Securing the Greek's Legacy

by Julia James

  And to do that he had to get this totally impossible intransigent aunt to stop blocking him at every turn!

  But how?

  A heavy, unappetising thought forced its way forward. His mouth tightened. There was, of course, one very obvious method of attempting to stop any objections to what he was urging. A way that worked, as he knew well from his own business experience, to win compliance and consensus and agreement.

  A way he did not want to use here, now, for this—but if he had to...if it worked...?

  He must. If nothing else he must attempt it. He owed it to Timon, to Marcos—to all the thousands employed by the Petranakos Corporation whose livelihoods were threatened.

  Reluctantly, for what he was about to say went against the grain, he spoke. His tone of voice was measured, impassive. ‘I know full well that Timon will insist on thanking you for your care and concern for his great-grandson—that he will fully appreciate the accommodation you make towards granting his fervent wish for Marcos’s son to grow up with his paternal family—and that he will wish to settle a sum on you in respect of his gratitude and appreciation such that your financial security would be handsomely assured for the future.’

  There—he had said it. He had said outright that if she stopped stonewalling him her life of poverty would be over for good. He let the words sink in, not taking his eyes from her.

  Her expression was blank, however. Had she not heard what he’d said?

  Then she answered him. ‘You want to buy Georgy from me?’ Her voice was as blank as her eyes.

  A frown immediately shaped Anatole’s face. ‘Of course not!’ he repudiated.

  ‘You’re offering me money to hand him over to you,’ the same blank voice intoned.

  Anatole shook his head. Did she have to put it in such unpalatable terms? ‘What I am saying,’ he spelt out, ‘is that—’

  ‘Is that your grandfather will pay me if I let him have Georgy to bring him up in Greece.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘No! It is not like that—’ Anatole’s voice was sharp.

  Suddenly the blank look in her eyes vanished utterly. She launched herself to her feet, anger blazing in her eyes.

  ‘It is exactly like that!’ she cried. ‘How dare you? How dare you sit there and tell me you’ll buy Georgy from me? How dare you do such a thing?’ Her voice had risen; her heart was thumping furiously. ‘How dare you come here and offer me money to hand my dead sister’s son over to you? How dare you?’

  He was on his feet as well. He filled the room, intimidating and overpowering. But she would not be intimidated! Would not be overpowered! Would not be paid to part with Georgy!

  She took a heaving breath, words pouring from her.

  ‘I swore to my sister on her deathbed that I would never, never abandon her baby! That I would never hand him over to anyone! That I would always, always look after him and love him. Because she was not going to be able to do it! Because she was dying, and she knew she was dying, and she was never going to see her baby grow up, never going to see him become a boy, a man—never, never, never...’

  Her voice was hoarse, the words torn from her, from the very depths of her being. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, as if she could—and would—and must—fight off the whole world to keep Georgy with her!

  For a second there was silence. Absolute silence between them. Then into the silence came a high, solitary wail.

  With a cry of consternation Lyn wheeled about. Oh, no—now she had gone and woken Georgy! With all this awful arguing about what was never going to happen—because she was never giving Georgy up! Never!

  The wail came again. She rounded on Anatole. ‘Please go!’ she said. ‘Please—just go!’

  She rushed from the room into the bedroom, where Georgy was wide awake, his little face screwed up. She scooped him up with a hushing noise, soothing and rocking him in her arms until he had quietened.

  The feel of his strong, solid little body, so familiar, so precious, calmed her too. She took long slow breaths, hugging him tightly, and felt his warmth and weight in her arms like a blessing, a benediction.

  How could anyone think to ask her to give him up? She loved this little child more than anyone in the whole world! He was everything to her—and she was everything to him.

  Love flowed from her, enveloping and protective, as she cradled him against her, her eyes smarting, her throat tight. Slowly the heaving emotions in her breast, her heart, eased. Georgy was safe. He was in her arms. He was with her. She would never let him go, never abandon him. Her hectic pulse slowed. Cradling him, her hand curved protectively around his back, she crooned soothingly at him, wordless sounds murmuring, familiar and comforting. The rest of the world seemed very far away...

  ‘May I see him?’

  The voice behind her made her spin round. Anatole was standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

  But there was something different about him. Something quite different. She’d seen him only as dark and tall and formidable—telling her things she did not want to hear, his very presence a terrifying threat to everything that she held most dear.

  Now, as she gazed at him, her expression stricken, across the dimly lit curtained room, he did not seem formidable at all. Or threatening. He seemed merely—tense. As if every muscle in his body were pulled taut. In the dim light the bone structure of his face was stark.

  She felt Georgy lift his head from her shoulder, twist his neck so that he could see where the voice had come from. He gazed at the figure in the doorway with eyes just as dark as those which were fixed on him.

  For a moment the tableau held all of them immobile. Then, with a gurgling sound, Georgy lurched on her shoulder, his little arms reaching forward towards the man standing in the doorway. The man with eyes like his own.

  The man who was kin to the father he had never known. Never would know now....

