by Abby Green
For the first time Gypsy felt that perhaps she could tell Rico something of her life, but then that visceral fear surged up: despite what she knew about him now, she still couldn’t trust him. It held her back. There was too much at stake. He might play fair in business, but would he play fair in personal matters—especially those concerning his own daughter? He’d said he wouldn’t ever forgive Gypsy for what she’d done. It was only now that she knew a little of his personal history that she could see how it might have shaped his need not to be seen rejecting his own child.
She reiterated stiffly, ‘There’s really nothing to tell.’
After locking eyes with her for a long moment, until Gypsy felt breathless, Rico said, ‘Why don’t you take Lola and get some sleep in the bedroom? I still have work to do.’
And, as much to escape as anything else, Gypsy took his suggestion and left.
A few hours after doing some brain-numbing work which had more to do with blocking out the erotic memory of kissing Gypsy that morning, and how hard it had been to let her walk away, than any actual need to work Rico stretched and stood up.
He prowled silently to the back of the plane to look in on Gypsy and Lola, and stopped just inside the doorway with an ominous tightening in his chest. Gypsy lay on her side, her hair in a stream of curls around her head, knees up and her hand protectively on Lola’s chest, cocooning her. Lola lay in complete abandon, legs and arms splayed. Gypsy had put pillows on Lola’s other side to prevent her rolling off the bed.
A fierce sense of possessiveness rose up within him, and it encompassed the two people on the bed—not just the little one. The constriction in his chest not easing one bit, he walked in and pulled a blanket first of all over Gypsy, and then a smaller one over Lola. Neither one moved. He stood watching Gypsy and tried to battle the maelstrom of emotions she so effortlessly aroused.
He’d told her she was an enigma, and she was. Information on her background was starting to trickle through, and what he’d learnt so far had him reeling. He’d just given her a chance to tell him herself, but she hadn’t. And he wanted to know why she was so reluctant to tell him of her past.
It was becoming harder and harder for him to cling on to his sense of injustice that she’d kept Lola secret from him. It was also becoming harder for him to remember why he didn’t want to shackle her to him in marriage. The prospect, once so repugnant, now had a distinct appeal. He couldn’t lie to himself that he wasn’t a little envious of what Rafael and Isobel had together, and, while he didn’t imagine he’d ever experience that for himself, he certainly wasn’t averse to trying to create a home based around family…and mutual desire.
All Gypsy’s behaviour in the past few days had pointed to her sharing a very similar moral compass to Isobel’s, and he knew Isobel was not a woman who would choose to have a child and decide not to tell the father without good reason.
Gypsy’s presence by his side at the social functions had been a revelation. In the past he’d had to deal with sulks and moues of disappointment from mistresses or dates when he’d wanted to do his bit and then leave as soon as possible. But he’d got the distinct impression that Gypsy had as little time for those events as he did. She’d had no desire to ogle the A-list celebrities, or talk inanities with the sycophants who all wanted a slice of him—or more accurately his fortune. In the space of two nights he’d found himself instinctively seeking her hand and relishing finding that she was right behind him without a murmur of dissent—if anything she’d shared his look of mild distaste.
And what was even more disconcerting was the ease with which he’d slipped into something that felt extremely domestic. Coming home to Lola each night, checking on her. Listening to Gypsy get up to soothe her if she woke during the night. Feeling the bed dip as she got back in and aching to just pull her close to him and make love to her until he could satisfy himself that what had happened between them had been a figment of his imagination.
He had a sinking feeling, as he watched her now and felt the familiar throb of desire, that it would prove to be anything but. He’d told her arrogantly that he’d wait for her to come to him, confident that she’d be mindless with desire for him, but he’d been the one to lose control that morning. Vulnerability clawed upwards again. He’d control this desire, wait until he knew more about the mother of his child. Make her want him as badly as he wanted her. Space. That was what he would have to impose—even if it killed him.
