by Lynne Graham
Outside her apartment block, Sander sprang out and removed her bag from the car.
Across the low slung bonnet Tally clashed unwarily with his stunning dark golden gaze. It was one of those moments when Sander was unmistakeably CEO of Volakis Shipping, an international tycoon of considerable wealth and influence. He stood tall and straight, power etched in every masculine angle of his lean dark face.
‘We have to deal with this as a couple. We still belong together, yineka mou,’ Sander declared with admirable conviction as he reluctantly passed over the bag.
‘Like oil and water?’ Tally shot back at him, rage coming out of nowhere and surging up through her slim length like lava ready to overflow. Green eyes cutting as lasers, she glared at him. ‘And don’t call me that. Don’t remind me that I’m your wife. It’s hardly something I’m likely to boast about!’
Anger blazed hot as the sun in Sander’s expressive eyes. ‘Don’t insult me. I have been as honest with you as I know how to be, but please don’t forget that if you hadn’t walked out on our marriage last year that child would never have been born!’
Cut to the bone by that bold reminder, Tally slammed the car door with violence. There was too much truth in that retaliation for her to brush it off and the last thing she needed to feel just then was that she had brought her sufferings down on herself. Outraged by his audacity, she stalked away without a backward glance. It was a relief to close the apartment door behind her and know that he could no longer witness her reactions, but she paced the confines of her home like a lost soul unable to find a place to settle. She knew she ought to eat but she wasn’t hungry and when darkness fell she went to bed and prayed for sleep. Only sleep would give her solace, for at least while she slept she would not be forced to think any more.
Fate, however, still had one more punishment in store for her. Although it was a while since she had last had the nightmare in which she heard her son cry while she searched without success for him, she had a bad dream that night. A dream that ended with a different twist. In this new version she found the nursery where the baby was crying and rushed in, only to look down in horror into the cot at a totally unfamiliar child. That jarring experience woke her up with the sheet sticking to her perspiring skin. She was shaking so badly she could barely manage to switch the bedside light on. She had hoped those disturbing dreams, brought on by the grief that her mind was struggling to cope with, had gone for ever. The altered conclusion to the nightmare, clearly the result of what Sander had told her about his little daughter, Lili, was just one more slap in the face. She got up early and went for a shower, arriving at work well in advance of her staff.
Her mobile phone buzzed at eight-thirty. and she answered it. ‘There’s a story about Lili in the Daily Globe today,’ Sander informed her grimly. ‘Someone somewhere has talked out of turn. The paparazzi will be on your doorstep today looking for a reaction.’
Her strained face froze. ‘I’ll cope—’
‘I don’t think you should try. You should get out of London until the fuss dies down.’
‘Nonsense. I have a business to run,’ Tally fielded coldly, already in the act of searching on her computer for the online edition of the paper.
‘I’m sending a security team over to your showroom. If you take my advice—’
‘I won’t,’ Tally interrupted glacially.
‘—you’ll let them get you out of there before the proverbial hits the fan,’ Sander murmured. ‘With stories like this the paps can be very aggressive.’
‘Then you should try not to lead the kind of life that attracts them,’ Tally retaliated sourly. ‘Thankfully I don’t—’
‘It’s just unfortunate that you married me,’ Sander completed for her with sardonic bite.
She logged onto the newspaper’s website and immediately saw the headline that screamed at her: BILLION-POUND BABY! Beside it was a picture of a very decorative blonde carrying a baby seat into a famous London hotel, Sander’s tall, powerful figure recognisable several steps in her wake. The little girl’s face was not visible. Her heart in her throat, Tally clicked on the item and began to read. Evidently Oleia Telis had died a hugely wealthy heiress and had left everything she possessed, including her child, to Sander, who was referred to as the ‘hot-blooded Greek shipping magnate, currently pursuing reconciliation with his wife’. His relationship with Oleia was described as ‘volatile but enduring’ by a close friend who chose not to be named, the implication being that Oleia had become Sander’s mistress during his marriage. That was an idea that had never occurred to Tally before and it knocked her for six.
