Difficult questions that had required thought and composure to answer. She’d always sworn she wouldn’t lie to him, but answering his queries was a minefield.
Not for the first time, guilt at the way she was raising their child spread through her. Not just the relative poverty in which they lived, with Annie having to scrimp and save to afford even the most basic necessities, but the fact she was doing it alone.
A lump formed in her throat, the past heavy in her mind. The night she’d gone to tell Dimitrios the truth had been one of the worst of her life. Seeing him three months after they’d slept together was something she’d had to brace herself for. She’d dressed in the most grown-up outfit she owned, hoping to look not just sexy and glamorous but mature as well, as though she belonged in his world with him. She’d had her speech all worked out—how he didn’t need to be involved if he didn’t want to be, but that he deserved to know.
But arriving to discover him surrounded by his exclusive, glamorous crowd in one of Sydney’s most prestigious bars—and with the gorgeous redhead pressed to his body, all flame hair and milky skin—had sent Annie running. At eighteen, it had been too much to bear. Her pride had been hurt, her heart broken, and the precious kernel of meaning she’d taken from their night together had burst into flames, never to be recovered.
Lewis’s death had left Annie completely alone. An already tenuous relationship with her parents had been irrevocably destroyed by their grief—an event that might have drawn them closer had pushed them apart, as Annie’s mum refused to see that anyone else except her was hurting. Sleeping with Dimitrios had been the fulfilment of a long-cherished crush, but it had been more than that. Annie had been pulled out of the vortex of her pain and loneliness and put back together again in Dimitrios’s arms. Being made love to by him had made her feel whole in a way she’d thought impossible, even if that pleasure was fleeting.
His words the next morning had robbed her of that sense of comfort, plunging her back into darkness and despair. She’d been eighteen and it had all been too much. Lewis’s death, losing her virginity to Dimitrios and all that night had meant to her, his harsh rejection of her the next day, discovering she was pregnant and her mother’s anger at that, the subsequent estrangement from her parents... Her emotions had been all over the place then but now, as a twenty-five-year-old, she wondered if she’d made the right decisions.
Was keeping Max from Dimitrios something she could still defend?
‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’
Whoops. She’d let her smile slip. She pushed it back in place. ‘Nothing, darling. Keep eating. It’s late. You need to get to bed.’
Bedtime, though, had become something of a mission in the past six months. Gone were the days when Annie had been able to read a picture book, tuck the covers to Max’s chin, kiss his forehead and slip from the room. It took an hour to settle him these days.
Tonight there was a story, answering a thousand and one questions, letting him have another sip of water, then a trip to the bathroom, then back to be tucked in again, then at least one call of, ‘I’m scared, Mummy!’
At that point, Annie compromised and patted his back, even though all the parenting books seemed to suggest it was the wrong thing to do. At this point, it felt like the proverbial straw that was breaking the camel’s back, anyway. She’d probably done so many little things wrong—what was one extra?
With a sigh, she crept from his room, pausing in the door frame to give his sleeping figure one last look. Love burst her heart. She was exhausted, worried and stressed but so full of love.
With a wistful smile, she clicked the door shut and moved back to the table. Her laptop beckoned. Cracking it open, she was glad of the distraction of work to keep her mind off the fact she was, actually, starving. She told herself she’d work for an hour and then have a cup of tea and an oat biscuit—her one indulgence. It wasn’t usually so austere, but with Christmas just around the corner she needed to try to save enough to buy Max something. He did without so much for most of the year, while all his little friends were getting spoiled with books, sports equipment and anything their hearts desired. She wanted him to have something for Christmas.
Loading properties on to real-estate listings was work she could do without too much mental computation. She cross-checked the photographs with the property name and the description the various agents had attached, making sure each had uploaded correctly before moving on to the next.
Almost an hour after starting, a loud knock sounded at her door. She startled, quickly pushing her chair back. There was no worry that Max would stir—though he was difficult to get to sleep, once he was down for the night he slept like an immovable log. Nonetheless, the noise was loud and she needed to work.
It was probably a delivery for the flat upstairs. The house she lived in had been carved up by an industrious landlord many years earlier. Six small flats had been created and hers was the one at ground level; she often had deliveries intended for other residents simply because she was accessible.
‘Just a second.’ She closed the laptop and paused to flick on the kettle sitting on the peeling laminate bench top before unlocking the door. The peephole had been damaged years earlier and the landlord had never got round to replacing it, though at her insistence he’d added a chain lock. She slid it across now and opened the door as wide as the chain allowed.
Then had to fight every impulse she possessed to stop herself from pushing it shut again. Self-preservation and a thousand other impulses slammed into her.
Oh, damn.
Was it possible she’d somehow conjured him up? That her overactive mind and memories had willed him into her life again? What the hell was Dimitrios doing here?
She threw a guilt-laced look over her shoulder at her tiny, threadbare apartment.
‘Annabelle.’ His voice was like warm butter on brioche. He was one of the few people who used her full name. Her stomach clenched at memories of the way he’d said her name that night, of the way he’d touched her, the way he’d...