Lola squealed happily as Rico threw her in the air again, only to catch her in safe hands just before she touched the glittering azure water of the pool, which was half-indoors, half-outdoors. Rico had explained that this was the winter pool and was heated. Gypsy had seen another idyllic outdoor pool from the terrace where they’d had breakfast that morning.
‘Again!’ Lola screeched ecstatically, her favourite new word, which she’d picked up from Beatriz. Gypsy stifled a wry smile to see that Rico was fast discovering the perils of an indefatigable toddler who’d just discovered an exciting game and the power of language.
Her heart clenched to see Lola so happy in this environment—especially when she thought of their less than salubrious home in London and felt the familiar guilt. There, Lola had been lucky to get a go on the one nonmangled swing in the bleak park. Here…Gypsy sighed as she looked around from the seat she sat on. Here was paradise.
They’d landed in Athens late last night and transferred straight onto a smaller plane, which had borne them across southern Greece to the island of Zakynthos. In the surprisingly cool night air Rico had ushered them into a Jeep and had driven them himself to his villa, which was near the private airfield.
Gypsy had been too exhausted to take much notice of their surroundings last night, and had been barely aware of the friendly housekeeper Rico had introduced as Agneta. But she had been disturbingly aware of a new coolness from Rico. Gone were the hot and intent looks, but she was determined not to let it bother her. Rico was undoubtedly trying to unsettle her again.
This morning, when she’d carried Lola down to breakfast, she’d been in awe at the beauty of the simple yet expansive villa unfolding around her. Everything was bright and airy, with huge glass windows showcasing the fabulous views of the Mediterranean.
Agneta had met them with a wide smile and led them to where Rico was reading a paper and eating breakfast on a shaded terrace. Gypsy had been surprised, once again, that he was there and hadn’t already left to go to work. She’d also been more than bemused to see a state-of-the-art highchair waiting for Lola, and she’d noticed the discreet child-proofing that had been done throughout the villa.
Rico had stood when they’d arrived, and enquired, ‘I trust you slept well?’
Gypsy had just nodded and garbled, ‘Yes, thank you. Our rooms are most comfortable.’ Which was a huge understatement. She didn’t want to admit that she’d actually missed Rico’s presence in the room last night—in the bed. Even though she’d told herself staunchly that she’d been relieved to be shown to a suite of rooms of her own.
There was a dressing room, bathroom and sitting room. Not to mention the huge bedroom, with a fourposter bed complete with diaphanous muslin curtains drawn back. And Agneta had shown her into an equally generous ante-room which had been set up as a nursery for Lola. Gypsy had had to swallow an emotional lump, and had put it down to tiredness.
But that same lump was threatening again now, as she watched Rico and Lola frolic in the water, both sets of identical grey eyes smiling. So she knew it had nothing to do with tiredness. With each day that passed Lola was getting more and more attached to Rico. She went into his arms with no hesitation, and was already using him as someone to go to when she didn’t want to do something Gypsy wanted her to do.
With that revelation making her feel uncomfortable and crabby, not to mention the far too provocative sight of a half-naked Rico, she approached the side of the pool with a towel, indicating that Lola should get out.
‘She’ll be impossible to put down
for a nap after lunch if she gets too excited now.’
Those two sets of grey eyes turned to her, and Gypsy felt inordinately petty. But even though Rico’s eyes flashed he waded to the edge of the pool and handed Lola over. Predictably, she began to protest at having her game cut short.
He drew himself out in one fluid motion which made Gypsy’s breath hitch. She avoided looking at where the water sluiced off his body. She could only be thankful that he wore board shorts and not something more insubstantial.
‘I should go into Athens for a few hours to tend to business. Go ahead and have dinner without me. I’ll probably be late.’
Gypsy barely looked up, too afraid of what she might see. She had an awful prickling feeling that she’d hurt him.
