CHRISTINE SAT AT the desk in Vasilis’s study. She could feel the echo of him here still—here where he had spent so much of his time—and found comfort in it.
The weeks since his death had turned into months. Slow, painful, difficult months of getting used to a house empty of his quiet presence. It had been difficult for her, difficult for Nicky. Tears and tantrums had been frequent as the little boy had slowly, unwillingly come to terms with the loss of his beloved pappou.
Pappou—the word stabbed into Christine’s head, and again she heard Anatole’s shock. Her mind closed, automatically warding off the memory of that nightmare encounter with the man she had fled. Who had not wanted her as she had wanted him. Who thought of her as nothing more than a cheap adventuress...a gold-digger who had married his uncle for the wealth he could bestow upon her.
Pain hacked at her at the thought of how badly Anatole regarded her. How much he seemed to hate her now.
She had been right to send him packing. Anything else would have been unbearable! Unthinkable. Yet even as she felt that resolve she felt another emotion too. Powerful—painful. Nicky had done the painting of a train for his pappou and he wanted to know when his ‘big cousin’ was going to come and see it.
She had given evasive answers—he lived in Greece, Pappou’s homeland, and he was very busy, working very hard.
After a while Nicky had stopped asking, but every now and then he would still say ‘I want to see him again! Why can’t I see him again? I painted the picture! I want to show it to him!’ And then he’d become tearful and difficult.
Guilt stabbed at Christine. Her son was going through so much now. And he always would. He would be growing up without Vasilis in his life, without the man he thought of as his grandfather.
Growing up without a father—
Her mind sheared away. What use was it to think of that? None. Instead, she took a breath, focussing her attention on what she needed to do right now.
Probate had finally been completed—a lengthy task, given that Vasilis’s estate was large, his will complex, and it had involved the setting up of both a family trust and a philanthropic foundation to carry on his work.
It was the latter that preoccupied her now. At the end of the week she was going to have to perform her first duty as Vasilis’s widow—to represent him at the opening of an exhibition of Greek art and antiquities at a prestigious London museum. Though she had always accompanied him to the events he’d sponsored, this was the first time she would be alone. It was a daunting prospect, but she was resolved to perform to the best of her ability. She owed it to Vasilis to do so.
Now, in preparation, she bowed her head to read through the correspondence and the detailed notes from the curator, to make sure she knew what she must know in time for the event.
This is for Vasilis. For him who gave me so much!
It was a fraction of what she owed him—the man who had rescued her when her life had been at its lowest, most desolate ebb.
* * *
Anatole was in a business meeting, but his mind was not on the involved mesh of investments, profits and tax exposure that was its subject. Instead he was focussed mentally on the request he had received that morning from his uncle’s lawyers in London. They wanted him to contact them. Probate, apparently, had now been completed.
His mouth thinned. So now he would find out just how rich Vasilis’s young widow would be. Just how much she had profited from marrying his middle-aged uncle. Oh, she had done very well indeed out of convincing him to marry her. To rescue her from Anatole, the man who had lifted her—literally—off the street!
I thought she was so devoted to me. But all along it was just the lifestyle I gave her. She couldn’t wait to ensure it for herself by getting Vasilis’s wedding ring on her finger after I’d made it clear to her that any hope she might have had of letting herself get pregnant to get me to marry her was out of the question.
That old familiar stab came again. It was anger—of course it was anger! What else could it be? It was anger that he felt when he thought about Tia abandoning him to snap up his uncle. Only anger.
Restlessly, Anatole shifted in his seat, impatient for the meeting to be done. Yet when he finally was free to get back to his office, to phone London, he knew he was reluctant to do so.
Did he really want to stir up in himself again those mixed emotions that his uncle’s death had caused? That his rash visit to England on the day of the funeral had plunged him into? Shouldn’t he just leave things be? He could not alter his uncle’s will—if his widow had all Vasilis’s money to splurge, so what? Why should he care?
Except that—
Except that it is not just about Tia, is it? Or about you. There’s someone else to think about.
Vasilis’s son. Nicky. The little boy he’d known nothing about—never guessed existed.
That scene burned in his head again—himself hunkering down to offer solace to the heartbroken child. Emotion thrust inside him, but a new one now—one that seemed to pierce more deeply than the thought that the woman he had once romanced, made love to, taken into his life, had abandoned him. It was a piercing that came from the sobs of a bereft child, that made him want to comfort him, console him.