  As if in slow motion, Anatole found his hand reaching inside his jacket pocket, drawing out something he had brought with him from Greece. It was a silver photo frame from his grandfather’s opulent drawing room, displaying one individual alone. Slowly he shifted his gaze down to the photo he held in his hand, then back to the baby cradled so closely in his young aunt’s arms.

  ‘He is Marcos’s son.’ Anatole’s voice was flat. But there was emotion in it. Powerful emotion. His gaze cut suddenly to Lyn. ‘Look,’ he instructed, holding up the photo.

  It was an old one, pre-digital, an informal shot and unposed, but the likeness to the baby in it was unmistakable. The same wide brown-eyed gaze. The same-shaped mouth and head. The same expression.

  How was it, Anatole found himself thinking, emotion rising in his chest, that the genes Marcos had carried could be so clearly visible even at this tender age? What was it about the human face that revealed its origins, its kinship? Yet so it was—this scrap of humanity, less than a year old, stared back at him in the baby he himself could just dimly remember from his own boyhood.

  ‘I couldn’t be sure,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Knew that I must get DNA testing. Knew there would be doubts that necessitated such measures.’ He paused. ‘But I have no doubts—not now.’ His voice changed, and so did his expression. ‘This is my cousin’s son—his only son! The only trace left of him in this life! He must be part of his father’s family.’ He held up a hand as if to pre-empt what he knew would be her response to that unarguable statement. ‘But we must find a way...there must be one—’ He broke off, taking a sharp breath, his focus now on Lyn.

  ‘I am sorry—sorry that I said what I did just now. It was offensive, and you have every right to be angry.’ He paused. ‘Will you accept my apology?’

  His eyes met hers, seeking a way past the stormy expression in them. Slowly, painfully, Lyn swallowed. There was a large stone in her throat, but it was not only from her anger at his vi
le offer. It was because of the way he’d stared at Georgy...the emotion in his eyes...his voice.

  He was seeing his dead cousin in the baby she was holding in her arms...

  Just as I see Lindy in him.

  She felt her throat close—felt something change, somehow, deep within her. Slowly she nodded, taking a ragged breath.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said in a low voice.

  His eyes went from her face back to Georgy. That expression returned to them, making her breath catch as the same emotion was aroused in herself.

  Warily Lyn made her way past him into the living room, heading for the sofa onto which she sank down on shaky legs, her heart rate still ragged. But something had changed. She could feel it—sense it as clearly as if the wind had changed its quarter, as if the tide had turned in the depths of the sea. It was in his voice, his stance, his face, as he sat down at the far end of the sofa.

  And it was in her, too, that change. Was it because she was finally accepting that Georgy was more than her dead sister’s son? That he had a family on his father’s side too, to whom he was precious—as precious as he was to her?

  She did not want to accept that truth—had tried to fight it—but she had to. Must.

  For a moment—just a moment—as Anatole Telonidis lowered his tall frame on to the sofa, he seemed far too physically close to her. She wanted to leap to her feet—away from the intensely physical presence of the man. But even as she fought the impulse she could feel Georgy using his not inconsiderable strength to lean forward, towards this interesting addition to his world. And as he did so, he gave another crowing gurgle, his little arms stretching forward towards his father’s cousin.

  And then Lyn saw something quite extraordinary happen.

  Before her eyes she saw this tall, dark, forbidding man who had walked uninvited into her world, catalysing her deepest fears with his demands, his assumptions, all the power of his wealth and family, transform. Greek words sounded from his mouth and then slowly, as if he were moving through thick, murky water, she watched him reach a hand out towards the infant. Immediately a little starfish fist closed around the long, tanned finger and tugged it hopefully, if ineffectually, in the direction of his mouth.

  ‘Hello, Georgy,’ said Anatole. His voice sounded strained, as if his throat weren’t working properly. ‘Hello, little fellow.’

  There was, Lyn could see as plain as day, extraordinary though it was, a look of stunned wonder on his dark, formidable face.

  She felt emotion stab at her but did not know what it was. Only that it was powerful. Very powerful...

  Her eyes could not leave his face, could not stop staring at the transformation in the man. But Anatole had no eyes for her stunned scrutiny of him. He had eyes only for one thing—the baby in her arms who had brought him here. His dead cousin’s child.

  Lyn heard him murmur something in Greek. Something that sounded soft and caressing. Something that felt like a warm touch on her skin even though it was not directed at her. It drew a response from her, all the same, and she felt a strange, potent flickering of her senses.

  Then Georgy was wriggling impatiently in her arms, tugging on the finger he was clutching. She loosened her hold automatically, so that he could gain his objective, but now he had seen something more enticing to clutch, and he dropped the finger he’d been gripping. Instead he made a lunge at the dark silk tie dangling so tantalisingly close to him as its wearer leant forward. To his own considerable pleasure he made contact, grasped it greedily, and pulled the end into his mouth, sucking vigorously.

  A burst of laughter broke from Lyn. She couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, Georgy, you monkey!’ she exclaimed ruefully.

  She lifted a hand to disengage the tie, conscious as she did so that the gesture brought her disquietingly closer to the man wearing it. Deprived of his tasty morsel, Georgy gave a howl of outrage. Lyn took his tiny hands and busied herself in remonstrations that enabled her to straighten up, increasing the distance between herself and this most disturbing of men.

