by Dani Collins
His pain was tangible. Viveka ached for him.
“Into this came a ransom demand. A street rat was claiming to be my grandson. Some of my son’s rivals had him.”
Her heart clenched. She was listening intently, but was certain she wouldn’t be able to bear hearing this.
“You want to know what Mikolas was like as a child? So do I. He came to me as an empty shell. Eyes this big.” He made a circle with his finger and thumb. “Thin. Brittle. His hand was crushed, some of his fingernails gone. Three of his teeth gone. He was broken.” He paused, lined face working to control deep pain, then he admitted, “I think he hoped I would kill him.”
She bit her lip, eyes hot and wet, a burn of anguish like a pike spreading from her throat to the pit of her stomach.
“He said that if the blood test hadn’t been positive, you wouldn’t have helped him.” She couldn’t keep the accusation, the blame, out of her voice.
“I honestly can’t say what I would have done,” Erebus admitted, eyes rheumy. “Looking back from the end of my life, I want to believe my conscience would have demanded I help him regardless, but I wasn’t much of a man at the time. They showed me a picture and he looked a little like my son, but...”
His head hung heavy with regret.
“He begged me to believe he was telling the truth, to accept him. I took too long.” He took a healthy sip of his ouzo.
She’d forgotten she was holding one herself. She sipped, thinking how forsaken Mikolas must have felt. No wonder he was so impermeable.
“He thinks I want him to redeem the Petrides name, but I need redemption. To some extent I have it,” Erebus allowed with deep emotion. “I’m proud of all he’s accomplished. He’s a good man. He told me why he brought you here. He did the right thing.”
She suppressed a snort. Mikolas’s reasons for keeping her and her reasons for staying were so fraught and complex, she didn’t see any way to call them wholly right or wrong.
“He has never recovered his heart, though. All the things he has done? It hasn’t been for me. He has built this fortress around himself for good reason. He trusts no one, relies on no one.”
“Cares about no one,” she murmured despondently.
“Is that what puts that hopeless expression on your face, poulaki mou?”
She knocked back her drink, giving a little shiver as the sweet heat spread from her tongue to the tips of her limbs. Shaking back her hair, she braced herself and said, “He’ll never love me, will he?”
Erebus didn’t bother to hide the sadness in his eyes. Because they didn’t lie to each other.
Slowly the glow of hope inside her guttered and doused.
“We should go back to our game,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MIKOLAS GLANCED UP as Viveka came out of the elevator. She never used it unless she was coming from the gym, but today she was dressed in the clothes she’d worn to lunch.
She staggered and he shot to his feet, stepping around his desk to hurry toward her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She set a hand on the wall, holding up the other to forestall him. “I just forgot that ouzo sneaks up on you like this.”
“You’ve been drinking?”
“With your grandfather. Don’t get mad. It was his idea, but I’m going to need a nap before dinner. That’s what he was doing when I left him.”
“This is what you two get up to over backgammon?” He took her arm, planning to help her to her room.
“Not usually, no.” Her hand came to his chest. She didn’t move, just stared at her hand on his chest, mouth grave, brow wearing a faint pleat. “We were talking.”
That sounded ominous. She glanced up and anguish edged the blue of her irises.
Instinctively, he swallowed. His hand unconsciously tightened on her elbow, but he took a half step back from her. “What were you talking about?”
“He loves you, you know.” Her mouth quivered, the corners pulling down. “He wishes you could forgive him.”
He flinched, dropping his hand from her arm.
“He understands why you can’t. Even if you did reach out to him, I don’t think he would forgive himself. It’s just...sad. He doesn’t know how to reach you and—” She rolled to lean her shoulders against the wall, swallowing. “You won’t let anyone in, ever, will you? Is this really all you want, Mikolas? Things? Sex without love?”
He swore silently, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, hands bunching into fists, fighting a wave of helplessness.
“I lied to you,” he admitted when he trusted his voice. “That first day we met, I said my grandfather gave me anything I wanted.” He lowered his gaze to her searching one. “I didn’t want any of those things I asked for.”
He had her whole attention.
“It was my test for him.” He saw now the gifts had been his grandfather’s attempts to earn his trust, but then it had been a game. A deadly, terrifying one. “I asked him for things I didn’t care about, to see if he would get them for me. I never told him what I really wanted. I never told anyone.”
He looked at his palm, rubbed one of the smooth patches where it had been held against a hot kettle, leaving shiny scar tissue.
“I never tell anyone. Physical torture is inhuman, but psychological torture...” His hand began shaking.
“Mikolas.” Her hand came into his. He started to pull away, but his fingers closed over hers involuntarily, holding on, letting her keep him from sinking into the dark memories.
His voice felt like it belonged to someone else. “They would ask me, ‘Do you want water?’ ‘Do you want the bathroom?’ ‘Do you want us to stop?’ Of course I said yes. They never gave me what I wanted.”
Her hand squeezed his and her small body came into the hollow of his front, warm and anxious to soothe, arms going around his stiff frame.
