CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS STILL SNOWING, early the next morning when Claudia woke. She stretched, her body strangely fulfilled, muscles aching, heart squeezing. She brushed against something warm and flipped over, smiling when she saw Stavros.
In repose, like this, he was like a gentle giant. His harsh, angular face was somehow less imposing and Claudia leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his nose, then a kiss, smiling when he made a grunting noise and went to swat her away.
She caught his fingertips and drew one deep into the moistness of her mouth. His eyes jerked open and then, he relaxed visibly, smiling as he ran his eyes over her face, conquering every dip in her features as she had just been doing to him.
“Good morning,” she murmured, lying back down beside him.
He folded her under his arm, bringing her to his chest, so that she could hear the rhythmic pounding of his heart, the good, steady beating.
“This is a nice way to wake up,” he said, the words thickened with sleep and something like emotion. “How do you feel?”
The question was so sweet, so unexpectedly gentle; how could it not breathe promises across her heart? How could it help but fill her with hopes for something beyond this? For more than what they were doing?
She pushed the hope aside.
Stavros Aresteides was too astute. Eventually he would realise that she never read anything, not a Facebook status update, not a headline. He would realise that she didn’t send texts or write shopping lists.
And then he would know how stupid she was. And he would look at her with pity and sympathy and she couldn’t bear it. The thought scraped into her chest and hollowed her out, and she found it almost impossible to breathe as the suffocating realization fell over her that she must walk away from him after Christmas.
“I’m hungry,” she said, shifting away from him a little.
“Agape? Are you okay?”
Shoot. She had to do a better job of pretending. “Yeah.” She grinned down at him. “Just starving.”
“So I have finally found the way to your appetite,” he teased, pushing up onto his elbows and kissing her lightly. “This is good news.”
Her heart squeezed. “Food.”
“Yes, food.” But he deepened the kiss and she groaned into his mouth, needing more, wanting more of him always.
When he pulled away, she ached with disappointment. She watched as he stepped out of bed and lifted the phone receiver to his ear, placing a room service request in rapid fire terms then smiling down at her.
Claudia could have stared at him all day. That was, in and of itself, the warning she needed to galvanise her limbs. She stepped out of bed and reached for a robe, wrapping it around her frame and moving into the kitchen area. She podded through two strong, black coffees, and took hers to the window. Hyde park was covered in snow. Ironically, Winter Wonderland seemed out of action for the moment, the rides held still, the gates locked. Was it just too early to open? Or had they closed it because of the snow?
It was beautiful, anyway. Twinkling lights shimmered in the distance and an enormous Christmas tree peered above the others, an angel on its top making her smile and think of her own Christmas star.
“Stavros?” She turned around, her eyes pinning to him the moment he walked out of the bedroom. “I just realized something. Something important.”
“What is it?” He was instantly alert, concern obvious in his features.
“Your tree doesn’t have an angel! Or a star!”
“My tree?”
“The Christmas tree at Barnwell.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I didn’t realise at the time,” she lied, remembering how completely distracted she’d become by the image of being taken over his knee and spanked across the bottom.
“I suppose you were just focusing on the heirloom ornaments,” he supplied, but the twinkle in his eye showed that he knew what had been responsible for derailing her thoughts.
“Yes, I must have been.” She grinned back. “We have to get a star.” She tilted her head to the side. “I have a beautiful one, at my place. We could stop there on the way out of town.”
His eyes narrowed and she felt his tension ratchet up a notch or ten. “No, let’s buy one for Barnwell,” he said with an air of casual unconcern. “The house should have a star.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
“It used to,” he said, grabbing his own coffee from the bench and coming to stand beside her. “But one year, Benedictus and Calista decided to play catch with it.”
Claudia winced at the image of such wanton distraction.
“It broke into a million little pieces of glass.”
“Oh, no! Please tell me it wasn’t like the decorations.”
He nodded. “Part of the same set.”
“Oh! Such a waste. How beautiful it would have been.”
“We’ll find another,” he said, with the promise of so many things beyond the star that her heart skidded in her chest.
“Not like that,” she shook her head.
She looked up at him and for a moment had the feeling he was going to say something. Something unconnected to the star, or to Christmas. There was a seriousness on his face that shifted everything inside of her.
But then, the bell rang, and he relaxed. “Room service.”
