His shoulders stiffened, as though bracing against some hidden pain. ‘He moved to America.’
She stared at him in silence, wanting to pull him close and hold him closer, to do anything that might ease the bruise in his voice and the taut set to his mouth. Except she was too afraid to move, afraid to do anything that might make him stop speaking.
‘How did you get to see him?’ she asked softly.
His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly again. ‘With difficulty. After we moved I was sent to boarding school, so there was only really the holidays, but by then my mother had a new baby—my half-brother, Oliver—and my father had remarried so everyone had got other stuff going on.’
Everyone but me.
She heard the unspoken end to his sentence, could picture the lonely, confused six-year-old Aristo, who would have looked a lot like their own son.
A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘After a couple of years it sort of petered out to one visit a year, and then it just stopped. He used to call occasionally—he still does.’ He looked away, out of the window. ‘But we don’t really have anything to say to one another.’
He hesitated.
‘I dream about him sometimes. And the crazy thing is that in my dreams he wants to talk to me.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Probably the longest conversation I actually had with him was when he signed the business over to me.’
He fell silent and, her heart thudding, she tried to think of something positive to say. ‘But he did give you the business. Maybe that was his way of trying to show how much he cared.’
‘I hope not.’ Aristo turned to meet her eyes, his mouth twisting—part grimace, not quite a smile. ‘Given that he was on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. The company was a wreck and he was up to his neck in debt—he hadn’t even been paying the staff properly.’
‘And you turned it around,’ she said quickly. ‘He could have just walked away, but I think he had faith in you. He knew you’d do the right thing.’
Her chin jerked upwards, and he watched her eyes narrow, the luminous green like twin lightning flashes.
‘You’ve worked so hard and built something incredible. I know he must be proud of you.’
Teddie stared at him, her heart thudding so hard that it hurt. At the time of their marriage she’d hated his business, resented all the hours he’d spent working late into the night. But this wasn’t about her or her feelings, it was about Aristo—about a little boy who had grown up needing to prove himself worthy of his inheritance.
She felt a little sick.
Was it any surprise that he was so intently focused on his career? Or that success mattered so much to him. He clearly wanted to prove himself, and felt responsible for saving his father’s business—that would have had a huge impact on his character.
She felt his gaze, and looking up found her eyes locked with his.
‘I don’t expect you to understand how I’m feeling,’ he said eventually. ‘All I want to do is be the best father I can possibly be. Does that make sense?’
She bit her lip.
‘The best father I can possibly be.’
His words replayed inside her head, alongside a memory of herself on the night that George had been born. Alone in her hospital room, holding her tiny new son, seeing his dark trusting eyes fixed on her face, she’d made a promise to him. A promise to be the best mother she could possibly be.
‘I do understand.’
She was surprised by how calm and even her voice sounded. More surprised still that she was admitting that fact to Aristo. But how could she not tell him the truth when he had just shared what was clearly such a painfully raw memory of his own?
‘I felt exactly the same way when I was pregnant. And it’s what I wake up feeling most mornings.’
Hearing the edge in her voice, Aristo felt something unspool inside his chest. She looked uncertain. Teddie—who could stand in front of an audience and pluck the right card out of a deck without so much as blinking. He hated knowing that she had felt like that, that she still did.
When he was sure his voice was under control he said carefully, ‘Why do you feel like that?’
It seemed irrational: to him, Teddie seemed such a loving, devoted mother.
She shrugged. ‘My mom struggled. And my dad was...’
She hesitated and he waited, watching her decide whether to continue, praying that she would.
Finally, she cleared her throat. ‘My dad was always away on business.’ The euphemism slipped off her tongue effortlessly, before she was even aware that she was using it. ‘And my mom couldn’t really cope on her own. She started drinking, and then she had an accident. She fell down a staircase and smashed two of her vertebrae. She was in a lot of pain and they put her on medication. She got addicted to it, and that’s when she really went downhill.’
Even to her—someone who was familiar with the whole squalid mess that had been her childhood—it sounded appalling. Not just tragic, but pitiful.
Breathing out unsteadily, she gave him a tiny twist of a smile. ‘After that she really couldn’t cope at all—not with her job, or the apartment, or me...with anything, really.’
He frowned, trying to follow the thread of her logic, aching to go over and put his arms around her and hold her close. ‘And you thought you would be like her?’ he asked, careful to phrase it as a question, not a statement of fact.
She pulled a face. ‘Not just her—it runs in the family. My mum was brought up by foster parents because her mother couldn’t cope with her.’ Her lips tightened.
‘But you do cope,’ he said gently and, reaching out, he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘With everything. You run your own business. You have a lovely apartment and you’re a wonderful mother.’
Abruptly she pulled her hand away. ‘You don’t have to say those things,’ she said crossly, trying her hardest to ignore the way her pulse was darting crazily beneath her skin like a startled fish. ‘You can’t flatter me into marrying you, Aristo.’
