CHAPTER THREE
“Two sisters?” His look of disbelief was priceless. Then again, Alex had led his life to that point looking out for Helena. The idea of multiplying his worry and responsibilities was onerous indeed.
Sophie shook her head dolefully. “Not just two sisters. Triplets.”
“Triplets?” He expelled a long, slow whistle. “You mean somewhere in Australia there are two girls just as gorgeous as you walking around the outback?”
Sophie laughed. “No.” The champagne was excellent; the food even more so. She’d always been a sucker for Indian and this little restaurant was the most authentic she’d tried. She fingered a pappadum thoughtfully. “We’re not identical. Though if you saw us together, you’d know we were related. And as for the outback, Olivia and Ava wouldn’t be seen dead there.”
“Tell me about them.”
Sophie screwed up her nose unconsciously as she thought of her sisters with the same lurching in her gut that always accompanied their absence. “They’re the most amazing women you can possibly imagine.”
“Really?” He reclined in his chair, his expression indomitable. It was very easy for Sophie to see him then as the powerful, dynamic megalomaniac who’d amassed a global empire all on his own.
“Really,” she confirmed, ignoring her dry mouth and racing heart.
“How so?”
“They’re just … the kind of women that you look at and think ‘wow’.” He looked at her with an expression of doubt. Did Sophie not know that she was similarly impressive? “Olivia is the flighty one. She’s beautiful and popular and footloose and fancy-free. She travels on a whim. She’s truly …”
“Amazing?” He supplied with a teasing grin.
She nodded and sipped her water.
“What about the other one?”
Sophie smiled when she thought of Ava. “Far more serious. Then again, she’s the responsible one. Despite the fact we’re triplets, Ava has always seemed older. She’s felt very free to boss Liv and me around from day one.” She shrugged. “But we’re happy to let her. She’s holding the business together at home now, while Olivia and I get to travel and have fun.”
“The business?”
Sophie’s eyes assumed a faraway expression. “Casa Celli.” She sighed wistfully. “Our vineyard.”
“I don’t see you as the agricultural type.”
She smiled distractedly. “I’m not. Hence my itchy feet as soon as I left school.” She shrugged. “But we grew up on the property. Mum ran it and produced some fantastic vintages before she … before we lost her.”
Something like pain sharpened inside his gut. Alex ignored it. “When did she die?”
Sophie winced. “I’m sorry. I don’t think like that. Even now I find it hard to accept that she’s gone.” She shook her head wistfully. “It was five years ago this Christmas.”
“How?” Ever the businessman, he was focussed on the information he could obtain.
“When mum wasn’t checking the vines for pests and sugar, she was diving.” When he didn’t speak, she continued, though she couldn’t meet his eyes for they reflected her own pain too clearly. “Our vineyards slope all the way to the sea. It’s the most stunning piece of land on Earth. I can’t begin to explain the glory and goodness of those hills.” She smiled as she recalled her youth. “My sisters and I used to run amongst the vines for hours on end, building cubby houses and pretending we were wayward fairies on our way to the faraway tree. It was an air-bubble-childhood.”
Alex linked his fingers with hers. “An air bubble? What does this mean?”
Sophie flickered her gaze to his chiselled face and then turned her focus back to the pappadum. “You know, an air bubble. Like life is the water and our childhood was that single, miraculous bubble, floating indefatigably amongst it. We were immune from everything. Sadness, responsibility, grief and worry.”
He didn’t speak, but his dark eyes urged her to continue. “Mum was magical all the time, but at Christmas, she was like an angel on earth.” Her smile was unknowingly enigmatic. “She spent months preparing. We didn’t have a lot of money, growing up, so she’d have to order our presents early. They were never extravagant. Just a book we wanted or maybe a special dress.” She shrugged. “We’d decorate the tree together, all four of us. It would take a whole day and we’d listen to carols, singing along as we hung all of our favourite pieces.” Her fingers toyed with her hair. “Mum was American, and she’d brought a heap of very old ornaments over with her. They were glass, and so beautiful and fragile that they still make me all gooey to think of them today.”
“Gooey?” He teased.
“You know. Heart rushing, excited. There were a million little things she did that made it the most beautiful time of year.”
“What else?” It fascinated him, for his own life had been devoid of such traditions.
“Well, we had a pudding recipe that would knock your socks off. So much rum and port, with fruit mince and figs. It was rich and heavy and oh so good. My sisters and I would huddle around mum while she made it, begging for tastes from the spoon.”
He laughed softly at the memory. “And when she boiled it, the whole house would smell like Christmas. For days and days we’d joke that we were living in a cinnamon cloud.”
He nodded, and so she continued. “We’d make a gingerbread house every year. We started off making just one. When we were young, mum would dig out the stencil and we’d sit around the table while she cut the pieces. But then, as we got older, we each tried our hand at making our own house. Eventually, it became a competition, and mum would judge the winner.”
“And did you all win?”
“Oh, no. Mum wasn’t one of those ‘please everyone’ new-age parents. She genuinely judged based on merit. Which meant I never won.”