She watched him cross the room, his stride long and powerful, even in a setting such as this.
A bell hop stood on the other side, dressed in the hotel’s uniform. He wheeled the trolley through but Stavros dismissed him then, before he could set the table.
“I’ll do it.” Stavros nodded, waiting until they were alone again before placing items on the table top, including two newspapers.
It was a simple, normal gesture but it did something funny to Claudia’s breathing. A newspaper to her was like a loaded gun – especially with Stavros beside her. She could fool most people by flicking to the fashion magazine and looking at the pictures, but not Stavros.
He was too watchful.
Too attentive.
She took the seat opposite, sipping her coffee, ignoring the paper. Or trying to. It was a loaded bomb; she could hear its resolute ticking.
And yet, strangely, it didn’t explode. They ate together, and it was relaxed and easy, and Claudia truly thought she’d dodged a bullet. Until all the food had disappeared and Stavros cleared the plates to the benchtop and then kicked back in his seat, spreading the newspaper wide in front of him.
“I might have a shower,” Claudia said, over brightly, still ignoring the newspaper.
“What’s the rush?” He asked. “We have all day. Sit. Have another coffee. Read the paper with me.”
“The paper?” She laughed, a brittle sound of desperation. “Newspapers are so boring.” It was completely the wrong thing to say. She knew it the second she’d uttered the words. She’d erred. She’d brought his attention to the newspaper when she could easily have sidestepped the whole issue.
Her worries had loomed so large in her mind that she’d inadvertently thrown them in his face. She cringed inwardly, wondering why no one had yet invented a speech-unsayer machine, a way to wipe words out of someone’s memory.
Stavros had heard, and something passed over his features.
Oh, crap. It was a lot like sympathy. Claudia braced herself for the worst and at the same time tried to remember to be strong. To remember that not being able to read and write didn’t mean she wasn’t good at things.
“Listen, asteraki, I know you have an image,” he murmured softly, trying to broach the subject gently. “But you don’t need to pretend around me.”
She lowered her phone, a frown of genuine confusion crinkling her brow. “Pretend?” She tilted her head, a smile inviting him to continue.
But she felt his frustration barrel across at her. “The whole light-hearted, socialite thing. It is okay for you to read the newspaper. To show an interest in the outside world.”
The ticking of the bomb was getting louder, more urgent. She swallowed, her throat dry, her knees shaking beneath the table. But outwardly, she appeared calm. Amused, even. “I hosted an event to raise funds for child victims of landmines last night and today you’re telling me I’m not interested in the outside world?”
“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Your high-profile aids your fundraising. I understand that. And your image is predicated on your, shall I say, frivolous nature?”
She barked, a sharp laugh borne of anger. “Frivolous?”
“Fashion. Parties. The fact you’re a dyed in the wool party girl from way back.”
“I can’t believe this.” She stood up, and discovered that her legs were somewhat shaky. “How dare you?”
“I’m trying to make you understand that I accept you as you are.”
Tears sparkled on her lashes. She blinked them away. More replenished them. “No, you don’t.” She swallowed; her throat felt lined with razor blades. “I’m not avoiding the newspaper because I’m cultivating an image. I don’t like reading the paper. I don’t like the news. It’s all too depressing.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said softly.
“You never do.” She stormed away from him, quickly making another coffee as though it were a lifeline. She lifted it to her lips, drinking the lukewarm beverage without tasting it.
He followed, determined not to let this matter drop. “You’re working overtime to distance yourself from your father. You don’t want to be compared to him. I get that. But doing something that pretty much every adult in the world does is acceptable. You must see that?”
She stared at the tiled wall of the kitchen, chasing the grout lines with her eyes, cursing the eyes that saw too much. Cursing her intuition that had known this was coming. Knowing that his dawning understanding was inevitable and that she had been too weak, too dependent on the lure of one more night, to leave when she should have.
“Is it that you want to avoid articles about yourself?” He demanded, trying to soften his voice, trying to be calm when inside he was raging with frustration. And something else. A curiosity at the fact he simply couldn’t understand her.
“No.” She spun around to face him. “This is just who I am. Is it such a big deal?”
“I don’t give a shi—Hell, Claudia. No, it’s not a big deal. I don’t care if you read the paper or watch the news or have any interest in anything outside of your own life. If that’s the way you want to be. But I think you’re pretending. I think you’re caught up in being the socialite to the point you’ve forgotten who you are.”
