by Pippa Roscoe
Yalena leaned back in her chair, her hands sweeping circles on the smooth white cloth.
‘I know that look,’ Loukis said from behind Célia’s shoulder.
Yalena’s thoughtful gaze turned into an amused scowl. ‘You’re ruining the moment.’
‘No, I brought more champagne to celebrate.’ The confidence in his voice sparking the thrill of excitement and a burst of hope in Célia.
‘Does that mean I should have the contracts drawn up?’ asked Célia with a smile.
‘Yes. Most definitely yes. But that is all the business talk done for the day. Now. I want to hear all about the proposal!’
The lunch had lasted long into the afternoon and dusk was beginning to fall as Loukis paid the bill, much to Yalena’s mocking disgruntlement. With deft acuity, he’d been able to keep much of the focus on Iannis and Yalena rather than on Célia and himself, Yalena’s husband more than happy to indulge in schoolboy memories shared by them both. And Loukis realised that he’d missed it. Missed the easy laughter of unweighted adult conversation. Much of the last three years of his life had been spent focused solely on Annabelle and shielding her from an outside gaze. Once Célia had realised that she’d secured not only another client, but one that had clearly inspired her, she had relaxed, joining in the gentle mockery between the two couples.
She had opened up under the gentle encouragement of those around her and it had been glorious. But he hadn’t missed how she skirted around her own past, her parents and life before Chariton Enterprises. There had been a few of her own childhood stories of a Swiss boarding school with Ella, and her friend’s marriage and recent baby news, but of herself, very little. And he still couldn’t quite work out how the drone fitted with the charitable endeavours.
Emerging onto the stone street from the restaurant, they were greeted by a swarm of paparazzi and a hail of flashbulbs.
Yalena reached for him, kissing his cheeks in farewell.
‘They’re a little feisty this evening. Perhaps they caught wind of your news?’ she said, sotto voce, to Célia and Loukis.
Célia looked towards him as if expecting an explanation, but he simply shrugged. ‘It wasn’t me.’
Iannis gave him a half-hug, ordered him not to let it go so long next time, turned to his wife and asked, ‘Ready to run the gauntlet?’
The two disappeared and Loukis was a little disconcerted that they didn’t manage to take any of the vultures with them.
He placed an arm around Célia’s shoulder. ‘The car should be waiting in the back street. Ready?’
She tucked herself a little more deeply into his side. He knew it was for protection, but he couldn’t help the streak of sensation that fired up and down the length of his body.
The moment they stepped forward, the questions began. The shouts and flashes were enough to bring on PTSD. He felt Célia tremble beside him and realised how intimidating and scary this would be for someone not accustomed to it.
‘Congratulations! How did he do it, Célia?’
‘Did he get down on one knee?’
‘Ms d’Argent—any comment on the news about your father?’
Célia stumbled, her foot twisting, and she would have fallen had it not been for his arm around her shoulders. Loukis bit back a curse.
‘What does François Paquet think of his future son-in-law?’
The name of the renowned French defence contractor cut through his anger with shocking intensity. Paquet was her father?
‘Any response to the claims you’ve bagged another billionaire, Célia?’
‘When was the last time you spoke to your ex, Marc Moreau?’
At this, he’d had enough. He turned to the seething mass around him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen—’ though the friendly appellation stuck in his throat ‘—is it not a bit uncouth to ask about the father, ex-partner and current fiancé all in the same breath?’
His tone had been light and mocking, received with laughter by most. But those that knew him, were familiar with him, held a trace of unease. For that was when he was at his most deadly.
‘I would love to expound on this further, but as we have already agreed to a private interview with a reputable journalist, you will have to read it alongside everyone else.’
‘We have an interview?’ she whispered, from where she remained tucked into his shoulder as they rounded the corner towards the safe haven of the limousine.
‘We will once you tell me what the hell all this is about,’ he bit out. ‘Get in the car.’
Célia slid into the limousine, her body protected from the strobe lights of the paparazzi, but her thoughts flayed by the repeated bursts of shocking white.
Her heart pounded in her chest. The rush of adrenaline soured by self-recrimination. She should have known that they would find out. Should have prepared for it. Denial had not been enough to protect her from their piercing gaze.
The moment the door closed behind Loukis the sleek town car sped off, sending the sprawling mass scattering. The atmosphere in the dark interior was full of tension, as Loukis’s barely leashed control seemed to strain against his hold over it. Her own pulse seemed to thump within the thick air.
‘I...’
A gesture of his hand cut through the space between them, silencing her. She stifled back the words, unsure really where she would have begun anyway.
As the car wound its way towards Loukis’s estate, the silence and tension filled the space between them to the point where Célia feared she might not be able to draw breath.
‘Loukis—’
‘François Paquet is your father?’ he demanded.
All Célia could do was nod.
‘And you—who demanded truth from me—didn’t think to tell me?’