He stared sightlessly across his office. Where did that emotion come from? Never had he thought about children—except negatively. Oh, not because he disliked them, but because they had nothing to do with him. Could never have anything to do with him. What he’d said to Tia, that grim day when she’d thought she was pregnant, was as true now as it had been then.
And yet—
What instinct had made him seek to comfort the little boy? To divert him, bring a smile to his face, light up his eyes?
It’s because he’s Vasilis’s son. Because he has no one else to look out for him now. Only a mother who married his father just to endow herself with a wealthy lifestyle she could never have aspired to otherwise.
His expression changed. Turned steely. He had told Tia that Nicky’s existence changed everything but she had rejected what he’d said. Sent him from her house. Banned him from making any contact with Nicky. His eyes darkened. Well, that was not going to happen. Someone had to look out for Vasilis’s child, and now that his widow had a free rein with her late husband’s wealth she could do anything she wanted with it! What security would there be for Vasilis’s son when his mother was an ambitious, luxury-loving gold-digger?
The phone on his desk sounded, indicating the call to London was ready for him. Grim-faced, he picked it up. Whatever he had to do, he would ensure that his vulnerable young cousin was not left to the mercy of his despised mother.
I’ll fight her for justice for her son—for Vasilis’s son.
Yet when he slowly hung up the phone, some ten minutes later, his expression was different. Very different. He called through to his secretary.
‘Book me on the next flight to London.’
* * *
Christine sat back in the car that was taking her up to London for the evening. Her nerves were jittery, and not just because she would be representing Vasilis at the exhibition’s opening. It was also because this would be the first time she’d been to London since he’d died—and London held memories that were of more than her husband.
She felt her mind shear away. No, she must not think—must not remember how she had met Anatole, how he had swept her into his life, how she had fallen head over heels for a man who had been to her eyes like a prince out of a fairytale!
But he hadn’t been a prince after all. He’d been an ordinary person, however rich and gilded his existence, and he’d had no desire for her to be a permanent part of his life. No desire at all for a baby...a child.
It was Vasilis who’d wanted that. Had wanted the child who’d given him a joy that, as Christine sadly knew, he’d never thought to have.
The knowledge comforted her.
However much he gave me—immense though that was, and eternally grateful though I am—I know that I gave him Nicky to love...
Now she was all Nicky had.
Her nerves jangled again. She must not think of Anatole, must only be grateful that he’d accepted her dismissal. Had made no further attempt to get in touch. Make contact with Nicky.
Her mouth set. Eyes stark.
His knowing of Nicky’s existence doesn’t change anything. And I won’t—I won’t!—have anyone near Nicky who thinks so ill of me, poisoning my son’s mind against me...
For the remainder of the journey she forced herself to focus only on the evening’s event.
Later, when the moment came, she felt a sudden tightening of her throat as she was introduced as Mrs Vasilis Kyrgiakis, then she took a measured breath and began her short, carefully written speech. She said how pleased her husband had been to support this important exhibition of Hellenistic art and artefacts, so expertly curated by the museum—giving a smiling nod to the director, Dr Lanchester—and then diverted a little on descriptions of some of the key exhibits, before concluding with a reassurance that despite Vasilis Kyrgiakis’s untimely death his work was being entrusted to a foundation specifically set up for that purpose.
After handing over to Dr Lanchester she stepped away, and as the formal opening was completed started to mingle socially with the invited guests.
Everyone was in evening dress, and although, of course, her dress was black, her state of mourning did not prevent her from accepting a proffered glass of champagne. She sipped it delicately, listening to something the director’s wife was saying, and smiling appropriately. She knew both the director and his wife, having dined with them together with Vasilis, before his final illness had taken its fatal grip on him.
She was about to make some remark or other when a voice behind her turned her to stone.
‘Won’t you introduce me?’
She whipped round, not believing her eyes. But it was impossible to deny who she was seeing.
Anatole.
Anatole in a black tuxedo, like all the other male guests, towering over her.
Shock made faintness drum in her head.
How on earth? What on earth?
He gave a swift, empty smile. ‘I felt it my duty to represent the Kyrgiakis family tonight,’ he informed her.
If it was meant as a barb, implying that she could not possibly do so, she did not let her reaction show. She gave a grave nod.
‘I’m sure Vasilis would have appreciated your presence here,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘He worked hard to ensure this exhibition would be possible. Many of the artefacts have been rescued from the turmoil in the Middle East, to find safety here, for the time being, until eventually they can be securely returned.’