‘I had half a bottle of whisky before coming here, Annabelle. Do you think I would ever have done this if I was in my right mind? I’ve never even looked at you before. You’re just a kid, for God’s sake. A teenager—and a naïve one at that. Don’t mistake sex for anything of substance. This meant nothing.’
Recalling his words, and the hurt they’d inflicted, was exactly what she needed. She pulled herself to her full—admittedly not very impressive—height of five and a half feet and levelled him with what she hoped passed for an ice-cold glare. Inside, though, her heart was racing, making a mockery of any notion that she wasn’t affected by him...
Max.
Their son.
He was asleep only a dozen metres or so away, behind a flimsy white wall. Panic surged through her.
‘We have a problem.’
We. Just hearing him use that word sent a flood of warmth down her spine. It had been a long time since she’d been a ‘we’ with anyone except Max. The cold ache of loneliness was something with which Annie was completely familiar. She lifted one brow, unaware of the way his eyes followed the gesture, not noticing the frown that crossed his face.
‘May I come in?’
She stared at him, belatedly realising she hadn’t said anything to so much as acknowledge his presence. She was simply standing, staring, her heart in overdrive, her panic centres in full swing. She shook her head urgently, jerking it so hard it could well have snapped from her spine. ‘Um, no. I—What are you doing here, Dimitrios?’
‘That’s something better discussed in private.’
She frowned. Beyond him was a Sydney cul-de-sac. No one was around, that she could see. ‘Seems pretty private out there to me.’ She reached for her key, hanging on a hook beside the door, then drew the door open further so she could step out.
She knew as she did so that it wasn’t just
the risk of him discovering the truth about Max. She was ashamed. Her apartment was far from luxurious—heck, it was far from comfortable. She’d done her best but there was always something more urgent to buy or pay for. Trendy cushions and throw rugs were way down her list of priorities.
Stepping outside, though, brought her toe-to-toe with a man she’d told herself she’d never see again. And even though she’d been coming to realise that was unrealistic—that their son deserved better—she hadn’t been prepared for this! To see him tonight—here, at her place—was too much, too soon. She wasn’t ready; she wasn’t mentally prepared.
We have a problem.
‘What are you doing here, Dimitrios?’
She registered the response her saying his name had on him. His eyes flickered with something she didn’t comprehend. Annie looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. It had been a warm day, but the night had cooled off, and she was wearing only a thin T-shirt and yoga pants.
She’d almost forgotten how handsome he was. His face, so symmetrical, had the effect of having been sculpted from granite. Every line and shift was intentional—nothing had been left to chance. Cheekbones, a patrician nose, a determined jaw and a cleft in his chin that she remembered teasing with her tongue.
Her skin flushed with warmth. His eyes were a steely grey, blue in some lights, and his brows were flat and long, making him look every bit as intelligent as she knew him to be. She’d never known him without facial hair—stubble that grew over his chin and above his lip, but which she doubted was intentional, more the result of a man who was too busy to trouble himself with shaving regularly.
Her stomach lurched as other characteristics threw themselves into her mind. The memory of his hard chest, so chiselled and firm, each muscle drawing her attention and making her worship at the altar of his hyper-masculine beauty. His tan, a deep brown, the colour of burned caramel. His arms, strong and slim, the way they’d clamped around her and held her body close to his as she’d fallen asleep. And she’d fallen asleep believing the promises his body had made hers—that the experience they’d shared was the beginning of something meaningful and special. In the midst of her grief, the sadness that had filled her soul with the sudden death of her older brother, Annie had felt as though she’d come home. She’d believed everything would actually be okay.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He answered her question with one of his own. A frisson of danger moved down Annie’s spine. The question wasn’t the kind of thing you asked. This was no fishing expedition; he knew something. Or, he thought he knew something. But what? Hopefully, she racked her brain for anything else it could be—hopefully. But there was nothing. The only secret she’d ever kept from him—from anyone—was the existence of Max.
Anxiety turned to adrenaline; she shivered.
‘Tell you what?’ she heard herself ask, her voice a little higher in pitch than normal.
‘It’s too late for that, Annabelle.’ He expelled a breath that could almost have passed for a sigh except there was too much anger behind it; bitterness, too. ‘A journalist knows. We have a son together.’
She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her back against the door in an effort to stay upright. It barely helped. She felt as though the four walls were closing in on her—as though the atmosphere of the planet was being sucked out into space, as though an enormous weight was bearing down hard on her belly.
Why had she thought she could get away with this? Of course he should have known about Max. What had she been thinking?
All the reasons that had seemed so valid a little over six years ago blew away from her like dust in the wind. She stared at him, but the accusation and anger in his face made it impossible to hold his gaze for long. She angled her face away, concentrating on breathing. Her lungs burned. Shame made her cheeks flame.
Her eyes hurt.
A second later, she was aware of his curse, and then nothing. She wasn’t sure how long the nothingness lasted, only that his hands were around her waist, lifting her easily as his fingers dug into her pocket to remove her keys. She was groggy—too shocked to protest. He pushed open the door to her apartment and it wasn’t within her capability to feel even a hint of embarrassment in that moment—at least, not at her décor.