‘He is no longer part of my life,’ she insisted, as if she could make it true.
‘Do you know what this fresh wave of interest from the press will do? They’ll be frothing at the bit now. It will be impossible to keep the custody battle a secret, it will be impossible to...’
He trailed off. She knew he was thinking of how hard it would be to shield his sister from their penetrating gaze.
‘Christos, Célia, if I’d known we could have come out in front of it, but now we’re behind and...’ His fury seemed to be working against his usual smooth calm, stopping words before he could form them. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I haven’t spoken to my father in five years. Not since I changed my degree, my name and left behind almost everything that connected me to that life.’
And with that she had lost any sense of family or belonging. As if she hadn’t even realised until this moment just how isolated and lonely she felt, a sob rose in her chest that she desperately tried to stifle.
‘Why? What happened?’ He demanded explanations as if he could draw blood from a stone.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Tough,’ he said mutinously. ‘Because now I’m going to need to know everything. Including whoever the hell Marc Moreau is.’
The thought of what he wanted turned in Célia’s stomach as they negotiated the bends in the road before pulling up to the estate. She watched him leave the car and stalk towards the front door of his home, realising that it was the first time that Loukis had not opened the car door for her. She was being punished, she realised. Or, he was so consumed by the shocking revelation that he had simply forgotten it. Either way it hurt, strangely.
Her feet felt heavy as she followed through the open doorway, closing it behind her and wishing she could just as effectively close down the events of that evening. She had been so happy! She had been so excited when she’d known she was having lunch with Yalena Adeyemi, and when she’d realised that they’d get a chance to work together? She’d been ecstatic. She should have known better. Because the last time she’d felt that exc
ited, that thrilled, as if on the brink of something marvellous, everything had turned to ash. And once again, it was because of her father.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE FOUND LOUKIS pacing the living-room area with a drink already in his hand, his hair ruffled as if he’d run his hand through it several times before she’d entered the room.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she said, unconsciously echoing the last time they’d had an uncomfortable conversation in this room. It was, she realised, an act of self-preservation. As if her subconscious knew that flight would be easier from standing rather than from sitting on the plush soft sofa.
He looked at her as if to indicate that he had not asked, but she remained where she stood. Because now she was angry. How dared he find fault with a reputation not of her own making, when his was so debauched? She needed to cling to that anger, because beneath it was a layer of hurt and betrayal so deeply entrenched, she was terrified of hauling it out for inspection. But even that, she realised, covered a guilt that had motivated every single decision she’d made in the last five years. And no matter what, she knew she’d never reveal that to Loukis.
‘Start with your father.’
‘My father took something of mine and used it for his own purposes.’
He looked at her as if to say, ‘Is that all?’ and she wanted to scream.
‘What, he withheld your pocket money?’
‘Don’t be crass,’ she replied, this time very consciously echoing his own words once fired at her down the phone.
‘What, then?’ he demanded, his patience clearly wearing thin.
‘He took my technical specs for a more efficient drone tracking system.’
The look on his face might have been comical had it not been so painful.
‘What?’
She’d known he’d have trouble either understanding her or believing her, either way he clearly needed more of an explanation.
‘Five years ago I was studying a graduate degree at the ENS in Sciences, specialising in mathematics and computer sciences. Please don’t look at me as if I’ve just sprouted a second head. It’s...patronising and infuriating.’
‘I’m not being patronising,’ he said defensively. ‘I have clearly only known you as a successful humanities entrepreneur. The computer science thing doesn’t seem to fit.’
‘I happened to be very good at “the computer science thing”, thank you.’
‘Which begs the question,’ he replied, as if she had only proved his point.
‘As a child, it became quite clear that I had an affinity with computers and technology. To me, they always made sense. There was clarity in ones and zeros, an unwavering logic. I liked the challenge they presented and revelled in working around and within them to get what I wanted. As part of my degree at ENS, I knew that I would have to find an internship to support my education and thought that Paquet Industries would be perfect.’ She had told herself that then, and told Loukis the same lie now. But, really, it had been more than that—she just didn’t want to open that painful truth to herself, or Loukis.
‘I had been using their workshops to work on my dissertation project. One of the senior managers had seen what I was working on and the next thing I knew it was taken from me. Used in a...used in a very different way from what I had intended.’ She felt the familiar rush of anger, the ache of her father refusing to speak to her.
‘Because you had signed an intellectual property waiver for work done while interning.’
Surprised, she looked up at Loukis, immediately appreciating the quick mind that had made his own company such a shocking international success.
‘Yes.’
‘I get how that must have been frustrating, but, what? This is about money? Recognition for your designs?’
‘No, it’s not that!’ She knew that was how it would have been seen had the news got out with no acknowledgement of the wracking guilt she still faced to this day. She couldn’t, wouldn’t share with Loukis what her plans had been used for, horrified by the sheer thought of his reaction, but she could try to make him realise why, could try to make him understand.