She indicated with a graceful gesture towards some of the exhibits to which she was referring, but Anatole was not looking. His eyes were only on her. Taking her in. The woman standing there, in a black silk evening gown, with long sleeves and a high-cut neckline, was every inch in mourning, but she was not a woman Anatole recognised.
He’d arrived to see her take centre stage, and had not believed it could be Tia—Christine—Vasilis’s widow. Poised, elegant, mature—and perfectly capable of addressing a room full of learned dignitaries and opening an exhibition of Hellenistic archaeology.
No, she was definitely not the socially nervous, timid Tia he remembered.
Nor was it the Tia he remembered who was turning now towards the museum’s director.
‘Dr Lanchester—may I introduce Vasilis’s nephew, Anatole Kyrgiakis?’
If there was any tremor in her voice Anatole did not hear it. Her composure was perfect. Only the sudden masking in her eyes as she’d first seen him there had revealed otherwise. And that masking came again as the museum director smiled at Anatole.
‘Will you be taking on your uncle’s role?’ he asked.
‘Alas, I will be unable to become as directly involved as he was, but I hope to be one of the trustees of the foundation,’ Anatole replied easily. ‘Along with, I’m sure, my...’ He hesitated slightly, turning to Christine. ‘I’m not sure quite what our relationship is,’ he said.
Was that another barb? She ignored it, as she had the first. ‘I doubt it has a formal designation,’ she remarked, with dogged composure. ‘And, yes, I shall be one of the foundation’s trustees.’
Her mouth tightened. And no way on earth will I let you be one too!
The very thought of having to attend trustees’ meetings with Anatole there—she felt a cold chill through her. Then he was speaking again. He was smiling a courtesy smile, but she could see the dark glint in his eyes.
‘I do hope, then, that you no longer believe Alexander the Great to be contemporary with the Greek War of Independence!’ he said lightly.
Did he mean to wound her? If he did, then it only showed how bitter he was towards her.
Before, when she had been Tia—ignorant, uneducated Tia, who’d spent her schooldays nursing her mother—he’d never been anything other than sympathetic towards her in her lack of knowledge of all that he took for granted with his expensive private education.
But he’d meant to wound her now, and she would not let him do so.
So she only smiled in return, not looking at him but at the others. ‘Before I married Vasilis,’ she explained, ‘I was completely ignorant of a great deal of history. But I do now know that in the fourth century BC Alexander was pre-dating the Battle of Navarino in 1827 by quite some time!’
Her expression was humorous. It had to be. How else could she deal with this?
‘I think—at least, I hope!—that now, thanks to Vasilis’s tuition, I can recognise the Hellenistic style, at least in obvious examples. Speaking of which...’ she turned to the curator of the exhibition and bestowed an optimistic smile upon him ‘... I wonder if I might impose on you to guide me around the exhibits?’
‘I’d be delighted!’ he assured her, and to her profound relief she was able to move away.
Nevertheless, as she was conducted around she was burningly conscious of Anatole’s presence in all the rooms.
She prayed that she would not have to talk to him again. Why had he turned up? Had he meant it, saying he wanted to be one of the foundation’s trustees? What power would she have to prevent him? After all, he was a Kyrgiakis—how could she object?
But perhaps he only said it to get at me. Just like he made that reference to how ignorant I once was...
She felt a little sting inside her. Did he truly hate her so much? Her throat tightened. Of course he did! Hadn’t he said it to her face, the day of Vasilis’s funeral, calling her such vile names?
But you didn’t want me, Anatole—and Vasilis did! So why berate me for accepting what he offered with such kindness, such generosity?
The answer was obvious, of course. Five long years of anger were driving him, and Anatole believed that she had manoeuvred Vasilis into marrying her so that she could enjoy the lavish Kyrgiakis lifestyle he provided. For no other reason.
A great sense of weariness washed over her. The strain of having to represent Vasilis tonight, the poignancy of the occasion and then the shock of Anatole intruding, the barbs he had directed at her—were all overpowering her.
Forcing herself to make some kind of appropriate response to the curator as he introduced each exhibit, she counted the minutes until she could decently call a halt. She had to get away—escape.
Finally, murmuring her excuses—readily accepted, given her mourning status—she was treading through the empty corridors towards the museum’s entrance.
‘Leaving so soon?’
The voice behind her on the wide stone staircase echoed in the otherwise deserted building, well away from the exhibition gallery.
