by Robyn Grady
He took a celebratory swig of his beer and sighed. He’d marry her. Hadn’t he come to terms with that very idea when he’d thought she could be pregnant? So what was to stop him marrying her when she was not? She would be pregnant soon enough then.
It was all settled.
He picked up the phone that connected him with the pilot. ‘Change of plans. We’re going back to Santorini.’
There was no argument, no question from the flight deck. They were turning around. So he wouldn’t make it to London to sign those papers, but did he really care about Darius anyway? He’d put the fear of God into him. Wasn’t that enough? He could do what he damned well liked with the hotel; one more wasn’t going to make any difference to the Xenides portfolio. And the kicker would be that Darius would still have to pay him back the loan.
He put his hands behind his head and leaned back into the soft upholstery. It was perfect.
‘Three weeks, Mother, that’s right. Are you busy that weekend?’
‘Too busy for my son’s wedding? Tsh. Of course not.’ Even here, standing at the window to his office overlooking the caldera, he could hear the tremor of excitement running through her voice, could imagine that five minutes after this conversation the entire who’s who of Athens would know about the upcoming nuptials. ‘Although I have to admit to being a little surprised.’
‘Really?’ Not half as surprised, he’d bet, as he had been when he’d returned home to find Cleo gone and a teary Petra apologising, not making any sense. Petra and tears. He’d never expected to see the day.
He’d been about to head straight back to the plane and follow Cleo when Petra had dropped the bombshell that she was pregnant. He wouldn’t wish the news she’d given him on his worst enemy. It wasn’t the world he’d imagined so perfect, with Cleo sitting on the terrace, her belly swelling, ripe with their child. But it was a child. His child. And there was no way he could walk away. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, you seemed so sure when you were last here that you weren’t planning on marrying Petra.’
‘It was something you said,’ he said, clutching at the excuse. ‘Something about not realising what was right there under your nose.’
‘Oh.’There was a short silence and for a moment he thought the line had dropped out. ‘I guess I did say that.’
Strange, Andreas thought, as one of his staff slipped a note to him. He’d imagined his mother would be delighted with that little snippet. He could see her even now telling all her friends at bridge that she’d played matchmaker.
‘Anyway, I’ll send over the helicopter for you a few days in advance.’
‘That would be lovely. I’ll enjoy coming over to help with everything. And, Andreas?’
‘Yes?’
‘It all seems such a rush. I know I put some pressure on you and, while that’s a mother’s prerogative, I’d hate to think you were rushing into something you might regret later. Are you sure you’re making the right decision?’
His head collapsed back, his hand going to his brow. It was the right decision, wasn’t it? Morally. Ethically. For the sake of his child. He was doing the right thing. The note in his hand fluttered against his brow. He looked at it, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the words it contained in the context of the query he’d sent to the clinic.
We are unable to provide information on our patients but can advise that we have no patient by the name of Petra Demitriou.
And it was signed by the very doctor Petra had claimed had confirmed her pregnancy.
No wonder she hadn’t wanted him to accompany her!
‘Andreas? Are you still there? I asked if there was any chance you were making a mistake.’
He was, but his teeth were grinding together and it took a force of will to prise them apart. Thank God he hadn’t told his mother why it was all such a rush! ‘Very possibly, Mother. I’ll have to call you back.’
‘Possibly? What do you mean?’
‘I’ll call you back.’
Right now he had something more important on his mind.
He found her in his suite, supervising the removal and packing of Cleo’s clothes. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Andreas! I didn’t hear you coming.’
‘Who asked you to take Cleo’s clothes away?’ He gestured to the staff, clearing the room with a click of his fingers.
‘Andreas, Cleo’s gone. I thought I should make room for my things, seeing as I’ll be moving in soon.’
He swallowed back on a surge of revulsion. He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of Petra back in his bed when he could still smell Cleo’s scent on his sheets, the smell of her hair on his pillow. Although Petra had made it clear she’d like to resume sexual relations ten minutes after she’d dropped the double-barrelled blast that Cleo had gone and that she was carrying his child.