Dark eyes gleaming, he leaned forward and pulled her reluctantly onto the bed beside him.
‘Apparently not. And I know I don’t have to say those things,’ he added, his thumbs moving in slow, gentle strokes over her skin. ‘I said them because I should have said them before and I didn’t. I’m saying them because they’re true.’
Releasing her, he reached up, his palms sliding through her hair, his fingers caressing then tightening, capturing her, his touch both firm and tender.
‘So could I please just be allowed to say them? To you? Here? Now?’
Teddie blinked and, lifting her hand, touched his face, unable to resist stroking the smooth curving contour of his chin and cheekbone. She felt her fingertips tingling as they trailed over the graze of stubble already darkening his jawline.
Somewhere in the deepest part of her mind a drum had started to throb. She wanted to pull away from him—only not nearly as much as she wanted to feel his skin against hers, to lean into his solid shoulder.
‘I suppose so.’
His thumb was stroking her cheek now. It was tracing the line of her lips and she could feel her brain slowing in time to her pulse.
‘Aristo...’ she said softly. The nearness of his drowsy, dark gaze nearly overwhelmed her.
‘Yes, Teddie?’
‘I don’t think we should be doing this.’
The corners of his mouth—his beautiful mouth that was so temptingly close to hers—curved up into a tiny smile. ‘We’re not doing this because we should,’ he said softly. ‘We’re doing this because we want to do it.’
Her stomach flipped over and she stilled, too scared to move, for she knew what would happen if she did. She knew exactly how her body would melt into his and just how intensely, blissfully good it would be.
But if she gave in and followed that beating drum of desire where
would it lead? She might consider herself to be sexually carefree and independent, and maybe with any other man she could be that woman. But not with Aristo. Sharing her body with him would be fierce and intimate and all-consuming. She knew she would feel something—and that would make her vulnerable, and she couldn’t be vulnerable around this man. Or at least not any more vulnerable than she already was.
And, whatever Aristo might argue to the contrary, when he talked about wanting to marry her again she knew deep down that what he was really thinking about was sex. Only, no matter how sublime it was, there was more to a relationship than sex—as their previous marriage had already painfully proved. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—go there again.
Yes, she wanted to touch him, and she wanted him to hold her, and she was fighting herself, torn between wanting to believe that they could try again and knowing it was an impossibility. Maybe in another life, if the timing had been different...
But Aristo was already her first love, her ex-husband and the father of her child. Did she really need to add another layer of complication to what was already a complex and conflicted relationship? And besides, she should be looking forward, not back, and that meant keeping the past where it belonged.
‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘But this isn’t about what you and I want any more. It’s about being honest and open.’
His eyes moved over her face. ‘So tell me, honestly, that you don’t want me.’
He was so close she could see herself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes, and it took every atom of will in her body to resist the tractor beam of his gaze and her own longing.
‘I can’t. But I also know that I can’t have everything I want. Maybe I thought I could once, but not any more.’
As the words left her mouth she knew that they were just that—words—and that if he chose to challenge her or, worse, if he leaned forward and kissed her, she would be lost.
She stared at him, mute, transfixed, mind and body wavering between desire and panic.
But he didn’t lean forward.
Instead, his dark eyes calm, his expression unfathomable, he gently ran a finger down the side of her face and then, standing up, walked slowly across the cabin. As the door closed she breathed out unsteadily, searching inwardly for the relief she’d expected to feel.
But it wasn’t there. Instead she had never felt lonelier, or more confused.
CHAPTER FIVE
STEPPING OUT OF the shower, Aristo reached for a towel and rubbed it briefly over his lean, muscular body. He smoothed his damp hair against his skull and, still naked, stepped into his dressing room. Stopping in front of the shelves, he let his dark eyes scan their colour-coded contents momentarily, before picking out a pair of dark blue swim shorts and a lighter blue T-shirt.
He sighed. If only the rest of his life could be as organised and straightforward.
Sliding his watch over his knuckles, he glanced down at the time and frowned. It was early—far too early for anyone else on the island to be awake. But although it was the first day of his holiday his body still insisted on acting as though it was just another day at the office.
Actually, not all of his body, he thought grimly.
Twelve hours on a plane with Teddie had left him aching with a sexual frustration that made not just sleep but relaxing almost impossible.
He grimaced. Only, in comparison to what was going on inside his head, the discomfort in his groin seemed completely inconsequential.
His heart began to beat unsteadily.
Had he really told Teddie all that stuff about his father? He could hardly believe it.
He’d spent most of his adolescence and adult life suppressing that hurt and disappointment, building barriers between himself and the world, and especially between himself and his wife. Ordinarily he found it easy to deter personal questions. But yesterday Teddie had refused to take no for an answer. Instead she had waited, and listened, and coaxed the truth out of him.