He set his hands on her shoulders, resisting her offer of comfort even though it was all he wanted, ever. He resisted because it was what he wanted beyond anything.
“I can’t—I’m not trying to hurt him. But if I trust him, if I let him mean too much to me, then what? He’s not in a position to be my savior again. He’s a weakness to be used against me. I can’t leave myself open to that. Can you understand that?”
Her arms around him loosened. For a moment her forehead rested in the center of his chest, then she pressed herself away.
“I do.” She took a deep, shaken breath. “I’m going to lie down.”
He watched her walk away while two tiny, damp stains on his shirt front stayed cold against his skin.
* * *
“Vivi!” Clair exclaimed as she approached with her husband, Aleksy.
Viveka found a real smile for the first time all night. In days, really. Things between her and Mikolas were more poignantly strained than ever. She loved him so much and understood now that he was never going to let himself love her.
“How’s the dress?” Viveka teased, rallying out of despondency for her hostess.
“I’ve taken to carrying a mending kit.” Clair ruefully jiggled her pocketbook.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” Viveka said sincerely. “I’ve had a chance to read up on your foundation. I’m floored by all you do! And I have an idea for a fund-raiser that might work for you.”
Mikolas watched Viveka brighten for the first time in days. Her smile caused a pang in his chest that was more of a gong. He wanted to draw that warmth and light of hers against the echoing discord inside him, finally settling it.
“I saw a children’s art exhibit when we were in New York. I was impressed by how sophisticated some of it was. It made me think, what if some of your orphans painted pieces for an auction? Here, let me show you.” She reached into her purse for her phone, pausing to liste
n to something Clair was saying about another event they had tried.
Beside him, Aleksy snorted.
Mikolas dragged his gaze off Viveka, lifting a cool brow of inquiry. He had let things progress naturally between the women, not pursuing things on the business front, willing to be patient rather than rush fences and topple his opportunity with the standoffish Russian.
“I find it funny,” Aleksy explained. “You went to all this trouble to get my attention, and now you’d rather listen to her than speak to me. I made time in my schedule for you tomorrow morning, if you can tear yourself away...?”
Mikolas bristled at the supercilious look on the other man’s face.
Aleksy only lifted his brows, not intimidated by Mikolas’s dark glare.
“When we met in Athens, I wondered what the hell you were doing with her. What she was doing with you. But...” Aleksy’s expression grew self-deprecating. “It happens to the best of us, doesn’t it?”
Mikolas saw how he had neatly painted himself into a corner. He could dismiss having any regard for Viveka and undo all her good work in getting him this far, or he could suffer the assumption that he had a profound weakness: her.
Before he had to act, Viveka said, “Oh, my God,” and looked up from her phone. Her eyes were like dinner plates. “Trina has been trying to reach me. Grigor had a heart attack. He’s dead.”
* * *
Mikolas and Viveka left the party amid expressions of sympathy from Clair and Aleksy.
Viveka murmured a distracted “thank you,” but they were words that sat on air, empty of meaning. She was in shock. Numb. She wasn’t glad Grigor was dead. Her sister was too torn up about the loss when she rang her, expressing regret and sorrow that a better relationship with her father would never manifest. Viveka wouldn’t wish any sort of pain on her little sister, but she felt nothing herself.
She didn’t even experience guilt when Mikolas surmised that Grigor had been under a lot of stress due to the inquiries Mikolas had ordered. He hadn’t had much to report the other day, but ended a fresh call to the investigator as they returned to the hotel.
“The police on the island were starting to talk. They could see that silence looked like incompetence at best, bribery and collusion at worst. Charges were sounding likely for your mother’s murder and more. My investigator is preparing a report, but without a proper court case, you’ll probably never have the absolute truth on how she died. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, accepting that. It was enough to know Grigor had died knowing he hadn’t got away with his crimes.
“Trina will need me.” It felt like she was stating the obvious, but it was the only concrete thought in her head. “I need to book a flight.”
“I’ve already messaged my pilot. He’s doing his preflight right now. We’ll be in the air as soon as you’re ready.”
She paused in gathering the things that had been unpacked into drawers for her.
“Didn’t I hear Aleksy say something about holding an appointment for you tomorrow?” She looked at the clothes she’d brought to Paris. “Not one thing suitable for a funeral,” she murmured. “Would Trina understand if I wore that red gown, do you think?” She pointed across the room to the open closet.
No response from Mikolas.
She turned her head.
He looked like he was trying to drill into her head with his silvery eyes. “I can rebook with Aleksy.”
So careful. So watchful. His remark about coming with her penetrated.
“Do you need to talk to Trina?” she asked, trying to think through the pall of details and decisions that would have to be made. “Because she inherits? Does his dying affect the merger?”
Something she couldn’t interpret flickered across his expression. “There will be things to discuss, yes, but they can wait until she’s dealt with immediate concerns.”