He laughed again. “Why not?”
“Are you kidding? I’d eaten half the house by the time I got to stick it together. I am a sucker for gingerbread. The less baked the better. In fact, it would probably be my desert island food.”
“A gingerbread house?”
“Nope. Gingerbread dough. Unbaked. Cold and smooshy.”
“That sounds … disgusting.”
“You wait. I’ll make it for you one day.”
Something odd flushed through him at the easy way she threw such promises around.
He covered it quickly with another question. “Who made the best gingerbread houses?”
“Ava,” she responded immediately. “I can still picture her, sitting up late measuring the walls to within a millimetre. She’d bake spare slabs in case any developed cracks. She is very precise.”
“She sounds it.”
Sophie sighed. “And on Christmas morning, we’d wake up to the smell of baked ham and scrambled eggs, and croissants with cheese. Mum was a wonderful cook. Looking back, it must have been exhausting, but she always swore she loved it.” Sophie’s smile was bitter-sweet. “That was mum, though. She was determined that we would have a happy, uneventful life.”
“A true opposite to my own childhood, then.” He’d spoken without thinking. He never, without exception, spoke of his youth.
But Sophie was fast. “In what way?”
“We are not talking about me,” he attempted to demur, but she wasn’t going to let it pass so easily.
“No, but I’d like to. I presume you mean you were the water. Or at least, that you were flotsam on the water. Rather than the air-bubble,” she clarified, at his lost expression.
He couldn’t help but smile at her quick turn of phrase. “If you exchange water for sludge, then yes. I was detritus in the mud of life, during my childhood.”
She squeezed his fingers. “I am tempted to say that it can’t have been so bad, except that I suspect you are not prone to exaggeration.”
“No,” he admitted grimly. “It was more dire that I would admit to most people.”
“How?” She pushed, in the same demanding way he had employed.
Sophie lifted his hand above the table and unfurled his fingers. She placed a kiss in his palm and then closed his fist back up. “I want to know more.”
An exasperated noise escaped his throat without his consent. “I’m not sure it would do any good to speak of it.”
“But would it do any harm?”
He studied her carefully. “You might think less of me.”
Sophie pulled a face. “If you truly believe I am the kind of woman to judge someone on their background or the way they were raised then you don’t know me at all.” She flushed to the roots of her pale, silky hair. “You don’t know me at all. Not really. So let me tell you something. I don’t really care about where you’ve come from, except in so much as it changes who you are now. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll let it go. But if you’re hiding it from me because you’re ashamed, then I’m going to be very offended.”
A long beat of silence throbbed between them before Alex found his voice. “You seem to have an ability to unsettle and surprise me.”
“I try hard,” she teased with a shrug of her shoulders.
“It is not something my lovers usually care to discuss.”
And in a flash, the atmosphere began to crackle with tension. It zapped around them, and Sophie didn’t know where to look. Despite the crowd in the restaurant, they were alone, and her chest was hurting.
“What do they want to discuss?” She managed through half-gritted teeth.
“Sophie.” He sighed. “We have gone off-course.”
“Have we?” She simpered, biting into the pappadum and swallowing the piece whole.
“You were telling me about your air-bubble.”
She lifted her water and sipped it slowly. It wasn’t his fault that her emotions were zipping all over the place. Something had slipped loose in her usual resolve and now it was up to Sophie to pick up the pieces.
“It was my mother’s doing. She was determined that we would enjoy a beautiful youth.”
“Why?”
“Because she never had one,” Sophie said simply. “Her parents were poor, and she had to get a job when she was young. She grew up in Manhattan and she got a part time job in a record store, but it took her almost an hour to get there on three different busses. As soon as she found out she was pregnant with us, she drove off into the sunset.”
“To Australia? That seems … both drastic and brave.”
“Yes to both. That was my mum though. Brave and fearless, and determined as hell.” She sipped on her soda water, and told herself that the burning in her throat came from the bubbles and not the cloying threat of tears. “She was diving when she died.” Her eyes were prickling with the sting of unshed salt. “Countless people have said to me, ‘at least she died doing something she loved’.”
Alex made a sound of frustration. “A pointless platitude. Far better to live and spend many more years doing what she loved than to die needlessly.”
Sophie’s heart turned over in her chest. “Yes, exactly. That is exactly as I feel. It almost seems worse that we lost her to diving. As though one of her great loves betrayed her.”
He pushed his sympathy deep down in his gut. He didn’t want to feel it for this woman. He couldn’t forget, no matter how enchanting her stories were, that she was a danger to him, for she was a danger to his sister.
“And your father?” He enquired silkily.
Sophie shrugged. “We never knew him.”
“Never? He chose not to be in your lives?”
“Apparently.” She bit down on her lip, a habit of hers he found distracting to the extreme.
“You’ve never contacted him?”
“No.”
“You don’t want him in your life.” A statement, not a question.
“I don’t know how to contact him,” she corrected, careful to keep emotion flattened from her tone.
“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her.
“Whoever he is, he wanted no part of mum when she told him she was pregnant. From what we know, which isn’t a lot, he paid her off to stay out of his life and keep quiet.”
