can do.’
He ushered her towards the car and she sank down into the low leather seat, her legs weak suddenly, her whole body exhausted. She was drained of all emotion. Barely aware of what was happening.
He got into the driver’s seat, pulled her seat belt across and fastened it. Then he turned to her. When he spoke the kindness was there in his voice again, but now she could also hear apology.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry that I didn’t warn you. Sorry that I just left you there last night.’ He took a heavy breath. ‘I’m sorry that you had to find out just what sort of man your father is.’
She saw his expression alter, his face set. Absently, with a part of her brain that was working even though it shouldn’t be, because it was quite irrelevant, she was aware all over again of just how incredibly good-looking he was, with his deep-set, long-lashed, dark, dark eyes and his sculpted mouth, and his chiselled jawline and sable hair.
Unwillingly, in her head, she heard her father’s hateful words score into her. ‘Every woman in Athens will envy you—’
She tore them from her. Tore away everything else he’d said. Every outrageous, appalling word...
How could he even think it—let alone assume it?
But she wouldn’t think about what he’d said. Wouldn’t give it the time of day.
The man sitting beside her—the man her despicable, monstrous father had said such things about—was speaking again, his voice sombre and heavy.
‘Stavros Coustakis is not known for caring about other people,’ he said tersely. ‘But he is known for manipulating people for his own ends.’
Rosalie felt his gaze on her, as if he was assessing how she was going to take what he was telling her. She stilled. Heard him go on.
‘That’s what he’s been trying to do with me—and...’ He paused, his dark eyes now holding hers quite deliberately. ‘It’s what he’s tried to do with you.’
His mouth thinned again, and he drummed his fingers on the dashboard.
‘Look, like it or not, we do need to talk. There are things I need to explain to you. Things you need to know. But not in this cramped car.’ He suddenly gunned the engine, which made a low, throaty noise. ‘I’ll take you to lunch.’ He held up a hand, as if she were going to protest. ‘Then afterwards I’ll get you to the airport, okay?’
Rosalie’s face worked. He was being different, somehow. It was as if he were speaking to her for the first time. Speaking honestly—not concealing anything. And that, she realised slowly, was why he’d been so brusque with her in London.
Because he knew all along what I’d be facing when I met my father.
Well, now she knew, too—and it had devastated her. Repulsed her.
She nodded numbly. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice low. She was not able to summon the energy to say anything else.
In her lap she twisted his handkerchief, then busied herself stuffing it into her handbag. He would hardly want it now, all soggy and used.
She sat back, exhausted suddenly. It had all been too much. Much too much. Too much for anything except sitting here, staring out of the window, saying nothing, letting Alexandros Lakaris drive her wherever it was he was taking her.
Where it was was the seaside.
She surfaced from the numbness in her head sometime later, and stared through the windscreen at the expanse of bright blue sunlit sea appearing as they reached the coast.
‘Welcome to the Aegean,’ said Alexandros Lakaris.
He pulled up outside a swish-looking restaurant on the seafront, flanking an even swisher-looking marina, where swisher yet yachts bobbed at their moorings.
He got out, and Rosalie found herself doing likewise—found herself breathing in the warm, fresh, salty air, lifting her face to the bright sunshine as it shone down on that blue, blue sea. Out of nowhere she felt the oppression and misery encompassing her lift a fraction.
She looked about her. There was a promenade opposite the restaurant and people were sauntering along. There was a pebbly, shingly beach beyond, and an air of leisure and relaxation.
‘This is where Athenians come to get out of the city,’ Alexandros Lakaris was saying.
‘It’s lovely,’ Rosalie heard herself reply, and she heard her voice warming, in spite of all the misery still locked inside her.
‘It’s not the best the Aegean has to offer, but it’s good for somewhere so close to Athens. Anyway, let’s get some lunch.’
He steered her into the restaurant, which wasn’t too busy, and they were soon seated at a table that was indoors, but open to the pavement seating area of the restaurant. Menus were set in front of them, and with a start Rosalie realised she was hungry.
After the emotions of the morning it seemed like a balm to her to be doing something so simple as sitting here, ordering lunch. Even though she still seemed to be drained dry, incapable of thought or decision.
I’ll just go with what’s happening at the moment. I can’t do anything else—not now.