This time she was more collected in her reaction. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll drive you back,’
Anatole’s footsteps quickened and he drew level with her. Moved to take her arm. She avoided it, stepping aside.
‘Thank you, but my car is waiting.’
Hurriedly, she went out, stepped onto the wide pavement, thankful to see her chauffeured car at the kerbside.
She turned back to Anatole. He seemed taller than ever, more overpowering. She lifted her chin. ‘Don’t let me keep you, Anatole,’ she said.
It was nothing more than an expression, and yet she heard it echo savagely in her head. No, she had not been able to keep Anatole, had she?
Because I committed the cardinal sin in his book. The one unforgivable crime.
Her mind sheared away. Why remember the past? It was gone, and gone for ever.
She headed determinedly towards her car, but Anatole was there before her, opening her door. Then, to her consternation, as she got inside as quickly as her long gown permitted Anatole followed.
‘I’ve dismissed my own car. I’ll see you to your destination. Where are you staying?’
He realised he had no idea. Had Vasilis acquired a London base? He did not use his father’s hotel suite—that he knew.
The suite I never went to that fatal night I took Tia into my arms—into my life.
No, don’t remember that night. It was over, gone—nothing was left of that life now.
He heard her give with audible reluctance the name of a hotel. It was a top hotel, but a quiet one—not fashionable. Ideal for his uncle, Anatole acknowledged.
He said as much, and Christine nodded.
‘Yes, Vasilis always liked it. Old-fashioned, but peaceful. And it has a lovely roof garden—you’d hardly know you were in London—’
She stopped. Memory sprang, unwanted, of Anatole’s verdant roof terrace at his London apartment, of him saying that he did not care for cities.
There was a moment of silence. Was Anatole remembering too?
Well, what if he is? So what?
Defiance filled her, quelling the agitation that had leapt automatically as he’d got into the car. She was sitting as far away as possible, and even knowing the presence of Mr Hughes behind his glass screen was preventing complete privacy with Anatole, her heart was beating hectically. She tried to slow it—she must retain control, composure. She must!
I am Vasilis’s widow. He can protect me still simply by virtue of that. That is my identity now.
She pulled her mind back—Anatole was speaking.
‘I wanted to tell you,’ he was saying, his voice stiff, as if the words did not come easily, ‘how impressed I was with you tonight. You handled the occasion very well.’ He paused. ‘You did Vasilis proud.’
Christine’s turned her head, her eyes widening. Had Anatole really just said that? Anatole who thought her the lowest of the low?
‘I did it for him,’ she said quietly, and looked away, out of her window, away from Anatole.
She could feel his presence in the car as something tangible, threatening to overpower her. How many times had she and he driven like this, through the city night? So many nights—so many cities...
It was so long ago—five years ago. A lifetime ago. And I am not the same person—not by any measure. Even my name is different now. I have been a wife, and now I am a widow—I am a mother. And Anatole can mean nothing to me any more. Nothing!
Just as she, in the end, had meant nothing to him.
Memory stabbed at her of how Anatole had sat her down, talked to her, his face tense, the morning she had told him she wasn’t pregnant after all.
‘Tia—this is something you have to understand. I do not want to marry and I do not want to have children. Not with you—not with anyone. Now, if either or both of those things is something you do want,’ he’d continued in the same taut voice, ‘then you must accept that it is not going to happen with me. Not voluntarily.’
His voice had twisted on that word. He’d been sitting opposite her, leaning forward slightly, his hands hanging loosely between his thighs, an earnest expression on his face as if he were explaining something to someone incapable of understanding.
And that was me—I couldn’t understand. So I learned the hard way...
He’d taken a breath, looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I like you Tia. You’re very sweet, and very lovely, and we’ve had a really great time together, but...’ He’d taken another breath. ‘What I will not tolerate is any attempt by you to...to get pregnant and force me to the altar. I won’t have that, Tia—I won’t have it.’
He’d held her eyes, making her hear what he was telling her.
‘So from now on make sure there is no chance of another scare like this one, OK? No more getting “muddled up” over time zones.’ And then an edge had come into his voice, and his eyes had had a look of steel in them. ‘If that is what really happened.’
He’d got to his feet, his six-foot height dwarfing her seated figure, and she’d looked up at him, her throat tight and painful, her hands twisted in her lap.
‘If you want a baby, Tia, accept that it cannot be with me.’ His expression had hardened. ‘And if it’s me you want one with—well, then you had better leave, right away, because it’s over between us—over.’
