by Dani Collins
Stavros couldn’t bring himself to say “nobody.” His conscience wouldn’t let him reduce Calli to that. “The love of my life, of course.”
“Is she?” Edward drilled holes with his hard brown eyes.
It was a familiar look, filled with expectations Stavros could never meet. He wasn’t his father. Never would be. It was his fault that his father wasn’t sitting in this chair, staring into those eyes.
Stavros had been staring down that expression for nearly two decades, but today, quite suddenly, Calli’s voice said in his head, You’re looking in a mirror.
Which was disconcerting. It didn’t even make sense.
Edward swore under his breath before nodding decisively. “Very well. I take you at your word, Stev—Stavros.” He flinched as he spoke the name that belonged to his dead son. “Pick a date for my departure and make the announcements. The company is yours.”
The moment should have been a triumph. It was anticlimactic. Stavros was used to fighting bitterly to get what he wanted. Edward Michaels rolled over for no one.
So, even as his grandfather told him to put the wheels into motion to replace him, Stavros’s knee-jerk reaction was to refuse. I’m lying, he wanted to say. Fight me. Don’t let me have it. Tell me I don’t deserve it.
He really was a perverse jackass.
He made himself stand and shake his grandfather’s hand.
When had they last shaken hands? The old man’s skin felt papery and his grip wasn’t as strong as it used to be.
Quite suddenly, Stavros felt like a bully, like he was taking something from someone weaker.
“Thank you,” Stavros said, disturbed, and left.
* * *
They had formal photographs taken on Friday morning, ones that would accompany the press release that afternoon. Immediately afterward, Stavros drove them to the family estate, Galíni, which was Greek for tranquility. The mansion, nestled on groomed grounds and surrounded by eighty-some acres of forest, was set apart and quiet, and it screamed of tasteful extravagance.
At only fifty years old, the house seemed even older, given the charm and attention to detail. Calli walked into a foyer of mosaic tiles and a stained-glass skylight over a grand staircase. “Only” ten bedrooms, Stavros told her, but each had a private bath, balcony and small sitting room. More of a suite, she deduced, as he showed her to the one they would share. He suggested she change into swimwear since they would join his sisters by the pool.
They spoke to his mother first. She was a stunning woman who welcomed Calli warmly. By the time they went outside to meet his sisters, who also greeted her with delight and natural curiosity, Calli was beginning to feel like a terrible fraud.
“You should tell them,” she said to Stavros when they changed for dinner.
“Tell who what?”
“Your family. That I’m not...real. I mean, they acted so surprised. Shocked, actually. Like, even though your grandfather told you to get married, they didn’t expect you would.”
His mouth twitched. “He and I are renowned for our power struggles.” It didn’t sound like a lie, but she sensed it wasn’t the whole truth.
“I meant that they seemed to think you wouldn’t get married ever. Not for any reason.” She waited, but he let that speculation hang in the air. “Is that true?” she finally prompted.
“Yes.” He said it flatly. “But he was adamant he wouldn’t hand over the reins until I had a plan for the next generation. I found a workaround.” He waved at her.
She wanted to ask why he was so dead set against marriage. Didn’t everyone want to find a mate and form some kind of lifelong commitment?
But his dismissal of her as a “workaround” made her feel insignificant all over again. Like the fake she was.
“Well, they’re tripping over themselves to be nice to me, acting like you must have really fallen for me. You should tell them it’s not like that and they shouldn’t get attached. Otherwise it will be hard when it’s over.”
“Is this because my sister offered to show you around the city? She paints. She loves walking around with a camera, scouting new subjects and locations. That is why you married me, isn’t it? To see the city?”
Calli kept to herself that she could care less about sightseeing. As he glanced over his shoulder at her, she turned to fetch a different bra from the drawer, even though the one she wore was perfectly fine.
She let go of that conversation and was happy when they returned to the penthouse the next afternoon so they could attend their first public function as husband and wife.
A whirlwind of social engagements kept them busy for the next two weeks. They barely had a moment alone outside the bedroom, but at least she was able to advance her search for Dorian.
During the day, when she had the privacy of an empty penthouse, she stalked her paramour online, refreshing her knowledge of his family, searching his online photo albums for a six-year-old boy—all to no avail. If Brandon’s relatives had taken him, they kept their privacy settings locked down tight. The connection wasn’t obvious.
She made do with memorizing where Brandon grew up and where he had gone to school—Yale—along with the year he’d graduated and the names of his classmates and social circles. He bred thoroughbreds for racing, so there were a lot of references to tracks and derbies. She had just missed the Belmont Stakes and any chance of “bumping into him” there, damn it.
His family had made their fortune during prohibition, she learned, then turned their name into blue-blood, upper-crust American aristocracy. His father was a lawyer turned senator, his mother a homemaker and charity fund-raiser. They attended church, belonged to the right clubs, and knew the right people.
They were the right people. Four years ago, Brandon had kick-started his own political career with an interim council position. During the election, rumors had swirled about gambling debts and a thrown race, but they hadn’t been proved. He was engaged to the daughter of a Washington insider and they lived in Manhattan. He had his sights set on the next election cycle for state representative and was currently on vacation at Martha’s Vineyard.