‘I...growing up with my father wasn’t...’ She took a deep breath. This was so much harder than she’d thought it would be. ‘He was a difficult man. Exacting, focused...’
‘Demanding?’ Loukis prompted.
‘No, actually. He wasn’t. Because he never really expected anything of me other than to be seen and not heard. He’d always wanted a son to pass on Paquet Industries to, but after me, my mother was unable to fall pregnant again. So, in a way, I became a representation of his failure, I think. I can only guess, because he hardly credited me with such an honest explanation or outpouring.
‘And in my childlike logic, I thought that if I could prove myself of use, if I could harness my skills for my father’s company he might... He might finally see me as worthy.’ She shrugged as if her innocent conclusion didn’t hold such a world of pain within it.
‘And Marc Moreau? Who is he?’
‘He works for the Ministère de la Jeunesse et des Sports,’ Célia said, trying not to flinch at Loukis’s tone.
‘The Ministry of Sport?’
‘And youth affairs, yes.’
Loukis frowned, as displeased. ‘Okay. Let’s try this again. Who is he to you?’
‘My ex-fiancé.’
‘I gathered that much, Célia.’
She inhaled the tense air between them, trying to fortify herself. ‘I met Marc at boarding school. He joined when we were sixteen and was...charming and playful. Fun. He could have had his pick of any of the female students, but he was only interested in me,’ she concluded with a shrug. ‘I was surprised, but flattered. I enjoyed his attention.’ It had been a gift even then, before she’d realised just how distant her father was and how desperate it had made her for affection. ‘He ended up at the same university as me and Ella. He’d wanted me to move into an apartment with him, but Ella and I had always talked about living together so I said no. But we went out, restaurants, clubs, parties. I didn’t really enjoy it—’ she could see that now ‘—my course required a lot of work, but he always seemed so disappointed when I would say no. Only after did I realise that the restaurants were always booked in my name, the VIP sections in clubs, the party invitations.’ And she felt like such a fool.
‘Over the four years we’d been together, he’d spent quite a bit of time with my family. He seemed to get on with my father, more than I did at least. He made a monumental effort with him. And I thought it was for me. Until I broke ties with my father. Until I changed my name. And somehow in his eyes, that made me a changed person. He refused to understand why what my father had done was wrong. Insisted that I try to make it up with him.
‘When I refused, he began to retreat. Telling me I’d changed, telling me that I wasn’t fun any more. He made me doubt myself, and it hurt to force myself to be with him, to keep a smile on my face I didn’t feel surrounded by people I didn’t know. Because I didn’t want to lose him too.’ She felt the ache building in her chest. Hating to admit such a thing, feeling so very vulnerable to tell Loukis this. But she knew that he deserved what little she could tell him. ‘Slowly, bit by bit he removed himself from my life. I didn’t notice at first, but then it would be days, or a week that I wouldn’t see or hear from him. Ella convinced me to have it out with him, if anything just to let him know how I felt.
‘It was awful. He said it was all my fault. The time and energy he’d put into me wasted. How he didn’t want a girlfriend—you see, I’d been relegated by that point—who couldn’t...give him anything. What use was I if I was not perfect?’
In that instant, she realised the truth of the past. As if saying it out loud had somehow conjured the shocking revelation that she had never been wanted. Not for herself. Only for what she could do
and be for someone. She had been used by her father, by Marc...and each time she had failed to live up to their expectations, had failed to be what they wanted and in that moment she felt that she had never felt truly loved.
Loukis pressed a drink into her hands and she realised she was shaking.
‘And I demanded the same,’ Loukis said softly into the silence.
‘Non,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘I knew what you expected from the beginning. You didn’t...’
‘Lie?’ he said, letting loose a curse that surprised her.
Loukis let out the burst of air locked in his lungs, trying to marry the two vastly different aspects of her personality—the technical expert and the head of a humanities charity—and make them somehow fit with the guilt stirring in his veins. Guilt because, no matter how much she might try to absolve him, he had taunted her with perfection. With the need to be everything that her father and ex-fiancé had unfathomably found wanting in her. Guilt because, even as he knew how much it cost her, he still needed that perfection. For Annabelle. And that scoured his veins and struck his heart. Because it was a hurt that called to him. A hurt that he recognised so painfully as a mirror reflection, in some ways, of his own.
His father had never disapproved of him, nor his mother—they had both been so preoccupied with each other, he had barely even been a consideration. Oh, his father had tried after the divorce, but he’d never been the same, just a shell of the man he once had been.
But he did know how that affected him. It had seen him spiral into a level of selfishness that had him desperate to indulge in every whim, every pleasure, everything he felt had been denied him in his childhood. Looking back now, he could see the mask that had hidden that childhood hurt. The rakish playboy, the careless façade had created a barrier between him and the world...him and hurt.
