by Trish Morey
But who owned the red two-door nestled in close behind? She’d said she didn’t have a partner. His gut clenched at the prospect she might have lied to him.
She’d said she had ‘responsibilities’. Was that what she’d been trying to tell him at the café—that she had a relationship, that she had a boyfriend she’d been reluctant to admit to?
He watched the house for a few minutes, his window wound down, the light morning breeze puffing through the opening. You could smell the sea from here. Smell it but not see it. She hadn’t bought a place right on the sea. Surprising after her love affair with the sea in Crete. She’d loved its deep, bright blue against the stark white of sand or the rubble of rock. Surely she could have found something closer than this? Or was this all she was able to afford?
He looked at the ageing cottage again—there wasn’t a lot to it: a single-fronted older style place, built of stone, with flaking wooden fretwork around the small verandah out front, and all topped by a typical red Sydney roof in obvious need of repair. There wasn’t much garden—a palm in a pot and a couple of old rose bushes—although a view down the side hinted at the promise of a bigger back garden behind.
Movement at the front door snared his attention. Someone came out—a woman. It had been a long time but still he recognised her. A taller and blonder version of Alexandra. She must be the wedding planner. He watched her wave back towards the house and then turn for her car. The front door closed and the woman made her way to the sporty hatch, curled herself inside and reversed out.
Nick breathed again, waited until the vehicle moved away down the road, eased himself out of the car and approached the front door.
He rang the bell. Nothing seemed to happen for a moment or two. He pushed the button again.
‘Okay,’ came Alex’s voice from inside. ‘I’m coming.’
She pulled the door open, ‘What did you—?’ the words stalled on her lips as her blue eyes widened and rose up to meet his ‘—lose?’
‘My fiancée.’
She stood at the door, wearing the type of clothes he hadn’t seen her in since Crete—jeans and a knitted top that fitted her like a second skin, showing off every curve that had been hidden under her work suits. All of a sudden he realised why women weren’t supposed to wear jeans to the office. It would be far, far too distracting.
She looked up at him, her lips apart and questioning, and he saw something like a shudder move through her. ‘What?’ Then she appeared to collect herself, but, still with confusion swirling in her expression, shook her head. ‘No, Sofia’s not here.’
Nick shook his own head slowly. ‘I’m not looking for Sofia.’
Her eyes, once wide and questioning, now pulled tight into a taut frown. ‘Then what did you mean?’
He waited a second, tongue poised at his lips as a motorbike roared down the street behind him, then another, yanking his gaze around.
It was next to impossible to be heard over the racket.
‘Are you going to invite me in, or do we have to try to discuss this on your doorstep?’
She frowned as her eyes followed the bikes powering down the narrow street. ‘I’m sorry about that. The Simpsons from number fifty-two. They’re into motorbikes.’ She shrugged, as if that explained everything, and then led the way inside.
The living room was not large, just as he had anticipated from his view of the outside, yet still it held a warmth that seemed to wrap itself around him—worn but comfortable chairs; a thin, almost threadbare rug in muted shades; smiling faces peering out at him from the photographs adorning nearly every horizontal surface. Smiling faces of a young boy growing up.
He stopped on impulse, picking one up.
She turned, sensing his stillness, saw what he held in his hands and held her breath.
Time stood still. Would he be able to tell, just from a photograph?
Finally he looked up, his forehead creased. ‘Your son?’
She nodded weakly, her mouth dry. Our son. ‘Jason,’ she finally managed, trying to get moisture to her lips so she could say more…
‘Good-looking boy,’ he said with a nod. ‘How could his father do this to you? Leave you with his son all alone? Why would a father not want a son like this? What kind of man is he?’
She swallowed, strangely let down that he hadn’t made the connection and that still the onus remained firmly on her to tell him. ‘He didn’t mean to. It wasn’t really his fault.’
His eyebrows drew together in a deep scowl. ‘He left you alone. And yet you defend him. Did you love him that much?’
With all her soul. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she turned her head away. It seemed almost laughable now, given the way he’d treated her since his arrival, given the man he’d become. ‘I once thought I did.’
‘Then don’t you hate him for what he’s done?’
She looked over at him imploringly and indicated the photo still in his hand. ‘How could I ever hate him? Look what he’s given me. I still have Jason. At least I have him. I have that much.’
He moved suddenly, thumping the photograph back onto the mantel, and she sensed she’d said the wrong thing—even though she’d spoken only the truth—something had angered him.
She dragged in a deep breath. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, clasping her arms with her hands. Then, in case he was here to change her mind, added, ‘Because you know I’m not coming back to the Xenophon Group.’
‘I assumed that you would say that—even if I told you what Dimitri said.’
Her head tilted one side, curiosity getting the better of her. ‘Why? What did he say?’
‘He said he couldn’t understand why I’d brought him out here when things were being managed so well.’
‘He did?’
He nodded. ‘There are a few small changes Dimitri would recommend. But on the whole he is happy with the operation and how it has been run.’
Alex digested his words, feeling unexpected pride in the job she’d left. It was worth something that her work had been appreciated, even if not by Nick himself.