If she could have gone there, if she could simply show up on his doorstep and confront him, Calli would have. Sadly, her previous attempts to contact him had resulted in cease-and-desist orders. A surprise face-to-face on neutral ground was her only choice.
She moved through the various cocktail parties and art exhibits, the ballrooms and living rooms, feeling as though she was playing one of those tile games that shifted one to make room for another. As she went along, she made a mental note of each name, trying to find a connection to Brandon, trying to figure out how she would rearrange these smaller abstract pieces into a bigger, clearer picture.
It wasn’t easy when she also had to contend with sugar-coated glares of hostility from all the women who had thought they had a chance at the most eligible bachelor in America. If she had a dollar for every “Congratulations” that dripped poison, she would be as rich as her husband.
As for her marriage, it was the furthest thing from what she had imagined for herself. She hadn’t aspired to marry, but when she had imagined such a thing, it had always been a love marriage that included romantic acts of intimate sharing, physical and emotional.
With Stavros, sex was a kind of delirium, the intensity growing rather than abating as time wore on. It was disturbing. Each morning, after giving up another piece of her soul to him during the night, she shored up her inner walls and distanced herself as much as she could.
If he noticed, he didn’t let on. Perhaps it didn’t bother him. He was focused on work and the new responsibilities he had taken on. He didn’t talk to her about it and she didn’t ask. She played her part, pretended she didn’t feel the daggers or overhear the gossip about herself in the ladies’ room. She went shopping when his sisters suggested she join in, and attended lunch when his mother invited her, all without prying beyond what they offered openly. Not because she wasn’t curious. She longed
to know more about her husband, but she also knew it was pointless. This was temporary.
She was here to find her son. If the emptiness of her marriage made her sad and bereft, well, she had lived in that state for a long time already. She could handle it.
Then finally, a breakthrough.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she processed what the man next to her had just said. “Did you say your old rowing team would be there?”
“From my Yale days, yes. The regatta is our annual get-together. Heavy fines if you don’t show for the kick-off party.” He touched the side of his nose and winked. “We all have to sail with a hangover. Otherwise it’s not a level playing field.”
Hilarious. She wondered how many people drowned each year.
“What a lovely tradition,” she said with the social grace she had learned while hosting for Takis and had honed as Stavros’s wife. “Who are your teammates? Have I met any of them?” Her heart began to thud and roll, like paddles hitting the water and pushing through the weight of waves.
* * *
Stavros couldn’t take his eyes off the light in Calli’s face—and his captivation had nothing to do with how attractive she was. Rather, it did, but it had its roots in the opposite side of admiration. Jealousy.
“What were you talking to Hemsworth about?” He skimmed off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over the chair near the window.
“Why don’t you hang that?” She moved to do it.
“I pay the housekeeper to do it. She checks to see if it needs mending or cleaning. Leave it and answer the question.”
Calli let go of the jacket and stiffened at his tone. “Wally Hemsworth?”
“Yes. You lit up like a Christmas tree. He was soaking it up. That was his wife with him, you know.”
“Are you accusing me of flirting with a married man? In front of his wife?”
Her wide-eyed shock seemed genuine, but he only raised a brow. That was exactly what it had looked like she was doing. He still didn’t know why she had married him and it was beginning to eat at him.
Her jaw moved in a small flinch. She slid her lashes down in what might have been an attempt to disguise hurt. She was the queen of disdain when she spoke, though.
“Last I checked, I was already married to the richest man in the city. What could Wally Hemsworth possibly have to offer beyond that? More sex? I don’t think that’s possible, is it?” She dropped her jewelry into a dish on the vanity.
“Is that a complaint? Am I making too many demands? You respond. If you ever turned me down, I might be able to control myself.” He used a facetious drawl, but there was a hard core of truth in there. She flowered every single time he touched her and it was too enthralling to resist.
But that was all they had. Sex. He hadn’t expected to find that infuriating, but it grated like sand in an oyster, always there, growing with layer upon layer of attempts to be ignored. She navigated a social event with ease, but gave up little about herself. When people asked him about her, he had few answers.
It left him feeling something he hadn’t experienced even when he’d been in Greece, living on pennies. Insecure. He wasn’t sure of her. It kept his gut in a state of tension and his libido at ten, constantly needing to reinforce their physical connection to ensure she was his.
His frustration sharpened his tone. “Then what were you talking about?”
“Nothing,” she insisted, pulling the tie that had scooped her hair over her shoulder. “We talked about his time at Yale and the regatta next week. You said we were going to that, right?”
Her gaze ricocheted from the mirror to his like a bullet.
“Yes. Why?”
She jerked a shoulder that didn’t come off as casual. Not at all. “It sounds fun.”
“Does it.” His mind raced, looking for the missing puzzle piece. “Are you eager for some salt air? Because I notice you don’t leave the apartment unless we have an engagement. Even then, you’re resigned, not excited. I thought you married me so you could explore New York?”