Stunned, she suddenly felt the need for some fresh air and as she stumbled out of the entrance to her showroom a flash bulb went off and startled her into a standstill. As she glanced up in dismay a man demanded to know why she was no longer living with her husband. Aghast, Tally sped back into her office where her assistant, Belle, lifted her hand to grab Tally’s attention and put the phone down saying anxiously, ‘The phone has been ringing off the hook … the media asking nosy questions about—’
‘I have no comment to make, no comment to make about anything,’ Tally slotted in stiffly, her heart quickening its beat as another man strode in, a fancy camera dangled round his neck.
‘I have some questions for Mrs Volakis,’ he announced.
Tally straightened her slim shoulders but her colour was high. ‘I’m not interested in answering questions. Please leave!’
But even as she spoke someone else was powering through the showroom door and asking loudly, ‘Mrs. Volakis, did you know about your husband’s baby by the Greek heiress, Oleia Telis?’
‘Either you leave now or we call the police!’ Belle threatened, standing her ground sturdily while the oafish young man attempted to push his way past her.
Something of a free-for-all was developing when the security presence that Sander had promised arrived in the persons of two, very large and powerfully built men who got rid of the obstreperous intruders with the minimum of commotion. By that stage, Tally had registered that there were now other paparazzi waiting out on the pavement and her earlier conviction that she could easily ride out any fuss was beginning to look naïve.
‘I’m Johnson, Mrs Volakis. We’ll take you out through the back entrance now.’
‘I have an appointment—’
‘I think you should take the day off,’ Belle remarked with a grimace as yet another photographer rapped loudly on the window to get attention. ‘If you’re not here, they’ll clear off.’
‘I’m meeting Lady Margaret at ten—’
‘I’ll call and reschedule,’ her assistant offered. ‘I don’t think she’d be too impressed if she had to wade through that scrum out there.’
Thinking of the very correct older woman, Tally was inclined to agree. While also thinking that such an unsavoury scandal would scarcely appeal to her clients and might indeed damage her business reputation. She lifted her bag and grabbed her coat to accompany the security men through the back entrance. As they tucked her into a big, black saloon car a man came running down the alley with a camera clutched in one hand. Her protectors threw themselves into the car and drove off at speed. Relieved to have escaped further harassment, Tally gave them her address.
‘Your husband is expecting you to go to his new country house, Roxburn Manor,’ Johnson imparted.
‘I want to go to my own home,’ Tally said firmly, while wondering when Sander had acquired the manor house. He certainly hadn’t mentioned the fact to her. On some level it still shook her to be reminded that Sander had been leading an entirely separate life for many months and she could not understand why she should be reacting that way.
Exasperation gripped her when she saw a photographer pacing outside her apartment building and the car had to accelerate away from the kerb again.
‘We’ll return to the original plan,’ Johnson pronounced.
After her disturbed rest the night before, Tally was tired and in no moo
d to argue. She didn’t want to go anywhere, she just wanted to vanish to a secluded place where she could feel safe from all the distressing elements currently infiltrating her world. Never had she felt as insecure as she did at that moment, she could not even take refuge in her apartment. Digging out her phone from her bag, she rang Sander.
‘It’s a two-day wonder, glikia mou,’ he told her soothingly. ‘It’ll be someone else’s turn to be worked over and chased round town next week. You’ll get peace and quiet at Roxburn Manor.’
‘All right, but just for a couple of days,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘I want to sleep for a week.’
‘Are you sleeping properly?’ Sander enquired in a tone of concern that she resented.
‘I was sleeping perfectly until you came back into my life!’ Tally fielded thinly.
Ten minutes later, Johnson escorted her into the lift of a skyscraper office block and up out onto the roof where a Volakis helicopter awaited them. Tally scrambled in and buckled up, only realising as she did so that she didn’t even have a change of clothes with her. Just then her lack of luggage didn’t seem that important: she was in a daze, almost traumatised by the fast-moving events of the past twenty-four hours.