‘So, then, if it’s not to lure me back to the company, why are you here?’
He looked around. ‘Where is the boy?’
‘Jason’s not home. He’s gone fishing with some friends.’ He seemed to visibly relax, at least a fraction, as if he was no longer concerned about being interrupted by a child. She was sure he wasn’t half as relieved as she was. If Nick had dropped by when Jason was home—she shuddered to think about it. She was having enough trouble trying to tell Nick about their son. There was no way she could handle revealing the truth to the two of them together.
‘He won’t be home for a while,’ she prompted when he still just gazed out of the window, not comfortable about telling him that Jason was away for the weekend, but wanting to say something that might prompt him to speak and reveal the reason for his visit.
He turned towards her and she was struck by the sheer force of his presence. Black jeans and a casual shirt did nothing to lessen the impact of his power. It was there. All around him. He carried it like people carried the air in their lungs. He carried it like a birthright.
‘I’m not marrying Sofia.’
Alex was grateful for the arm of the chair alongside. It gave her something to cling to. Something welcomingly concrete.
He wasn’t getting married. Part of her wanted to jump up and shout that it had been clear from the start that Sofia was never right for him, while another part of her wondered why she should feel so vindicated by the announcement.
But why would he come here to let her know? Did he think it mattered? Unless Nick simply assumed she was the perfect person to cancel the wedding plans for him because her sister was the planner.
‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘What about the notice in the paper today?’ She managed the few steps to the table, where the paper lay open at the employment section, checked on the front page for the index to notices and flicked through. ‘I placed the notice my
self.’
‘Did you see the announcement?’
She kept her eyes on the paper. ‘No, not yet. I…’ In truth she hadn’t looked beyond the employment pages. Why confirm what she knew? She had to think about her own future now. Not someone else’s.
‘I can’t find it,’ she said, her eyes skimming the engagements section.
‘It’s not there. I cancelled it.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Simple,’ he said. ‘I’m not getting married.’
‘Then why get engaged in the first place?’ she argued, rubbing her forehead with her fingers, feeling annoyed for both Sofia—who’d no doubt be devastated—and for her sister, who’d spent so long planning for the upcoming nuptials. ‘Why buy her that ring?’
‘I never bought that ring.’
‘But…’ Alex was about to protest until she recalled that phone call she’d had to make to the bank. The one clearing Sofia’s credit card account of an amount hugely over her five-figure limit.
‘Sofia bought it?’
He shrugged and moved a little closer to the table, picking up and investigating her bits and pieces along the way. ‘I can only presume. Seeing I had nothing to do with it.’
‘But you were getting married. All those plans…’
His breath was expelled in one fast, furious motion and he put down the clay kangaroo Jason had crafted in school with a decided thump. Alex started at the sound, relieved the artwork had survived, and then her eyes caught his and she realised there was no such thing as relief when those eyes were on her—not with the way they turned on a switch deep inside, like a kettle, so that her emotions could go from millpond-calm to bubbling turmoil in less than a minute.
‘She said she was doing market research into the bridal industry.’ He laughed a short, bitter laugh as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I thought she was looking at our tenant mix, to see if we were covering all the bases. It seems she had other ideas.’
‘Then you were never getting married? Never even engaged?’
His dark eyes locked back on hers and tripped her internal switch again. ‘Never.’
A deep breath filled her lungs. ‘Sofia was so sure…’
She’d been so sure! Sofia was marrying Nick. Yet suddenly everything had changed.
He frowned and turned his gaze outside once more. ‘Sofia is Aristos’s daughter through and through. She wants exactly what her father wanted for her—marriage to someone he approved of, and preferably someone with links to the family. She assumed I was that person and somehow that helped to ease her grief.’
‘But I congratulated you. You told me…’ She thought about his words. He wanted Sofia to be happy. He wanted her to have the best. But not once had he said he was going to marry her. She’d taken Sofia’s fantasy and turned it into her own reality.
Nick just shook his head. ‘She’s all alone. I know what that’s like. She needs looking after and I intend to get her help in coming to terms with her father’s death. But even if I was interested spending my life with Sofia, I’m the least qualified person to build any sort of family with.’
She couldn’t let his last statement lie. He’d said the words as a cold statement of fact, without a hint of self-pity. It was clear he really believed it, and Alex couldn’t help but bridge the few steps between them. ‘Nick, I’m sure that’s not true.’
Her hand found his bare forearm, intending to console, but the second she made contact any altruistic intention flew from her head. His flesh was rock-firm beneath her touch, yet strangely at odds with the softer, springier coating of hair. Her fingers were fascinated by the contrast. Hard and yet soft. Different parts of the same thing. Was that how Nick himself was? Different parts of the same thing? Only in Nick’s case he seemed to be harder on the outside, where it showed to the world. Hard and decisive and unforgiving.
Did he have a softer inside lurking below that harsh public exterior, hidden deep below?