The food appeared swiftly. They’d both ordered fish, and it was served grilled, with rice and fresh salad, and it was, Rosalie discovered, extremely tasty.
Alexandros Lakaris didn’t make conversation, just let her eat in silence. But it was a silence she could cope with, even welcome. The warm breeze off the sea caught at the tablecloth, fluttered the flags on the yachts, and the sun was still danc
ing off the little waves on the sea. It was calm, peaceful, and she was grateful for it. Glad of it.
She pushed her empty plate away. Her misery felt less now.
‘Better?’ Alexandros Lakaris asked.
She nodded. He was still being different from the way he’d been with her in London. It was as if something were changing between them, though she didn’t quite know what. He beckoned to the waiter to remove their plates, ordered coffee, looked back at Rosalie.
‘Then I think it’s time we talked,’ he said.
* * *
Xandros sat back, his eyes resting on the face of Stavros Coustakis’s daughter, who had just had had her hopeless dreams about her father ripped from her and the ugly truth shoved in her face. He gave an inward sigh, compunction smiting him. Yes, he should have warned her—but he hadn’t, and now he must make up for that omission.
She was looking a little better than she had when he’d found her storming away from the Coustakis mansion—that, at least, was something.
He felt emotion pluck at him. Taking her into his arms as she’d sobbed out her rage and misery had been an instinctive gesture. But it had felt good to hold her in his arms...good to feel her soft, slender body folded against his. Good to let his gaze rest on her.
Okay, any make-up she might have been wearing had been washed off in her flood of understandable tears, but her beauty was undimmed for all that.
He felt thoughts flickering somewhere deep in his brain—thoughts he shouldn’t grant admittance, but which went on flickering all the same.
He did his best to ignore them.
‘Whatever your father may have told you, this is what you need to know,’ he began.
He reached for his coffee, took a large mouthful, needing the caffeine. He would keep this as simple as possible.
‘The reason I am involved with your father is that I am keen to pursue a business merger with him. Not the construction side—that isn’t my thing—but in his investment-and finance-based operations. They would fit perfectly with my own business enterprises and add considerable value to both of us. Your father knows that as well as I do. However—’ he took a breath ‘—your father is also entertaining other ideas. He wants more than a mere business merger.’
He eyed Rosalie carefully. Her expression had been changing as he’d spoken—and not for the better.
‘He wants,’ he said, ‘to merge our families.’
There—he’d said it. And it was like setting a match to dry tinder.
The grey-green eyes—her undeniable heritage from Stavros—flashed like knives.
‘He informed me—’ she bit out every word ‘—that apparently every woman in Athens would envy me when I became your wife.’
The deep, vicious sarcasm in her voice was coruscating.
Beneath his breath Xandros cursed fluently and expressively.
Stavros’s daughter ploughed on. ‘And he told me that if I did not choose to arouse that envy in the breast of every woman in Athens I could take myself back to my London slum and I would never see a single cent of his precious bloody money!’
He saw her jaw set like iron, her eyes stony.
‘Which is exactly what I am doing,’ she finished bleakly. ‘I wish to God you had never found me!’ There was a tearing sound in her voice now. Her features twisted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that was the only reason you’d trekked to London? To bring me here so you and he could cook up some insane way to seal a business deal?’
There was incredulity in her voice, as well as anger.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Xandros said, his voice tight. ‘Your father wanted that, but I...’ he took a heavy in-breath ‘...I never had the slightest intention of doing what Stavros wanted! My sole aim in going to London at his bidding was to make it clear to you that whatever your father might have told you about his ambitions for a marriage-based merger I, for one, would not be cooperating!’
He paused again, and then went on. He had to say this next bit...
‘As for why I ended up bringing you out here after all,’ he went on, hardening his voice automatically, ‘bear in mind that I’d naturally assumed that, as Stavros’s daughter, you would be living the kind of affluent life similar to your sister’s here in Athens.’ His expression darkened. ‘Once I’d seen—to my absolute shock and disbelief—that the daughter of one of Greece’s richest men was living in the kind of poverty she should never have had to endure, how could I leave you there?’
He took another breath.
‘So I resolved to bring you to Athens,’ he went on. ‘In the hope that once you knew the truth about your father, just how rich he is, you might...well...’ he gave a shrug ‘...if not shame him into providing for you, at least you get something out of the brutal fact that Stavros Coustakis is your biological father! As for the merger... All I want is a business merger. Believe me!’ he finished feelingly.