As Rico sat in his car in the bumper-to-bumper traffic in central Athens his suit chafed, and he longed to rip off his tie and open his shirt. He cursed himself. He’d always loved coming back to Athens, and the anticipation of work, of seeing his mistress or the prospect of taking a new one. But that didn’t appeal any more. All he could think about was the reproach in Gypsy’s eyes as she’d taken Lola from him at the pool and the feeling that he’d done something wrong. And also how much he’d prefer to be there, and not here.
He cursed himself again for his weakness. The child was making him soft, and frustrated desire was clouding his brain—that was all. He cursed his vow to exercise restraint and let a new sense of anticipation fire through him as he thought of grilling his employees to see what else they’d found out about Gypsy.
By the end of their first week living at the villa Gypsy knew her nerves were wrought tight. Rico was there every morning, to greet them and have breakfast. He’d play with Lola for a while, and then disappear in a helicopter to go to Athens and work. Most evenings he’d make it back for dinner and they’d have stilted conversation—stilted because every time Rico tried to navigate into more personal waters Gypsy clammed up.
She’d heard the helicopter some time ago, and now waited with her heart thumping unevenly for Rico to appear for dinner.
When he did, striding into the room as silently as a panther, he took her breath away—as always. He’d obviously just showered and changed. His hair was still damp, slicked back from his high forehead. The dark shirt and faded jeans made her think of that night she’d seen him in the club for the first time.
She gulped and looked away, thankful for Agneta’s presence as she came in with the first course. Rico asked after Lola, and Gypsy told him that they’d taken a drive to a nearby beach and had a picnic. On their first day he’d given her the keys to a Jeep, telling her it was hers to use.
He finished his starter before her and sat back, appraising her with those unreadable silver eyes.
Gypsy felt more and more hot, wishing she’d put on something lighter than a cotton jumper and a pair of jeans. ‘What is it?’ she finally asked. ‘Have I got something on my face?’
Rico shook his head, and then smiled, causing Gypsy to feel momentarily winded. He reached out a long arm and his fingers took a strand of her hair, letting it slip between them. His eyes met hers. ‘Who made you believe you should straighten your hair?’
His touch was affecting her far too much. Gypsy pulled her head away and Rico finally let go. She pushed her unfinished starter away, her appetite gone.
Rico leant forward. ‘Gypsy, either you tell me something about yourself or fifteen months of living together is going to get very tired, very quickly. And if that’s your plan then give it up—because it won’t work. You owe me.’
She bit her lip and played with her napkin, feeling as though she was about to walk into a chasm with no bottom in sight. ‘My father…He never liked my hair left curly.’ She was trembling now. She’d never spoken of her father to anyone.
‘He was a fool,’ Rico growled softly.
Gypsy flicked him a glance and looked away again, somehow heartened by the glint in his eye. It reminded her of an expression he had sometimes when looking at Lola. ‘He used to tell me I looked like the gypsies that lived at the side of the road…so if we ever went out in public he’d insist I had it straightened.’
‘Even as a child?’
Gypsy nodded.
‘What about your mother? What did she think?’
Gypsy tensed perceptibly, but even Agneta coming in to take away the starters and deliver their main course didn’t divert Rico’s attention. He merely repeated the question when they were alone again.
Gypsy looked at him. ‘My mother got ill when I was six, and I went to live with my father.’ She didn’t think it worth mentioning that the least of her mother’s worries at that time had been the state of Gypsy’s hair.
Rico put down his fork. ‘They weren’t married?’
Gypsy shook her head.
‘Tell me about her.’
Gypsy thought back and let a small smile play around her mouth, unaware of how Rico’s gaze dropped there for a moment. ‘She was Irish…and poor. Very naïve—too naïve. My father was her boss; he seduced her, and promised her all sorts of things, but when she fell pregnant he didn’t want to know.’
Rico asked sharply, ‘How do you know that?’