She wanted to believe so.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, his brow knotting as he gazed down at her hand. ‘I just came to tell you that I’m leaving. I’m going home to Greece, and for good now that Dimitri is here to manage the operation. It was a long shot, but I just wanted you to know that if you wanted your old job back—’
She pulled her arm away.
‘My job? After all you’ve done to ensure it goes to someone else? What is this, some last-ditch attempt to buy me now that Sofia doesn’t stand in the way?’
Without taking a step it felt he was closer. Heat emanated from him and his eyes focused on hers until even the air between them dissolved. ‘I don’t need to buy you.’
Breath rushed through her. He was too close, too threatening, too dangerous. But he she couldn’t let him get away with that. She had to ask. She swallowed, kicking her chin up a notch.
‘What makes you so sure of yourself?’
In a breath he was there, right next to her, filling her body with heat simply by his proximity. He looked down at her, making her skin tingle with just his gaze, his eyes certain and his words just as sure. ‘Because there’s never been any question. You have always been mine.’
Her intake of breath was arrested by his lips, his mouth slanting over hers as his arms surrounded her and gathered her into his chest. Everywhere they made contact her body felt the heat, responded to it as every cell swelled and firmed and sought to get even closer to him. His hands swept her back as his mouth magicked hers, weaving a spell of want and need.
For a moment she thought of arguing the point. But only for a moment. The way her body responded he’d know in an instant she was lying. She had always been his. There’d never been another she’d even looked at. She had never wanted anyone else. In nine years there had been only one man who had haunted her dreams and filled her nights with want. Only the man holding her now. Only Nick. Only ever Nick.
It was impossible not to respond, not to match his passion with her own pent-up desire. He wasn’t marrying Sofia! Her heart sang with the knowledge, though there was no time to analyse why. Not with Nick’s taste in her mouth, his breath merged with hers and his touch set her body alight.
Her hand found a gap between shirt and jeans and her fingers immediately took advantage, seeking the skin beneath. A deep sound issued from his throat as she found the hot flesh beneath and found what she was looking for—skin-to-skin contact. She forced the shirt higher, until both her hands could roam his back, feeling the tight play of muscles as his arms moved over her.
‘Today we will make love.’ His voice was a husky whisper against her ear, so that she felt it more as vibration than as sound.
She wasn’t about to argue. His simple statement of fact was beyond argument. They both knew it. This time they would make love. A small tremor, filled with expectation and promise, moved through her.
His head pulled back a fraction from hers. His eyes were dark and smoky with desire. Desire for her. She saw the eyes of the young man on Crete all those years ago and breath caught in her throat. The eyes he’d turned on her back then were hers again.
And she knew in that instant that she still loved him. Totally, utterly, completely. She loved him and she’d never stopped loving him through all the years. It wasn’t just her body that was Nick’s. Her heart belonged to him too.
‘Your boy—when is he due home?’
She swallowed, reluctant to break the mood but knowing that this secret between them had to be revealed. ‘Nick, I have to tell you something. I—’
‘When will he be home?’
‘Tomorrow—he’s gone camping overnight.’
She caught the gleam in his eye, the smile that rocked the corners of his mouth. He gently shook his head and shooshed her with a finger to her lips. ‘We’ve both said too many words.’ In one easy movement he lifted and swung her into his arms. ‘Tell me tomorrow. Now it is time we made love.’
He kissed her again, and she kissed him back, grateful that now nothing was go
ing to stop their inevitable, inescapable date with destiny.
Today they would make love.
And tomorrow she would tell him about his son.
Still kissing her, he headed down the narrow side hallway. The kitchen waited at the end of the hall and two doors led off to the left in between. He paused at the first door and she shook her head under his lips. He continued to the next.
She pushed it open with her foot and he carried her inside the high-ceilinged room, decorated in Victorian shades and dominated by an old iron-framed double bed. She shuddered against him as she thought of the bed, of Nick with her, and he squeezed her tightly, as if sensing her nervousness.
Then he eased her down gently, so gently, as if she might break, in the centre of the bed and gazed deeply into her eyes, into her soul. ‘I want to see you naked,’ he said. ‘I want to see your skin. But first…’ He reached behind her head to prise open and slip out the clip holding her hair in its tight, twisted knot. With his other hand he shook the hair free, until it spilled around her shoulders in a wave of blonde foam.
He made a rough sound of approval, deep in his throat, held her face in his two hands and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘And now to feel your skin.’ He sat alongside her on the bed and eased her light knitted top over her head. He threw it to one side and stopped, riveted, his eyes hotly on her.
She sat there, his intense dark gaze upon her, recognising the appreciation and sheer desire therein. As if spellbound, he reached out a hand and touched her skin. Her breath tracked in sharply and he sighed as her chest swelled in response. Lightly his finger traced the line of her champagne lace bra, burning her skin as his fingers followed the strap down from her shoulders, circling each breast so gently she thought she would explode. He took his hand away and his knuckles brushed one nipple—instinctively her back arched in response and in a second both hands were gone. She knew just where a second later when she felt her bra relax, its rear clip manipulated open. A moment later her breasts felt the freedom of the air as he swept all trace of the bra away.