He glanced away, out over the promenade to the sea beyond, then looked back at her again. He had to say the rest of this now. She deserved as much.
‘The reason your father wanted you brought from London,’ he said, ‘was because your half-sister also refused to go along with his scheme.’
He saw her eyes widen in shock.
‘He wanted you to marry Ariadne?’
He nodded. He would keep this as brief as possible. ‘She refused. Left the country.’ He watched her expression change. Become bitter.
‘So, after ignoring my existence all my life, he found I was suddenly useful to him...’ Her voice was hollow, and the bleakness was back in it.
Xandros reached for his coffee, which he needed now more than ever. ‘That’s about it,’ he agreed tightly.
He found himself thinking that Stavros would have assumed that, unlike Ariadne, who had her mother’s family to turn to, this East End daughter he’d knowingly and deliberately kept poor would be open to both his bribery and his threats.
Well, Rosalie Jones had rejected both all the same. She was, or so it seemed, prepared to return to her grim, impoverished life rather than be subject to her father’s machinations in exchange for a life of ease. He felt admiration for her resolve fill him. Yet he knew it was a resolve that would cost her dearly.
He set his drained coffee cup back on the table. ‘Are you really set on going back to London?’ he asked.
She nodded, her mouth set, her expression bleak at the prospect—and who could blame her?
The image of how he’d found her, looking exhausted and worn down, reeking of bleach and worse, that mop and bucket in her rubber-gloved hands, was suddenly and vividly—unacceptably—in his head.
I can’t let her go back to that!
‘No.’
The word fell from his lips, instinctive and automatic. Adamant. A frown flashed across his face. No, she would not go back to that appalling, poverty-stricken life! It was unthinkable—unthinkable for the daughter of one of Greece’s richest men! Surely he could help her get some degree of recompense from her father—find her a lawyer ready to take up her cause? Or a tabloid journalist? Or both?
Her outburst cut across his cogitations.
‘I don’t have a choice!’ she threw back at him, her voice bitter. ‘I refuse to have anything to do with a man who has said such vile, cruel things about my poor mother! Who knew he’d got her pregnant and then deserted her anyway, condemning her to a misery she endured for the rest of her tormented life without lifting a finger to help her—let alone the daughter he knew perfectly well he had! He can rot in hell for that! And for thinking he could buy me with his bloody money and that I’d crawl to him for it so I wouldn’t have to go back to the poverty he deliberately kept me in, hoping it would make me malleable and desperate!’
Xandros could see her face working again, could hear the rage in her voice mounting once more. The fire in her eyes was making them more luminous t
han ever... Her fury was animating her features...intensifying her beauty...
From somewhere deep in that part of his brain he’d had to silence before, the part that he had refused to pay any attention to, came a thought that was so outrageous he tried to stifle it at birth.
But it would not be stifled. Would not be silenced.
Because there was another way she could avoid being condemned to a life of grinding poverty. His mind raced. A way that would simultaneously do him some good as well. A considerable amount of good.
As his eyes rested on her agitated, stricken face, which for all the emotion working in it was still not diminished in its effect, on the emotion flashing in her eyes, lighting them into a blaze, he heard words rise up in his throat. Insane, surely, as it would be to say them...
And then he said them anyway.
‘What if there was a different alternative?’
His eyes held hers, holding them by the sheer power of the will that was welling up in him from that deep, impossible place in his brain.
She stared. Blankness was in her face.
‘What alternative?’
He held her eyes still—those beautiful, expressive eyes of hers—masking his own expression. But beneath the mask his thoughts were churning wildly. Was he really going to say what he was about to say? Could he mean it?
Then there was no more time for questioning himself, for he could hear himself speak. Saying the words.
‘You marry me after all.’
* * *
She was staring at him. The blankness on her face was gone. And her expression now was one of total rejection.
‘Hear me out,’ Xandros urged. He was marshalling his own thoughts, moving them rapidly across his consciousness as they formed. ‘You marry me—just as your father wants,’ he repeated. ‘But—’ and the emphasis was absolute ‘—you do so on your terms—not his.’
Her grey-green eyes were still stony with repudiation so he went on, hearing his own thoughts springing into being.