Something like anger rolled through Alex. Anger at this man? At his lack of integrity? “How old was your mother?”
“Twenty four. My age.”
“A baby.”
“Hardly. How old are you?”
His laugh was a rich sound. “Thirty four.”
“A decade between us.” She reclined in her chair and studied his face. He had an ageless quality to him. Skin that was flawlessly tanned and eyes that were mysterious and loaded with emotion. “You are older than Helena,” Sophie said, moving her hands to her lap and clasping them there.
At the mention of his sister, Alex seemed to stiffen momentarily. “Ne.”
Her pulse fired in response to his sexy utterance. It reminded her of the way he’d whispered foreign words into her mouth while they made love. She dipped her eyes away.
“Helena is only a few years older than you.”
“And yet you’re very close.”
“On what do you base this conclusion?”
“I’ve seen you together. I have two sisters, remember? Sisters I’m close to. I understand the dynamic. The dependence. The silent ability we have of communicating to one another that baffles outsiders.” Her smile was richly enigmatic and his desire kicked up a notch.
“Is this how it is between us?”
“Between us?”
“Between Helena and me,” he clarified with a tight smile.
“Oh.” Her cheeks burned and she rolled her eyes, embarrassed by her own wishful stupidity. “Yes. She looks at you and it’s as though she’s spoken. You get her.”
“In a way her husband doesn’t?” He prompted silkily.
“Oh.” Sophie was stricken. “That’s not really my place to say.” Her words all rushed together, and though Alex’s English was impeccable, he had to concentrate to decipher them through her accent and haste.
“You are uniquely placed to say,” he corrected.
Sophie forced her gaze to meet his, and her heart kicked in her chest. He was so beautiful. So breath-takingly stunning. “What are you really asking me?”
Did she suspect that he knew? Or did she know that he suspected? He brushed his foot against hers beneath the table, enjoying the way her eyes widened instantly at the surprise contact.
“My sister was very young when she married Eric. He is ambitious. I wonder sometimes if he is making her happy.”
Eric’s worry that Alex would interfere in his marriage came to the fore of her mind. And yet what could Sophie say? To deny that Helena was miserable didn’t sit comfortably with her. Her breathing was shallow; her lungs seemed to burn with confusion. “Working in someone’s house requires a level of discretion. I’m there, but I’m not there. And I’m certainly not there to judge, nor gossip.”
“Gossip,” he refuted with a sharp laugh. “I am her brother. Eric is my friend.”
“Yes,” she nodded, but her eyes glinted with determination. “And I’m sure they would both appreciate my discretion.”
“You are discreet as a matter of course then?” He asked, thinking of what a necessary quality that would be in conducting an affair with her married employer.
“Of course. It goes with the job.”
Alex felt frustration licking at his heels. He had bet on bedding her, but not on finding her this fascinating. He had also not imagined she might prove so difficult to comprehend.
“You’re very protective of her.”
“Helena?” Alex clarified, pausing while the waiter served their main course. The delicious aroma of curries and accompaniments surrounded them and Sophie inhaled gratefully.
When he began speaking, she’d almost forgotten what she’d asked. “My own parents d
ied when I was eleven. Helena was four.”
“Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry.”
“We had no other family. My parents were very happy, but very poor. Our apartment was tiny and rented. We were evicted the day after the funeral.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry,” she said again, for want of anything else she could possibly say.
He smiled dismissively. “We were put into foster care.” He compressed his lips and wondered why he was telling Sophie this. He had never spoken of that torrid time in his life to another soul. He had kept it out of the press. It was his silent shame and personal pain. Did he want her to feel guilt? To pity the woman she was wounding with her callous cheating? “But the parents were … let us just say they epitomised the worst of the system.” His smile was grim.
“I’m so sorry.” She seemed to be repeating herself, but the thought of two such young siblings going through what he was describing sent a shiver down her spine.
“We ran away. Or rather, I ran away, and dragged Helena after me.”
“What did you do?” She was transfixed.
“We lived rough for several years. There is a big gypsy population in Athens and they were kind to us. I worked for them.”
“But what about school? Didn’t you have school?”
“Not for many years. I didn’t feel comfortable to leave Helena for long. Though we found friends on the street, she was young and always very trusting. I lived in fear of her being taken.” Indeed, his face paled at the recollection of the worry he’d carried for so long.
“So you see, Sophie,” her name was a caress on his chiselled lips, “I have spent my life protecting Helena. It comes naturally to me to enquire as to her well-being.”
Sophie, in that moment, longed to confide her own worries in him. For Helena was not happy. She was not well. And no one was prepared to face the truth of that. The burden of being the only one who truly appreciated her illness was heavy to carry.
Only Eric’s plea kept her silent.
He was married to Helena, and Helena loved him. She’d chosen to make a life with him, and have children with him. Surely Eric’s wishes trumped Alex’s?
She swallowed. “How did you get out of that life?”
The Greek's Marriage Revenge: To have and to hold until truth do them part... (The Henderson Sisters Book 1) Page 4