He carried her to the sofa and laid her down, his footsteps retreating for a moment. She heard squeaking as he opened cupboards and then slamming as they closed heavily. Once, twice, thrice, a fourth time, and then the running of water. He returned with a glass and held it out to her. ‘Drink this.’
God, what she must look like to him! She scrambled into a sitting position, holding a shaking hand out for the glass. After she’d had half of it, she sat with it cradled in her lap, fighting the sting of tears.
‘So it’s true?’
She lifted her face to his, wishing he would sit down or that she could stand up, but her knees were as stable as jelly. And, given the tiny size of her sofa, she didn’t actually want him to sit down, because that would bring him way too close to her, and she was already spiralling from the remembered sensation of his strong arms carrying her so easily when she’d passed out.
His voice was throaty and deep, raw and guttural. ‘Annabelle, damn it. Tell me. Is it true?’
Except he didn’t really doubt the truth, did he? She saw that in his expression, the tautness of his face, the anger in the depths of his eyes. Her stomach squeezed. She couldn’t lie to him—not any more. And she didn’t want to. Nor did she want to lie to Max.
But, oh, Max. How would she explain this to him? She knotted her fingers in her lap, an old nervous habit she’d never been able to shed, her eyes huge in a face that had grown pale. Her side-sweeping fringe had fallen to cover one of her eyes in a river of shimmering gold and she instinctively lifted a hand to swipe at it, tucking the longer strands behind her ear.
She hadn’t really thought she could keep Dimitrios from learning the truth. But it was only having him here, with this accusation, that she realised she’d waited for this day—that she’d known it was coming and had almost longed for it. What else could explain the relief she felt?
He knew. Finally.
It was over.
No more secrets and lies—at least, not to Max.
‘Yes.’
He flinched, his cheeks darkening. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him; maybe he hadn’t already known? His jaw tightened, as though he was grinding his teeth together. She looked down at her knees because she couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer. ‘He’s six and his name is Max. I have photos—’
‘Photos?’ His voice made thick with emotion. ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t go into his room right now and take him away with me!’
Her heart skipped several beats; her lungs failed to inflate. She reached for the arm of the sofa in shock, gripping it hard, feeling as though her eyes were filling with darkness again. She stood up quickly, shaky legs or not, needing to feel more physically prepared for that kind of challenge.
‘I’ve already seen a photo. The journalist had one.’
That stopped Annie in her tracks. Despite the shock, her rational brain began to assert itself. He’d mentioned a journalist earlier, only she’d been so blindsided by seeing him here she hadn’t registered that point. ‘What journalist?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No one can know about this. It’s impossible.’
Dimitrios’s eyes narrowed. ‘You made sure of that?’
She swallowed, hearing the silver blade to his voice, the undercurrent of displeasure that he had every right to feel. ‘Yes.’ She had; she was sure of it.
‘Not well enough, apparently.’
‘It’s just not possible.’ She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t share your surname. No one ever knew about...’ She stumbled, biting down on her lip, as the traitorous word ‘us’ had been about to escape. There had never b
een an ‘us’. That implied togetherness. Friendship. A relationship, even. They’d had an ill-thought-out one-night stand. Nothing more meaningful than that. ‘What happened that night,’ she finished awkwardly.
‘You never mentioned it to anyone?’ he pushed, and his obvious doubts on that score raised her feminist hackles.
‘What’s the matter, Dimitrios? Does that hurt your pride? Did you think I would scream what we’d done from the rooftops?’
A muscle jerked in his jaw and she had a sense he was trying very hard not to give into his anger. Only she found she wanted his anger—it felt appropriate, given what they’d been through and were now discussing.
He spoke calmly, but she could see how that cost him. ‘I thought you were a decent person; I believed you to be like Lewis.’ She recoiled at the invocation of her brother’s name, at Dimitrios using Lewis against her like that. ‘But a decent person would never have kept something like this from me.’
‘A decent person wouldn’t have said all the things you did to me that night,’ she responded in kind, carefully keeping her voice soft, though it shook with the effort. ‘A decent person wouldn’t have shown up drunk on my doorstep—days after my brother’s funeral, might I add—and spent the night making love to me only to throw in my face the next morning how little that—I—meant to you.’
His expression was inscrutable, but his body was wound tighter than a coil. ‘And so this is retaliation? You wanted to hurt me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, never.’ Her reaction was instant. ‘It wasn’t about that.’
Silence fell, barbed. No, not silence. There was breathing: heavy, fast...his, hers...it filled the room like a tornado of emotions.
‘You told me you would forget about me in days, do you remember that?’
Somehow, the only shift in his features was a tightening about his mouth.
‘You told me you were so drunk I could have been any woman—you’d found your way to my door but that was just happenstance.’
An Heir Claimed By Christmas (Mills & Boon Modern) (A Billion-Dollar Singapore Christmas, Book 1) Page 2