And now she was planning on moving in. It was all he could do to keep a tenuous hold on the contents of his stomach.
‘When’s your next appointment with the clinic?’ he asked disingenuously. ‘I’d like to come too.’
She smiled and closed the wardrobe doors, he guessed so he couldn’t see how empty they now were. Empty of Cleo. As empty as he now felt. ‘There’s no need for that. It’s just routine. Tests. You know.’
‘No, I don’t know. And neither, it seems, does Dr Varvounis.’
‘Wha…? What do you mean?’
‘You’re not registered at the clinic. He’s never heard of you. You haven’t been, have you?’
‘You probably have the wrong clinic—’
‘I think I have the wrong fiancée.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m the one who’s having your baby!’
‘Are you? Or is it as fabricated as your affection for me? You made it up, didn’t you? Made the whole story up in one final desperate attempt to get rid of Cleo and get your talons into me. And it nearly worked. Well, no more. The wedding is off. And you are no longer in my employ. I want you out of here.’ He turned on his heel and strode out of the room and suddenly she was there, tugging at his arm.
‘But I love you, Andreas! We can make a baby just like your mother yearns for, I know we can.’
Fury flared inside him. ‘What did you say? Did she tell you that? Is that how you came up with this plan to trap me? I’m sorry, Petra. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough before. I don’t want you. I never really did. I want Cleo.’
‘She wasn’t good enough for you. She was young and naïve and stupid.’
‘I love her!’
And her eyes went wide. ‘You couldn’t. You can’t. Andreas, please, listen to me—’
‘Get out, Petra. I never want to see you again.’
And then she was gone and he was alone. Alone to the realisation that had shocked him as much as it had Petra.
He loved Cleo.
And he was going to get her back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SO MUCH for autumn. Cleo wiped the sweat from her brow as she lugged the vacuum cleaner along the balcony of the Kangaroo Crossing Hotel, the last pub, the sign boasted, this side of the Black Stump.
It might be April but a last hoorah from summer had the sun shining down like a blowtorch, turning the already parched earth to yet more red dust. As if they needed more. A convoy of four-wheel drives roared down the main street, turning the air red and rich with diesel fumes.
Welcome to the outback, she thought as she tackled the sticky doors of yet another balcony room.
Inside was thankfully cooler, the thick stone walls protecting the rooms from the worst of the heat, but still she managed to work up a sweat as she cleaned the last of the rooms.
She’d been lucky to score this job. Her mum had had to give up work as her pregnancy was now quite advanced and she was happily awaiting the arrival of her baby. Cleo couldn’t help but be excited for her, not only because she’d been able to take over the cleaning job from her. She could even supplement her income by pulling beers in the bar at ni
ght.
And the best thing was the job came with its own accommodation True, it was in the basement, but it was nothing like the poky closet she’d endured in London. This was a real room with a real bed, and so much the cooler for being underground.
She’d save up now she was home and when she had enough she’d enrol in that Classics course in Sydney. She’d discovered she could do it by correspondence and hopefully she’d be able to start next semester. She could hardly wait. The books from Santorini she’d brought home were so well read they were dog eared and slipping from their covers.
She looked around and gave a small sigh of satisfaction as she straightened the last kink out of the queen bed’s coverlet and stopped to smell the roses she’d salvaged from the twisted climbers covering the beer garden. A VIP had booked for tonight, the manager had proudly advised, the room had to be perfect. And it was. Dubbed the honeymoon suite because it boasted its own bath and loo, it was the grandest room the hotel had to offer. She smiled. Some honeymoon suite. Nothing at all like the suites she’d shared with Andreas in London and Santorini. But then, this was Kangaroo Crossing, and if she was ever going to have a honeymoon herself this was the best she could hope for.