  ‘No, you can’t have it! You little monster, you! Yes, you are! A little monster!’ She nuzzled his nose with an Eskimo kiss and set him laughing. She glanced across at Anatole at what was doubtless a hideously expensive tie now somewhat soggy at the end. ‘I’m sorry about that. I hope it’s not damaged too much.’ Her voice was apologetic, constrained with an embarrassment that was not just due to Georgy’s misdemeanours but also to the awkward self-consciousness of sharing a sofa with Anatole Telonidis.

  Anatole surveyed the soggy item. ‘It is of no consequence,’ he remarked.

  Then, before Lyn realised what he was doing, he was unfastening his gold watch and offering it to Georgy. Eyes widening in disbelieving delight, Georgy snatched up the shiny treasure and clutched it to his chest, gazing wide-eyed at the giver of such largesse.

  ‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Lyn, throwing a shocked glance at Anatole. ‘He’ll try and eat it!’

  But Anatole merely looked at the baby. ‘Georgy. No eating. A gentleman does not eat his watch. Understood?’

  Georgy stared, his eyes wide in wonder. This stern, deep voice had clearly made a deep impression on him. Dutifully, he made no attempt to ingest the Rolex, contenting himself with continuing to clutch it while staring riveted at this oracle of good advice.

  Anatole cast a long-lashed sardonic look at Lyn—a strangely intimate glance that sent a quiver through her. Then the next second his moment of triumph evaporated. With a jerky movement Georgy slammed the watch to his mouth.

  ‘Georgy—no!’ Both adults moved fast but, alas, Anatole’s belated attempt to remove his watch incited outrage in the infant, whose little face screwed up into angry tears.

  Hastily Lyn fumbled in the plastic toy bucket beside the sofa to fetch out Georgy’s favourite—a set of plastic keys—and managed to swap them, with some difficulty, for the precious gold watch. Charily, she handed the latter back to its owner, avoiding eye contact this time, and then busied herself settling Georgy in her lap as he chewed contentedly on his keys. She felt unbearably awkward, and yet she knew that something had changed. Thawed.

  Imperceptibly, she felt a tiny amount of the tension racking her easing. Then, into the brief silence, a deep voice spoke.

  ‘So, what are we to do?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  LYN’S EYES FLEW upwards. Anatole Telonidis was looking at her, and as he did so she knew for sure that something had definitely changed between them. She was still wary, yes—wariness was prickling through her every vein—but that wash of rage and outrage against him had gone. His tone of voice was different too. It was more—open. As if he were no longer simply dictating to her what must happen. As if he were truly asking a question of her.

  A question she could give no answer to other than the one she had hurled at his head five minutes ago. She could not—would not—ever give Georgy up!

  She gave an awkward shrug, dropping her eyes again. She didn’t want to look at him. Her self-consciousness had soared suddenly, and whereas before she might have found refuge in animosity and resentment and rage against him and his autocratic demands, now she felt raw and exposed.

  Anatole watched her sitting there, with the baby on her lap, her attention all on the infant who was busily chewing on his keys and chuntering away to himself. Emotion poured through him, powerful and overwhelming. Even without the formality of DNA testing his heart already knew that this was Marcos’s son. And already he felt a powerful urge to protect and cherish him.

  Which is what she feels too! That is what is driving her!

  Her obduracy, her angry outburst, were both fuelled by the deepest of emotions—emotions that he understood and recognised.

  Love and grief.

  She could not give up the child. Not now. Not like this. It was impossible for her to conceive of such a thing. Impo
ssible for her to do anything other than what she had done—rage at the very notion of it! A flicker of a different emotion went through him—one he had not envisaged feeling. One that came again now as he let his eyes rest on her while her attention was on the baby in her lap.

  There was something very moving about seeing her attend so tenderly to the tiny scrap of humanity she was engaged with. Her face seemed softer somehow, without that pinched, drained, defensive look that he’d seen in it. The contours of her profile, animated by her smiles of affection for the infant, were gentler now.

  He found an irrelevant thought fleeting through his head. If she had her hair done decently, took some trouble over her appearance, she would look quite different—

  He reproached himself. What time or funds did she have to pay any attention to her appearance? She was studying full-time and looking after a baby, on what was clearly a very tight budget. And it was obvious, too, from the circles under her eyes, that she wasn’t getting enough sleep.

  A sudden impulse went through him.

  I could lighten her burden—the load she is carrying single-handed.

  But not by taking from her the baby she was so devoted to.

  He heard himself speaking. ‘There must be a way we can reach agreement.’

  Her eyes flew to his. Back in them, he could see, was the wariness and alarm that he was so familiar with.

  ‘You’re not taking Georgy from me!’ Fear and the hostility raked through her voice, flashed in her eyes.

  He held up a hand. His voice changed, grew husky. ‘I can see how much Marcos’s son means to you. But because he means so much to you I ask you to understand how much he means to his father’s family as well.’ He paused, his eyes holding hers, willing the wariness and resistance to dissolve. ‘I need you to trust me,’ he said to her. ‘I need you to believe me when I say that there has to be a way we can resolve this impasse.’