Not the whole truth, of course—he would never be ready to share that with anyone—just the reason why he was so determined to remarry her.
It had been hard enough to reveal even that much, for it had been the first time he’d ever really tried to untangle the mess of emotions he felt for his father. The first time he’d spoken out loud about Apostolos’s indifference and almost total absence from his life.
It had been a rare loss of self-control—one that he still couldn’t fully explain. But Teddie had been, and was still, the only person who could get under his skin and make him see fifty shades of red. She alone had overridden all his carefully placed defences, and it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Despite her being the wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d not only led her to his bedroom but up the aisle.
His mind took him back to the moment when he’d first become aware of the existence of Teddie Taylor at the opening of his first major project—the Rocky Creek Ranch. It had been a vision nearly two years in the making: a luxury resort offering all-American activities on a three-thousand-acre mountain playground.
He’d wanted his mother, Helena, to be there, but inevitably—and despite his reminding her frequently about the date—there had been a clash. His half-brother, Oliver, had been playing in some polo match, so his mother had missed what had been up until then the most important moment in his career.
He’d almost not gone to the opening. But as usual business had overridden emotion and he’d bitten down on his disappointment and joined the specially selected guests to watch the evening’s cabaret.
He wasn’t entirely sure when Teddie had stopped being just the entertainment. He’d barely registered the other acts and, although he’d thought her beautiful, she was not his usual type. Only, at some point, as she had effortlessly shuffled and cut the cards in front of her captive audience, he’d been unable to look away—and, despite believing himself indifferent to magic, he’d found himself falling under her spell.
Catching a glimpse of green eyes the colour of unripe olives, he’d willed her to look at him, and just as though he’d waved a magic wand she picked him out from the crowd. Even now he could still remember the jolt of electricity as their hands had touched, but at the end of the performance she’d turned away to mingle with the other guests.
Only, of course that hadn’t really been the end of her performance.
She’d been waiting for him in the bar.
With the watch she’d removed from his wrist.
Seven weeks later they had been married, and six months after that they’d been divorced.
Angry and hurt, he’d cast her as the villain, believing that she’d seen him as a warm-up act—a means to gain access to the kind of society where there would be rich pickings for a beautiful, smart and sexy woman like Teddie Taylor.
Now, with hindsight, he could see that it had been easy to persuade himself that those were the cold, hard facts, for there had been a deeper anger there. An anger with himself. Anger because he’d allowed himself to be drawn to a woman like her after all he’d been through and seen.
He frowned. Four years ago it had all seemed so simple. He’d thought he understood Teddie completely.
Now, though, it was clear that he’d never really understood her at all. Worse, his previous assessment of her seemed to bear no relation to the woman who had been so worried about him on the plane. Or to the woman who had financially supported herself and their child on her own.
A light breeze ruffled the white muslin curtains and he turned towards the window, his eyes lingering on the calm blue sea that stretched out to the horizon in every direction. Had the single-mindedness that had always been his greatest strength actually been a weakness? Had he put two and two together and made minus four?
Frowning again, he stepped towards the window, pondering how that could be the case.
Although he’d condem
ned her as shallow and grasping when they’d split up, he couldn’t ignore the facts, and the truth was that Teddie had neither challenged the modest settlement she’d received at the time of their divorce—a settlement which had obviously not included raising George—or pursued him for more money.
In fact she had successfully supported both herself and their son without him, and reluctantly, he found himself contemplating the astonishing possibility that he might actually have misjudged Teddie. That maybe he’d cut and pasted his parents’ mismatched and unhappy relationship onto his own marriage, making the facts fit the theory.
But what were the facts about his ex-wife? What did he really know about Teddie?
He breathed out slowly and started walking towards the door. Judging by that conversation on the plane, not as much as he’d thought he did. Or as much as he should.
Teddie had been his wife. He might not remember his vows word for word—there had been too much adrenaline in his blood, and a sense of standing on the edge of a cliff—but surely her husband should have been the person who knew her best.
Thinking about her baffling remarks on the plane, he felt his shoulders tense.
Yesterday she’d as good as admitted that she wanted him—why, then, had she held back? And what had she meant by telling him that she couldn’t have everything she wanted?
He felt his heartbeat slow.
In principle, this holiday was supposed to be all about getting to know his son, but clearly he needed to get to know his ex-wife as well. In fact it wasn’t just a need—he wanted to get to know Teddie, to get close to her.
His legs stopped moving, and something exploded inside his chest like a firecracker as he realised that he wasn’t just talking about her body. No, what really fascinated him about his beautiful, infuriating, mysterious ex-wife was her mind.
His heartbeat doubled, a flare of excitement catching him off-guard.
Last time they hadn’t got to know each other as people. It hadn’t been that kind of relationship, or even any relationship really—just desire, raw and intoxicating as moonshine.
Demanding His Secret Son Page 8