She was trembling from head to toe. Because he was right. Her whole life, every day, was a pretense. It was exhausting being mindful of her shortcomings all the time, knowing she needed to hide them from the outside world, to constantly be prepared for situations that might reveal to people that she couldn’t really read nor write.
She was so tired of that pretense.
But what was the alternative?
To allow someone in? To allow Stavros in?
Hell would freeze over first.
“If you read the papers,” he continued, his tone softer, but it hid a determination of steel, “you would see things like this.” He dropped the newspaper to the bench in front of her. She didn’t want to look at it, but her eyes were drawn as if by magic.
There was a photo of Marianne and Artie, taken out the front of Marianne’s house. She couldn’t read the headline, particularly not in her overwrought state. But she got the gist.
Hurt simmered in her veins. They were back together? How could her best friend have failed to tell her? To call and let her know? Especially when Claudia had bent over backwards to help make their breakup smoother? She was happy for them, of course, but the pain at finding herself to be an outsider, not worthy of their consideration, cut deep.
“Are you alright?” He moved closer and the words were gruff and gentle, all at once. She pressed her lips together, and her eyes didn’t quite meet his.
“I’m fine.”
“I know…” he shook his head. “I know you weren’t sleeping with him. But you were involved?”
“With Artie?” She rolled her eyes. “For the hundredth time, no.” She pushed away from the bench and away from him, moving quickly through the suite. She desperately wanted a shower. But she could shower when she got home.
Home.
Not Barnwell.
Her own home, here in London. And Artie would be gone.
A sob filled her chest; she swallowed it. She pulled on her jeans, grimacing as she snapped her fingernail in the zip. Well, that was yet another self-fulfilling prophecy, wasn’t it? After fibbing about her torn fingernail the day before, she deserved the pain of one in real life.
“Claudia?” He was watching her from the doorframe, his expression grim. “You’re upset.”
“No kidding.” She spun around, looking for her shirt, and found it folded over the back of a chair. She pulled it on, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans. Her coat was by the door, she recalled. She moved into the bathroom, her fingers fumbling as she lifted her make-up out and applied a little blush to her cheeks. He was watching her in the mirror.
She didn’t dare look his way.
“Tell me what it is,” he murmured urgently.
“Oh, gee, I wonder.” She snapped sarcastically. “Could it be the fact you’re hounding me about not reading the newspaper, as though my reading habits are anything to do with you? How dare you? How dare you think you have any right to control me to that degree?”
“Control you?” He responded with shock. “I don’t want to control you.”
“You keep telling me I can be myself around you but you don’t like who I am. I’m someone who doesn’t read. Ever. Not for pleasure, not for fun. I don’t like it.”
“Because of who your father was,” he said softly. “And I’m just saying that you don’t have to run from that with me.”
“Don’t. Don’t psychoanalyse me as though you have a secret insight into the inner-workings of my mind.”
“I think I do,” he said with a gentleness that spoke of determination.
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong.” She zipped her cosmetics bag closed and moved back into the bedroom, brushing past him without letting herself acknowledge the zipping of emotion that accompanied his proximity.
“This is about Arthur, isn’t it?” She heard the raw emotion in his tone, and she knew that it was jealousy. God, she knew what she needed to do to get away from Stavros. It was an awful catch-22 to be in. Stavros was the one person on earth she cared about. The one person she most desperately wanted to hide the truth of her situation from, and the one person who wouldn’t just accept her vague answers.
And she knew the way to force him to let her go.
“Yeah, it’s about Artie!” She spun around to face him, her heart breaking at the lies she was about to tell. “I love him, okay? I’m head over heels in love with him and have been for years.” Tears sparkled on her lashes, but they were tears for Stavros, he was frozen to the spot, his face grey beneath his tan, his expression like iron. “
“He’s back with Marianne,” Stavros interjected, but the words were hoarse.
“I know that,” she tossed her remaining possessions into her bag. “It doesn’t change how I feel.” She swallowed.
“If you love him so much, why did you sleep with me?” He prompted.