She kept her back to him, gaze down, face stiff. “When I thought about living here, I always expected I would have to work. Since I don’t have a job, I have no reason to go out.”
“My sister said you turned down a shopping trip the other day.”
“I didn’t need anything. I wasn’t trying to avoid her. I invited her to lunch.”
She peeled off her gown, exposing her mouthwatering figure in a set of black lace shot with silver threads. A deliberate attempt to sidetrack him? If so, it was working. The way her thong framed her ass cheeks was positively erotic and nearly wiped his brain clean.
“Do you really want me to become BFFs with her? Maybe you should tell your family that this is a temporary thing, so they’ll stop trying to form a relationship with me. That’s why I don’t enjoy our evenings out. I keep meeting new people, but a few months from now, I’ll never see them again.”
“You love to throw that in my face, don’t you?”
“What?”
“How temporary our arrangement is. Is that what you were doing with Hemsworth? Putting your next paycheck in place?”
“For God’s sake, no! And do you have any idea how offensive you’re being? Every time we’re out, I have to face ugly looks and snide remarks about how I’m your quaint little wife from the old country. I lack taste and polish. I’m a social climber. Your grandfather forced you to marry me, since you couldn’t possibly have chosen me.”
“Who said that?” He scowled, instantly affronted on her behalf.
“Do you think I bother to learn the names of the cats in the powder room who make sure I overhear them? Do let me put their curiosity to rest, though. How do you bring yourself to sleep with such a filthy immigrant?”
“Who said that?” His blood nearly boiled out his ears.
“You have quite the reputation. Did you really work your way through a sorority house in a weekend? Because that makes you quite the hypocrite for objecting to my talking to one other man.”
She swung away and charged into the closet. He heard a drawer open and slam shut.
He swore and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had done some tremendously stupid things as a young man. He doubted he would earn any points by telling her it had been a bet and a dare, and the house had been only half full because the girls who weren’t interested in testing his stamina had left.
“You should have told me that was happening,” he said when she reappeared in a decidedly unsexy T-shirt and leggings that sent a loud message about her receptiveness to his advances tonight.
“Why? Those women are nothing to me.” She hugged herself in the defensive way she did sometimes, like she was huddling against more rain than a person should be forced to endure. “In a few months, I’ll never see them again. I’m not throwing that in your face. I’m reminding myself why it doesn’t matter. I don’t have any claim on you. This isn’t my life.”
His throat clogged with words, but he couldn’t articulate them, couldn’t agree or disagree.
“Our arrangement is a trade-off.” Her brow flinched. “What do I care what small minds think of me, as long as I get what I want?”
“What do you want?” It wasn’t the money he had promised her. It wasn’t the most exciting city in the world.
For a moment she looked stark with hopelessness, then turned away. “What do you care, so long as you have what you want?”
She didn’t wait for his response, only went into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
She made a good point. He stood there listening to the water run, wondering why he did care. Wondering why it felt like he didn’t have what he wanted when, to the outside observer, he had everything.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CALLI WAS SO keyed up, she could hardly think straight.
She had obsessed over every detail of the coming evening. Her gown was the most quietly powerful in the closet, dark blue with an empire waist and a sheer white overlay on the bodice, suggesting
royal elegance. She usually did her own makeup, but today she had splurged at a local spa, spending some of her allowance on a stylist who did her hair, as well. Wearing her tallest shoes, she was flawless and proud.
In the mirror.
Inside her clammy skin, her bones rattled with nerves.
Brandon, she would say, looking him right in the eye. You probably don’t remember me. We met years ago and I was deeply in love with the boy who left Greece with you. Dorian. How is he? Where is he?
It almost didn’t matter what he said or did after that. She just wanted to see his face. She wanted him to know she wasn’t going away this time. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know her, couldn’t pretend they hadn’t made a baby.
He couldn’t even pretend ignorance about the way the adoption had happened. Letters had been sent since then. He knew she hadn’t consented to the surrender of custody.
The jig was up. Now things would be different.
After tonight, she would finally have some answers.
It made her hands feel cold and disconnected from her body. Her heart raced and tripped in her chest. Her mouth was dry, her stomach in knots.
Nervously, she swept open her phone and checked Brandon’s social media profile. His last post had been an exchange of comments with Wally Hemsworth, demanding Wally pony up a drink that was owed.
She scrolled to Brandon’s profile picture, taking in the subtle changes six years had wrought. It was a professional headshot suitable for a politician. Handsome, she supposed.
Did her son resemble him? Her?
“Who’s that?”
Stavros’s voice startled her so badly, she let out a small scream and dropped her phone.
Stavros swept down to pick it up off the carpet and turned it over. His dark brows lowered into an accusatory line. “Brandon Underwood?”
It was Wally Hemsworth all over again. It was her father, with his repulsed glare as he pronounced her loose and shameful. She looked away from the sharp query in Stavros’s eyes.
“I’m just—” She held out her hand, unable to think of a suitable excuse. Her hand shook. She swallowed. “Can I have that, please?”