Gypsy looked at him, not really understanding the vehemence behind his question but suspecting something had hit close to his own experience. ‘I guess I don’t, for certain. But I know my mother kept him informed of our whereabouts and he never showed up or helped us financially. It became more obvious when she got ill and wanted him to take me in. He refused at first.’ Gypsy couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. ‘He took me once he’d had a paternity test done, of course.’
She focused back on Rico and asked, ‘Did something similar happen to you?’
Rico held a delicate wine glass in one hand, twirling it in long fingers. She could sense his tension.
He didn’t look at her, but said, ‘Something like that. My mother had an affair with a rich Greek tycoon, and when she fell pregnant he ran home. She was forced into a marriage of convenience to save her family’s reputation before it became common knowledge that she was pregnant.’
He looked at her. ‘Except that’s not exactly how it happened.’ He went on, ‘I left to find my father when I was sixteen, determined to confront him for leaving us. When I eventually found him, here on Zakynthos, he had lost nearly everything and had less than a year to live. He’d always believed that my mother had had a miscarriage. He told me that he’d begged her to marry him, but that after the supposed miscarriage she’d told him to leave and never come back.’
His mouth was a grim line. ‘So all those years were wasted; he thought I’d never been born, and I believed he’d not wanted to know me. And my stepfather had made my life hell because I reminded him every day of another man in my mother’s bed.’
Gypsy felt emotion rising up. ‘Rico…I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how bittersweet it must have been to meet your father only to lose him again.’
Rico laughed harshly. ‘Don’t get too romantic about it. He was a bitter old man by the time I got to him, and the best thing he did for me was leave me his ailing taverna—which I did up and sold on at a profit a few years later.’ He inclined his head. ‘And I changed my name, so at least I gave him that in death.’
Gypsy couldn’t meet his eye; in many respects they’d trod a very similar path. She felt as if a huge lump was constricting her throat, but managed to get out, ‘I can see why you were so angry to find out about Lola…I truly wouldn’t have kept her from you if I’d thought I could trust you.’
‘And why couldn’t you trust me, Gypsy?’ he asked silkily.
She looked at him. ‘I still don’t know that I can. From the moment you came back into my life…our lives…you’ve dominated and controlled. I grew up with someone who lived his life like that, and I know a little of what it’s like to be resented for being there. I didn’t want to risk putting Lola through that.’
His eyes glittered dark grey in the gathering dusk. ‘I
t would seem as if we’re at something of an impasse. You admit you can’t trust me, and I’m not sure that I can forgive you for keeping me from Lola.’
Gypsy tried a wry smile, but it came out skewed. ‘We only have to endure this for fifteen months and then you can get on with your life.’ That damned lump was back in her throat. ‘You can find someone who can match your exacting standards of moral behaviour.’
Rico reacted viscerally to the fact he’d just revealed so much about his past and to that provocative statement—even though he hated himself for reacting. He reached out to take her chin, drawing her face around to his. She wouldn’t avoid him. He felt her clench her jaw against his hand, and even that had a hot spiral of desire rushing through him. ‘You won’t be going anywhere until we’ve dealt with this desire between us, Gypsy. Unfinished business, you could call it.’
Gypsy tried to pull her chin away, but couldn’t. She gritted out, ‘Well, let’s go to bed now and get it over with, shall we?’
His eyes flared in response, and Gypsy could see something hot in their depths. Even though it caused an answering quiver in her belly, she immediately regretted her rash words. He finally let her go and sat back, draining his wine glass before saying nonchalantly, ‘This will happen the way I want it, Gypsy, and it won’t be to prove a point. Provoke me all you want, but you’d better be ready for the fall-out.’
Gypsy threw down her napkin and left the room.
Rico curbed the urge to drag her back and plunder her mutinous mouth. Desire was a heavy ache within him, and far too many ambiguous emotions were roiling in his chest. As for what he’d said about forgiving her—he was very much aware that forgiveness was something that had stolen over him while he wasn’t even looking. He still felt regret for having missed out on Lola’s early months, but no more anger towards Gypsy—and that realisation was cataclysmic.