“Why do you think?” Her brain was shouting at her to stop. To rethink this plan of attack. But her ego and pride were leading the charge, doing what they could to save her from the shame of his discovering the truth. “Do you think Artie would be interested in someone like me? A virgin? Can you imagine what he would have said? He’d never have stopped laughing. Besides, I needed to know what I was doing in bed, Stavros, and you’ve been an excellent teacher.”
Silence, angry, dark silence descended upon them.
Stavros sucked in a breath, his eyes smarting. He prowled towards her, and she whimpered, so sad, so desperately saddened by what she’d just said. It was the worst lie she’d ever told for the sake of her secret.
“I knew you were selfish.” The words hit her like bullets. “I knew you were vain.” She squeezed her eyes shut at the ache of his accusations. “I knew you were spoiled and indulged and concerned only with your very narrow little life.” He was right in front of her, his anger vibrating from him like a force field. “But I never knew you were such a cold-hearted bitch.” He brought his face closer to hers and she held her breath, knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it.
He kissed her. A kiss that made her heart break and her eyes sting with hot tears. A kiss that was borne of anger and rage. He kissed her and she kissed him right back, her need urgent.
“You are like your mother.” He spat the words at her as he separated, stepping back, drawing breath in hard and fast, his hands on his hips and his legs wide. “Get the hell out of here.”
She was shaking from head to toe, like a leaf in a cyclone. It was what she wanted. But the idea of walking away from him like this filled her with something like acid. She couldn’t.
“Stavros,”
“Are you dumb? Do you not understand what I am saying” He snapped, the question the worst thing he could ever have said to her. Though he had no idea how cutting the question was, how hurtful, it snapped what little self-esteem Claudia had in two. She blanched visibly and sobbed audibly now. “Get the hell out of here.”
What had she expected?
She’d told Stavros Aresteides that she’d slept with him so she could seduce another man. His fury was understandable. She’d hurt his pride. She’d hurt his ego.
“I will have my lawyer draw up papers to release you from this guardianship.”
“What?” She stared up at him in confusion.
“I release you. You can have your trust fund. Do with it what you want. I never want to see you again.”
And he spun on his heel and stormed through the suite, into another of the rooms, shutting the door with an ominously quiet thud.
Claudia was alone. As always.
*
Stavros stared out at the formal gardens of Barnwell, seeing the carefully sculptured trees, the winter garden with its dark green vines and pines, and the settling of ice-cold air, but he was thinking of Claudia.
He was thinking of how much she would love it here.
And he was wondering if she’d seduced Arthur Pennington to her bed.
The idea made his gut churn. If Claudia wanted Arthur, then she would have him. What man could say no to her? He spun away from the view, pain making his head spin.
The thought of another man’s hands on her body was possibly the worst contemplation he’d ever made. He’d been angry when his brother had become engaged to Rhiannon, but he’d never felt jealous. He hadn’t felt that a possessive need was being stripped away from him.
He hadn’t felt like he could no longer breathe.
He stormed through the mansion – it seemed to be the only way he went anywhere now – willfully ignoring the call of the conservatory at the end of the hallway and turning into the kitchen instead. Was he imagining the smell of pudding? The spices heavy in the air?
With a grim expression, he went to the fridge and opened it. There it was. Wrapped in calico, the work of Claudia’s creation.
I never knew you were such a cold-hearted bitch. Her face had physically shifted when he’d hurled the insult at her. She’d looked like a kitten and he’d wanted to take the words back immediately, but he’d been so angry. The idea of diminishing what they’d shared as she had done! The idea that he’d tormented himself with guilt, agonizing what he owed his friend Christopher, when it had all been a learning exercise for Claudia. He’d been livid.
But hurting her with raging insults hadn’t felt good.
It had been excruciating, and all the more so for the way they ran around his head, chasing him mercilessly so that he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t settle to anything.
He swore loudly and reached for the pudding, and his chest rolled like it had been kicked when he smelled the pudding and remembering the way she’d been that day. With flour on her cheek and spices in her hair.
With determination, he cut open the calico and sliced a piece of pudding, lifting it to his mouth without reheating it.
It was perfect. Moist and sweet, and full of all the flavours he remembered from Christmases with his grandmother, right here at Barnwell.
He finished the piece and then reached for his iPad. He told himself he was checking his emails, but his finger found its way to his news app and he was loading the papers before he knew it.
He flicked through, reading each article, or the headlines at least.