He’d left the apartment then, heading to his office, and she’d watched him go. Her vision had grown hazy, and she’d felt feel sobs rising. The moment he’d gone she had rushed into the bathroom, releasing the pent-up tears, hating it that Anatole was being like that—hating it that she’d given him cause.
What she longed for so unbearably was what he did not want, and her heart felt as if it was cracking in pieces.
Her red-rimmed eyes had fallen on the little rectangular packet by the basin. It had been delivered the day before but she had dreaded using it. Dreaded finding out. Finding out whether what she had once thought would be a dream come true was instead turning into a nightmare. Was she forcing a child on Anatole—forcing him into a loveless, bitter marriage he did not want to make.
Then her period had arrived after all, making the test unnecessary.
She’d stared at the packet. Fear in her throat.
I’ve got to be sure—absolutely, totally sure—that I’m not pregnant. Because that’s the only way he’ll still want me.
She’d shut her eyes. She needed Anatole to want her on any terms at all. Any terms.
So she had done the test. Even though she hadn’t needed to. Because she hadn’t been able to bear not to.
She had done the test...and stared at the little white stick...
* * *
Christine’s car was pulling up at the hotel. Anatole leant across, opening her door for her. The brush of his sleeve on her arm made her feel faint, and she had to fight to keep her air of composure, dangerously fragile as it was.
She turned to bid him goodnight. But he was getting out too. Addressing her.
‘I need to speak to you.’ He glanced at the hotel entrance. ‘In private.’
He took her elbow, moved to guide her inside. Unless she wrested herself away from him, made a scene in front of Mr Hughes and the doorman tipping his hat to them, she must comply.
The moment she was indoors, she stepped away.
‘Well?’ she said, lifting her eyebrows, her expression still unyielding.
His eyes had gone to where a small bar opened up off the lobby, and she walked stiffly to one of the tables, sat herself down. The place was almost empty, and she was glad. She ordered coffee for herself and Anatole did likewise, adding a brandy.
Only when the drinks arrived did he speak. ‘I’ve heard from Vasilis’s London solicitors,’ he opened.
Christine’s eyes went to him. She was burningly conscious of him there—of his tall, effortlessly elegant body, of the achingly familiar scent of his aftershave, of the slight darkening of his jawline at this advanced hour of the evening.
How she had loved to rub her fingers along the roughening edges, feeling passion start to quicken...
Yet again, she hauled her mind away. Anatole’s voice was clipped, restrained as he continued. She realised he was tense, and wondered why.
‘Now that probate has been granted they have told me the contents of Vasilis’s will.’ The words came reluctantly from him, his mouth tight. His eyes rested on her face, looking at her blankly. Then his expression changed. ‘Why did you let me think you would inherit all my uncle’s personal fortune for yourself?’
Christine’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t,’ she said tightly. ‘That, Anatole,’ she added, her voice sharp, ‘was something you assumed entirely on your own!’
He half lifted his hand—as if her objection were irrelevant. As if there were more he had to say.
‘My uncle’s wealth has been left entirely in trust for his son—you get only a trivial income for yourself. Everything else belongs to Nicky!’
Her eyes flickered and her chin lifted. ‘I wouldn’t call my income trivial. It’s over thirty thousand pounds a year,’ she replied.
‘Chickenfeed!’ he said dismissively.
Her expression tightened. ‘To you, yes. To me it’s enough to live on if I have to—more than enough. I was penniless when I married Vasilis—as you reminded me. Of course everything must go to Nicky. And besides—’ she allowed a flash of cynicism to show in her eyes ‘—as I’m sure you will point out to me, I will continue to reap the benefits of Nicky’s inheritance while he’s a minor. I get to live in a Queen Anne country house, and I’ll have all of Nicky’s money to enjoy while he grows up.’
A hand lifted and slashed sideways. ‘But you will have no spending money other than your own income.’
Her composure snapped. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anatole. What am I going to spend money on? I have enough clothes to last me a lifetime. And I’ve told you I have no ambition to racket around the world causing scandals, as you so charmingly accused me of wanting to do. I simply want to go on living where I do now—for my sake as much as Nicky’s. It’s where he’s grown up so far, where I have friends and know people who knew Vasilis and liked him, valued him. If I want to take Nicky on holiday, of course funds will be made available to me. I shall want for nothing—though I’m sure you’ll be the first to accuse me of the opposite!’