The journey in the helicopter provided a welcome distraction from her unhappy thoughts. The sky hung blue and clear above a world composed of green fields and woods broken up by occasional settlements of small houses. Roxburn Manor, however, was a somewhat more impressive building, she registered as the helicopter came in to land within yards of a very elegant Georgian mansion. Mrs Jones, the housekeeper, greeted Tally with a warm smile and took her straight through the big airy hall into a spacious reception room where a log fire was burning in the grate to take the chill off the cool early summer day. A tray of refreshments arrived and lunch was discussed.
Tally had not realised quite how tired or how hungry she was until she sank into the opulent feathered comfort of a capacious sofa and let the tension fall away. A cup of tea and several biscuits later, she kicked off her shoes, curled up and sleep overtook her. It was dusk when she awoke. Darkness lay beyond the firelight flickering bright reflections on the windows and the noise that had wakened her was the sound of a helicopter landing. Her brow pleating she sat up, pushing her tumbled hair off her brow and searching for her shoes.
A light knock sounded on the ajar door and the housekeeper glanced in. ‘Mrs Volakis? I didn’t like to wake you for lunch but now that your husband’s arrived, I’ll ensure that dinner is served without delay.’
Wide awake now, Tally scrambled off the sofa, green eyes huge, mouth falling open in surprise. ‘My husband?’ she framed unevenly, unable to conceal her dismay.
Just then, she heard Sander’s voice raised to address Mrs Jones and she stalked to the door in angry disbelief. What a fool she had been to blindly agree to being transported to Roxburn Manor! Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Sander might be planning to join her there? Or that Sander might use the harassment of the paparazzi as a weapon against her? Just when had she become so naïve that her astute husband could hoodwink her without effort?
Sander entered the hall, looking impossibly male, and tall and broad, in a dark cashmere overcoat worn over his business suit. Dark stubble roughening his strong jaw line, he turned hooded dark eyes on Tally’s petite figure in the drawing-room doorway. ‘Tally … Mrs Jones tells me you haven’t eaten yet. I won’t keep you waiting long—’
‘I need to speak to you,’ Tally began heatedly.
And then she heard a baby’s unmistakeable wail somewhere nearby. Sander stepped to one side and a youthful brunette with a baby carrier appeared. Tally’s attention homed straight in on the child it transported. Only part of a little red face and a quiff of curly dark hair showed above the edge of a rug. Paralysed to the spot by the sight, Tally lost every scrap of her angry colour and turned eyes of incredulous reproach on Sander before she wheeled round and retreated back into the drawing room, not trusting herself to speak while they had an audience.
Dear heaven, how could he set up such a confrontation? How could he bring that child to stay under the same roof as her? Did he have no conception of what he was doing to her? That was his child out there, the daughter he had had with Oleia! A soundless scream seemed to be stealing all the space in Tally’s lungs and she knew that she was hyperventilating again …
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘TALLY…’ Sander strode in and took off his coat, casting it down on a chair before closing the door to give them privacy.
Although Tally felt as though a large rock were sitting at the foot of her throat, she struggled to breathe normally again and loosen the choking tightness squeezing her chest. Sander focused deep-set eyes as tawny as a mountain cougar’s on her rigid features. With faint colour scoring his strong cheekbones and accentuating the sleek angles and the hollows of his superb bone structure, he looked stunningly handsome and yet cautious as a man balancing on a rope above an abyss.
‘How could you bring that child here?’ Tally demanded starkly, her disbelief unhidden. At the same time she was resenting the undeniable buzz that his arrival evoked, the fizz in her bloodstream that acted like too much wine on a weak head. It mortified her that she could still be so aware of him.
‘I couldn’t just leave them in the hotel.’
‘Why not?’ Tally prompted, in no mood to be reasonable.