Not that that was likely. Since coming home, she’d sworn off men for good. Clearly she had no idea how to fall in love with the right one. She hauled the vacuum cleaner and her gear back out into the hot still air, allowing herself just a second to remember what it had been like in those first few giddy days and nights she’d shared withAndreas on Santorini, when there’d been times she’d actually believed he’d cared about her, those perfect days before she’d discovered she was being used as some sort of shield between him and Petra, the woman who was carrying his child, the woman he was probably already married to.
The vacuum cleaner thumping almost reassuringly against her shin brought her back to reality. Her time with Andreas had been nothing more than a fantasy. This was her life now. This was her world, a world that had shrunk in the last two weeks to one big wide dusty stretch of highway lined with low timber-board buildings.
Another car was making its way through the town, a trail of red dust behind it, a car impossibly shiny and as low slung and inappropriate for the outback roads as you could imagine. She stopped to watch for a moment, expecting it to keep right on going, only to see it slow to a halt, pulling up alongside the hotel in the shade of an ancient gum tree. Could this be their VIP, then? Kangaroo Creek didn’t get many of those. She put down the machine and rested her arms on the timber balustrade to watch. And then the driver stepped out and the air was punched from her lungs.
Andreas.
Dressed in light-coloured chinos, a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and a gold watch glinting against his olive-skinned wrist, he looked cool and urbane. And then she thought of what he’d done to her, of his hot mouth and his clever tongue, and the very concept of cool and urbane tripped into overload.
Dry-mouthed, she clung to the railing now, knowing that if she didn’t her legs would never hold her up. Why was he here? What could he possibly want?
Unless it was to show off his new wife…
The honeymoon suite. A VIP. It all made sense. But why bring her here? Surely Andreas wouldn’t stoop that low?
But he was alone, and as she watched he tugged a single leather holdall from the boot. She should go before he saw her. She should disappear back to the basement and hide.
And then he looked up, and their eyes jagged, and her heart flipped over. Please, she thought, please, I want to hate you for what you did. I want to be angry about how you used me. I want to forget. Please don’t make me remember…
But just one look at him was enough to know that she still hungered for him, and then he pulled the sunglasses from his face and she knew that he wanted her too.
Oh, God, why was he here? What could it mean? And why did she have to look such a bloody mess? She pushed back from the railing, preparing to flee, when he raised a hand and spoke.
‘Kalimera, Cleo,’ he said, in that gorgeous accent that always made her insides quiver. It was probably the first time the greeting had ever been uttered in Kangaroo Crossing. And probably the last, if she had anything to do with it.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I love Australian women,’ he shouted from below. ‘They always speak what’s on their mind.’
There was a murmur of agreement from below, no doubt from the blokes lining the verandah watching the occasional car go by, but she was already intent on her reply. ‘Have you known that many to know?’ And instantly she wished she’d fled when she’d had the chance because it seemed as if half the pub’s contents had suddenly spilled out onto the verandah below to watch the proceedings.
‘Only one,’ he admitted. ‘But that was more than enough.’
A ripple of laughter drifted up from the crowd. They’d all seen the car, they’d all seen the man that had stepped from it like some Greek god dripping with money and influence. She didn’t have to see their glances to know what they were all thinking. That anyone would be mad to turn this man away. But they didn’t know what he’d done. They didn’t know he had a woman back home pregnant with his child.
‘Go to hell, Andreas!’ Damn him. She battled the vacuum cleaner down the outside stairs, thankfully in the opposite direction from where he was standing, and headed inside for the basement stairs, her mind too confused to deal with whatever was going on, her heart too filled with hurt to assist.
She was too slow. He met her in the lobby, where the entrance hall met the stairs going down to the basement. ‘Cleo.’
‘How ironic,’ she said, her feet riveted to the ground, ‘that we should meet like this again. Have you plans for taking over the Kangaroo Crossing Hotel, then? Should I start looking for another job?’
‘I didn’t come for the hotel.’