It didn’t take long to reach the society section. Nor to recognize Claudia on the page.
Every cell in his body froze.
It was a photo of her out walking. There was nothing particularly exciting about the snap. She had shopping bags, and the newspaper had written a pithy paragraph about her high-end habits. But Stavros didn’t really take the words in. He could only stare at the picture. She wore skinny jeans and a thick white coat. Her hair was long and loose down her back and she had over-sized sunglasses in place which he ached to reach in and remove, so that he could see her expressive eyes and know what she was feeling.
She was smiling in the photo but he knew it to be a forced smile.
He swore and slammed the iPad down.
He had to remove himself as her guardian. It was not healthy to continue in the role, knowing he would never be able to see her again.
Most lawyers shut over Christmas but Aresteides Enterprises had its own cache of in-house attorneys. He could email some papers over and get the ball rolling. The sooner she was out of his life, the better, he told himself.
He’d decided to leave all his custodian arrangements here, at Barnwell, for ease. He kept them in a drawer in his office that he hadn’t looked at in years. He stormed through the house once more, up to his office, ignoring the fact that this very desk was where they’d first made love.
He focused only on the task at hand.
He pulled the drawer open and lifted out the two binders of folders, scanning the guardianship agreement with a heavy sigh. His signature was at the bottom, alongside Christopher’s.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he muttered, shaking his head and acknowledging how badly he’d failed the man. Perhaps if Stavros had been more involved in Claudia’s life, this would never have happened. Perhaps he could have stopped the rot from setting in.
He flicked through the folder absently, not bothering to look at the sections as he went. He vaguely remembered the dossier being put together. Her medical records from birth, her mother’s information, the exact components of her inheritance.
And finally, her school correspondence. He flicked through it without reading, until a single word caught his eye and he froze, his eyes returning to the page with a sense of utter shock.
Dyslexia.
He lifted his gaze to the top of the page and forced himself to read the thing in its entirety.
Dear Mr. La Roche,
Sir, this is the fifth letter I have sent to you on the matter of your daughter’s dyslexia. While I understand your schedule is busy and requires you to frequently be out of the country on professional commitments, I remind you that I am unable to enroll Claudia in the occupational therapy sessions I feel she would benefit from without your written consent. While she will likely always be functionally illiterate, it is possible that with time and the right attention, she will see some small improvements.
As you would know, Claudia is a young woman with a keen intellect. In all other subjects, she excels and we struggle to find ways to challenge her within the curriculum. I trust you will help us find ways to help Claudia manage her dyslexia.
Yours sincerely,
Ronda Burns.
Functionally illiterate.
Stavros was hot all over then cold. He jerked out of the chair and swore a string of angry curses, furious curses.
Functionally illiterate? That meant she couldn’t read? Or write? He had no idea of the exact parameters but it sure as hell didn’t sound good.
Every single faux pas he’d made slammed into him. The book he’d given her in Bath and the way she’d reacted so very badly. Not to the title, after all, but to the fact he’d given her a book. That he was teasing her with something out of her reach and comprehension.
God, the newspaper situation in London had been the worst.
Why hadn’t she told him?
Are you dumb? Do you not understand English?
The way she’d reacted, as though he’d held a gun to her head.
His breath was coming in fits and spurts and more recollections were forcing themselves upon him. The registration form at the reception desk of the hotel; the way she’d covered it by being the ultimate heiress.
He’d been right. She was acting a part, but because she hadn’t wanted him to know about the dyslexia?
The cheque at the charity ball. She’d asked if it was made out to the fundraiser, and he hadn’t even clicked then. How many little signs there had been that he’d missed?
He wasn’t sure it mattered. He wasn’t sure he could change anything. Had she been telling the truth about Arthur Pennington? And her motives for sleeping with Stavros? Or had she simply needed to get away from him before he’d learned the truth?
And hell! He returned to the letter, flicking away from it to the previous correspondences from the school. There were several, each of them firmly instructing Christopher that he would need to consent to Claudia’s being enrolled in special classes.
Why hadn’t he done so?
Why hadn’t he allowed that?
Stavros needed answers, and suddenly, he didn’t care that it was a snowy Christmas eve. He cared only that he saw Claudia for a moment and explained. He had to let her know that he knew, and that he was sorry.
He couldn’t get to London fast enough.