‘Lili cries incessantly and she was disturbing the other guests. The hotel management was complaining.’ Sander compressed his wide sensual mouth as he made that exasperated admission. ‘Suzette’s replacement is new and inexperienced and she’s struggling to cope. There’s no way I could leave her in sole charge of Lili in London with a posse of paps hanging around looking for a photo opportunity.’
‘All of a sudden you’re acting so responsibly … like a real parent,’ Tally sneered. She hated herself for doing it but could not swallow back the gibe.
‘I’m doing my best,’ Sander acknowledged curtly, his beautifully shaped mouth hardening on the acknowledgement. ‘I have to: there’s nobody else to do it.’
However, Sander’s world was feeling like an evermore hostile environment in which his every past sin came back to haunt him, many times. He was bleakly aware that he had not shone in adversity when Tally had fallen accidentally pregnant after they had been seeing each other for only a few weeks. The resentful edge of immaturity and the troubled childhood that had prevented him from accepting his new parenting role with enthusiasm had lingered with devastating results. He had kept his distance, preserving his detachment for the sake of his pride, and when the worst had happened it had proved too late in the day to turn the clock back and change anything.
Even through the solid thickness of the door Tally could hear the faint sound of the baby’s heart-wrenching cries. Although the nanny had undoubtedly taken the child upstairs, she could still hear the little girl. Or was she simply imagining the fact that she could still hear the baby crying? Tally wondered worriedly. After all, she had already discovered that her imagination was boundless when sleep had plunged her back into the nightmares that had once haunted her. Her teeth gritted, her adrenalin jumping to sky-high levels at those cries, setting up a dim mocking echo in her ears. She wanted to run and keep on running but something steel hard inside her refused to give way to that craven urge. Any temptation to show weakness in Sander’s vicinity had to be fought. Even if it killed her she would stay on at Roxburn Manor.
‘I didn’t even know you were planning to join me at this house, never mind bringing that child with you,’ Tally condemned angrily. ‘I’d never have agreed to leave London if I’d realised what awaited me here!’
Sander shifted a fluid brown hand as if to forestall that censure. ‘I didn’t think about that angle. I’m sorry. My only objective was to help you …’
‘How can you help me? You’re my problem!’ Tally flung at him in a seething rage, glaring at him, her marmalade-coloured hair bouncing against her flushed cheekbones as sh
e jerked an emphatic hand to underline that point. ‘I wouldn’t be running away from the press and their horrible nosy questions if it wasn’t for you and your behaviour!’
Lean strong face clenched hard with self-discipline, Sander veiled his hot, golden gaze and squared his broad shoulders in resolute silence. He wanted to walk out, jump into the helicopter and go back to his office, where his best efforts invariably paid off with a profit. He was bloody marvellous at making money. He knew that, knew too that many women would regard it as his most appealing trait. For the first time he wished that diamonds were a currency that Tally appreciated. But when she had left a safe full of them behind when she’d walked out on their marriage, he had got the message that jewellery was no big deal for her. Tally expected more intangible and meaningful things from him. He just wasn’t sure that he had whatever that was within him to give. And, unhappily, he didn’t have the words to explain that lack to her either.
The smouldering silence of their mutual dissatisfaction was interrupted by the housekeeper inviting them through to the dining room for dinner Tally toyed with the idea of asking if she could eat upstairs in her room but she didn’t want to act the demanding diva when she had no idea how much assistance the older woman might have in the household. Soft, full pink lips flattening with strain, she took a seat with an air of discomfiture in the stiflingly formal dining room.
‘Why did you invite me here?’ she asked after a young woman wearing an overall had served them with soup. ‘If your arrival means that you think I’m accepting this situation—’
‘Hardly,’ Sander fielded that suggestion with a coolly raised ebony brow. ‘I didn’t want you struggling to cope with media intrusion when it was my fault that you had become a target. I thought you would get peace here.’
The soup was carrot and coriander and delicious. Tally wondered if it would warm the cold place inside her but reckoned that would take a blowtorch. ‘When did you buy this house?’