‘No?’ She clutched the rounded stairway newel like a safe haven. If she hung onto that, surely her legs would keep working. Although maybe she should be more worried about her heart. Right now it felt so big it was a wonder it didn’t spill right out of her mouth. ‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘I came here to see you.’
There was no way her legs were going to get her down those stairs, not with the way he was looking at her now.
‘And what if I don’t want to see you?’
The noise from the bar next door was almost overwhelming as the customers spilt back into the cool interior, one topic of conversation and conjecture clearly discernible amongst the shouts and laughter.
‘We need to talk. Not here. Somewhere private. Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll explain.’
‘Mr Xenides, I presume?’
Daphne Cooper, the manager’s wife, primped her hair and giggled like a schoolgirl as she spun the register around to face him. ‘If you’d just sign here, please. And if you need somewhere private,’ she continued with a wink in Cleo’s direction, ‘I can serve dinner for two in the honeymoon suite?’
‘I would appreciate that very much,’ she heard him say before Daphne’s answering giggle, and Cleo took advantage of the interruption to flee.
She slammed her door, grabbed her bathroom gear and escaped to there before he would have a chance to follow her. Why was Andreas here? Why now, when he hadn’t bothered to contact her in all the days since she’d fled Santorini and she’d made a start at a new life and forgetting…?
Who was she trying to kid? she asked herself, when she stepped under the shower. She would never forget those perfect few days and nights in paradise.
There was a card under her door when she returned.
Join me for dinner, it simply said, with a time and a room number. The honeymoon suite. What a joke. For a moment she was tempted to send a note back, telling him what he could well and truly do with his kind invitation, before sense got the better of her.
Why shouldn’t she listen to what he had to say, the excuses he had to offer? Why shou
ldn’t she hear him out? And then she could tell him exactly what she thought of him and tell him to get the hell out of her life once and for all.
She refused to hang around the hotel wondering what he was doing all afternoon, so instead she hitched a ride out to the homestead to see her mum, thinking that helping her with the washing or just sorting out the twins would distract her for a few hours. Nanna was there too, full of baby stories that made her laugh and made her almost forget the queasy feeling inside. She didn’t tell them about Andreas. She didn’t want to hear Nanna’s take on the bright side. Because there wasn’t one. Not this time. There couldn’t be, except that soon he would be gone.
Her stepfather, Jack, wandered in for afternoon tea around four, his khaki work clothes dusty, his hair plastered to his scalp where his hat had been stuck all day. ‘G’day all,’ he said as he plonked his big frame down on a chair, and as Cleo’s mum fussed with getting more tea and cutting slabs of cake. ‘Bit of a commotion down at the pub. This mate of yours, Cleo, what’s he doin’ here?’
Her mother and nanna swivelled their heads simultaneously, their voices in chorus. ‘What mate?’
‘This rich bloke, from Greece, they reckon. Come to see our Cleo.’
Her head swung around to look at Jack. ‘Our Cleo’? Where had that come from?
But everyone else was apparently more interested in the rich bloke. Questions fired at her from all sides. They’d known it had all gone wrong with Kurt, but this job she’d had in Santorini she’d said precious little about. What was her former boss suddenly doing here? And why?
She fended them off the best she could. After all, she didn’t know the answers herself. But she promised she’d let them know. First thing tomorrow when she came out on her day off. By then he’d be no doubt long gone and might cease to be a topic of conversation.
Her stepfather offered to run her back into town, another surprise. But the biggest surprise was when he pulled up outside the hotel. She was halfway out the door when a big beefy hand landed on her arm. She jumped and swung her head around. Her stepfather’s face looked pained, preferring to study the steering wheel than look at her. ‘Cleo, one thing. Close the door, love.’ He suddenly nodded towards the line of men sitting outside on the verandah, sipping their beers. ‘There’s a pack of vultures out there waiting for any hint of gossip to brighten up their sad lives.’