She saw him reach for his brandy, take a hefty mouthful before setting it down on the table with a decisive click.
‘I can accuse you of nothing.’ He took a breath—a deep, shuddering breath—and focussed his eyes on her. Emotion worked in his face. ‘Instead—’ He stopped, abruptly. His expression changed. So did his voice. ‘Instead,’ he repeated, ‘I have to apologise. I said things to you that I...that were unfair—’
He broke off again. Reached for his coffee and downed it. Then he was looking at her again. As if she were not the person he had thought her to be.
But she isn’t. She’s not the avaricious, ambitious gold-digger I thought. It was she who insisted on Vasilis leaving his personal fortune to Nicky, his lawyers told me, with nothing for her apart from that paltry income.
It was not what he’d expected to hear. But because of it...
It changes everything.
It was the same phrase that had burst from him when he’d discovered the existence of Vasilis’s son, and now it burned in his head again, bringing to the fore the second thing he had to tell her. The imperative that had been building up in him, fuelled by that strange, compelling emotion that had filled him when he’d crouched down beside the little boy to console and comfort him.
‘I would like to see Nicky again—soon.’
Immediately Christine’s face was masked.
‘He is my blood,’ he said tightly. ‘He should know me. Even if—’ He stopped.
She filled the gap, her face still closed. Her tone was acid. ‘Even if I am his mother?’
Anatole’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘I did not mean—’ Again he broke off.
He’d just told her he couldn’t accuse her of wanting her husband’s fortune—but she’d still persuaded a man thirty years older than her to marry her in order to acquire the lavish lifestyle she could never have achieved otherwise. That alone must condemn her. What other interpretation could there be for what she had done when she had left him to marry his uncle?
Conflict and confusion writhed in him again.
‘Yes, you did,’ Christine retorted, her tone still acid. ‘Anatole, look—try to understand something. You may not have wanted to marry me, to have a child with me—but your uncle did. It was his choice to marry me. You insult him if you think otherwise and your approval was not necessary.’
She saw his hand clench, emotion flash across his face, but she didn’t want to hear any more. She got to her feet, weariness sweeping over her. She longed for Vasilis’s protective company, but he was gone. She was alone in the world now. Except for Nicky—her beloved son.
The most precious being in the universe to her.
The very reason she had married.
* * *
Anatole watched her walk out—an elegant, graceful woman. A woman he had once held in his arms, known intimately—and yet now she was like a stranger. Even the name she insisted on calling herself emphasised that.
Emotion roiled within him in the confusing mesh that swirled so confusingly in his head, that he could make no sense of.
But there was one thing he could make sense of.
Whatever his conflicting thoughts about Tia—or Christine, as she now preferred to be known—and whatever she had done...abandoning him, marrying his uncle, remaking her life as Vasilis’s oh-so-young wife...she’d gone up in the world in a way that she could never have imagined possible the day she had trudged down that London street with a heavy suitcase holding all her possessions.
Now she was transformed into a woman who was poised and chicly dressed, who was able—of all things!—to introduce an exhibition of ancient artefacts as if she were perfectly well acquainted with such esoteric knowledge. Yes, whatever she had done in these years when he had never seen her, there was one thing he could make sense of.
Nicky. The little boy who had lost the man he’d thought of as his grandfather—who would now be raised only by his mother, knowing nothing of his paternal background or his heritage.
Anatole’s face steeled. Well, he would ensure that did not happen. He owed it to Vasilis—to the little boy himself—to play some part in his life at least.
A stab of remorse—even guilt—pierced him. In the five long years since Tia had left him he’d received, from time to time, communications from his uncle. Careful overtures of reconciliation.
He’d ignored them all—blanked them.
But he could not—would not—ignore the existence of Vasilis’s young son.
I want to see him again!
Resolve filled him. Something about the child called to him.
Again that memory filled his head of how he’d distracted the little boy, talking about painting a picture of a train, just as he himself had once done for his uncle in that long-ago time when it had been he himself who’d been the child without any kind of father figure in his life to take an interest in him. When there had only been occasional visits from Vasilis—never his own father, to whom he had been of no interest at all.
Well, for Nicky it would not be like that.
He’ll have me. I’ll make sure of it!
And if that meant seeing Tia—Christine—again, well, that was something he would have to endure.
Unease flickered in him. Can I cope with that? Seeing her in the years to come with Nicky growing up?
It was a question that, right now, he did not want to think about.