“I wonder if he even kept her in his will,” she murmured, setting out something comfortable to travel in, then pulling off her earrings. Gathering her hair, she moved to silently request he unlatch the sapphire necklace he’d given her this evening. “Trina told me he blamed me for everything, not her, so I hope he didn’t disinherit her. Who else would he leave his wealth to? Charity? Ba-ha-ha. Not.”
The necklace slithered away and she fetched the velvet box, handing it to him along with the earrings, then wormed her way out of her gown.
“Trina better be a rich woman, after everything he put her through. It doesn’t seem real.” She knew she was babbling. She was processing aloud, maybe because she was afraid of what would be said if she wasn’t already doing the talking. “I’ve never been able to trust the times when I’ve thought I was rid of him. Even after I was living with Hildy, things would come up with Trina and I’d realize he was still a specter in my life. I was so sure the wedding was going to be it. Snip, snip, snip.”
She made little scissors with her fingers, cutting ties to her stepfather, then bounced her butt into the seat of her jeans and zipped. Her push-up bra was overkill, but she pulled a T-shirt over it, not bothering to change into a different one.
“Now it’s really here. He’s dead. No longer able to wreck my life.”
She made herself face him. Face it. The truth she had been avoiding.
“I’m finally safe from him.”
Which meant Mikolas had no reason to keep her.
* * *
Mikolas was a quick study, always had been. He had seen the light of the train coming at him from the end of the tunnel the moment her lips had shaped the words, He’s dead.
He had watched her pack and change and had listened to her walk herself to the platform and he still wasn’t ready when her pale, pale face tilted up to his to say goodbye.
I can rebook with Aleksy. That was as close as he could come to stating that he was willing to continue their affair. He wasn’t offering her solace. She wasn’t upset beyond concern for her sister. God knew she didn’t need him. He had deliberately stifled that expectation in her.
She looked down so all he could see of her expression was her pleated brow. “If you could give me some time to work out how to manage things with Aunt Hildy—”
He turned away, instantly pissed off. So pissed off. But he was unable to blame anyone but himself. He was the one who had fought letting ties form between them. He’d called what they had chemistry, sexual infatuation, protection.
“We’re square,” he growled. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Hardly. I’ll get her house on the market as soon as I can—”
“I have what I wanted,” he insisted, while a voice in his head asked, Do you? “I’m in,” he continued doggedly. “None of the contacts I’ve made can turn their backs on me now.”
* * *
“Mikolas—” She lowered to the padded bench in front of the vanity, inwardly quailing. Don’t humiliate yourself, she thought, but stumbled forward like a love-drunk fool. “I care for you.” Her voice thickened. “A lot.” She had to clear her throat and swallow. Blink. Her fingers were a tangled mess against her knees. “If you would prefer we stay together...just say it. I know that’s hard for you, but...” She warily lifted her gaze.
He was a statue, hands fisted in his pockets, immobile. Unmoved.
Her heart sank. “I can’t make an assumption. I would feel like I’m still something you took on. I have to be something...” You want. Her mouth wouldn’t form the words. This was hopeless. She could see it.
* * *
Mikolas’s fists were so tight he thought his bones would crack. The shell around his heart was brittle as an egg’s, threatening to crack.
“It’s never going to work between us,” he said, speaking as gently as he could, trying so hard not to bruise her. “You want things that I don’t. Things I can’t give you.” He was trying to be decen
t, but he knew each word was a splash of acid. He felt the blisters forming in his soul. “It’s better to end it here.”
It happens to the best of us.
What about the worst? What about the ones who pushed it away before they knew what they were refusing?
What about the ones who were afraid because it meant succumbing to something bigger than themselves? Because it meant handing someone, everyone, the power to hurt him?
The room seemed to dim and quiet.
She nodded wordlessly, lashes low. Her gorgeous, kissable mouth pursed in melancholy.
And when she was gone, he wondered why, if the threat of Grigor was gone, he was still so worried about her. If he feared so badly that she would hurt him, why was her absence complete agony?
If all he had wanted from her was a damned business contact, why did he blow off his appointment with Aleksy the next morning and sit in a Paris hotel room all day, staring at sapphire jewelry he’d bought because the blue stones matched her eyes, willing his phone to ring?
* * *
“You’re required to declare funds over ten thousand euros,” the male customs agent in London said to Viveka as they entered a room that was like something off a police procedural drama. There was a plain metal table, two chairs, a wastebasket and a camera mounted in the ceiling. If there was a two-way mirror, she couldn’t see it, but she felt observed all the same.
And exhausted. The charter from the island after Grigor’s funeral had been delayed by weather, forcing her to miss her flight out of Athens. They had rebooked her, but on a crisscross path of whichever flight left soonest in the general direction of London. She hadn’t eaten or slept and was positively miserable.
“I forgot I had it,” she said flatly.
“You forgot you’re carrying twenty-five thousand euros?”
“I was going to put it in the bank in Athens, but I had already missed my connection. I just wanted to get home.”
He looked skeptical. “How did you come by this amount of cash?”
“My sister gave it to me. For my aunt.”
His brows tilted in a way that said, Right.