by Julia James
‘I should have given him to you straight away—when you first came to me! Then you would never have had to go through that charade, that farce—the one your grandfather called time on. The one...’ She swallowed. ‘The one that you were just about to end yourself away.’ She looked at him, her gaze heavy as lead. ‘I got a phone call from the town hall after Timon had spoken to me—a phone call confirming that the wedding had been cancelled. And then...’ She swallowed again. ‘Then I got your text, telling me the same thing.’
‘In that text I told you I would explain everything when I spoke to you later!’
Anatole’s voice seared her.
‘Timon had already made everything clear to me—and when I tried not to believe him he set me straight too. He showed me the document you’d signed—the one giving you the chairmanship of the Petranakos Corporation, the one affirming that you would not be marrying me. So what would have been the point, Anatole, in you telling me that yourself when I had it in writing already?’
Greek words spat from him.
Lyn’s gaze slid away, down to the baby sitting on her lap, placidly chewing on Anatole’s tie, content just to be on her knees. She wanted to put her arms around him but she must not. Not any more.
Anatole was speaking again and she made herself listen—though what could he say that she could want to hear?
‘The point, Lyn,’ he bit out, and each word was cut like a diamond from the air, ‘was that I would have told you the truth!’
‘I knew the truth,’ she answered. ‘Timon told me.’
‘Timon,’ said Anatole carefully—very carefully, ‘lied.’
Lyn’s eyes went to his. There was still that dull blankness in them. Why was he saying this? What for?
‘I saw the document you signed,’ she said. ‘I saw it in the English translation and I saw the original—the one in Greek with your signature on it. I translated it myself. It said what Timon told me it said. You are the new chairman and you won’t be marrying me.’
‘And did it tell you why?’
There was still that strangeness in his voice. She heard it, but knew she must not...
‘Timon told me why. Because you never intended to marry me. It was all a ruse, to get me to agree to bring Georgy out to Greece.’
‘Well,’ he said, speaking in the same clear, careful voice, as if she were hard of learning, ‘in that case why didn’t I just put you on the first flight back to London once Georgy was in Athens?’
She gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’
It didn’t matter. Not now. Not now that everything she had hoped and dreamed was smashed to pieces. Not now when her heart was breaking—breaking twice over. For Georgy and for Anatole.
Georgy was looking up at her and absently she stroked his hair. It felt like silk beneath her fingers.
I’ll never hold him again on my lap. Never hug him or kiss him. Never see him grow up...
Her eyes went to Anatole, standing there—so very dear to her, so very precious.
And she had never mattered to him at all...
Pain curdled around her heart. She wished he would stop talking to her, stop asking her things—things that did not matter that could not matter ever again. But he was talking again. Still talking at her—like some nightmare post mortem...
‘Yes, Lyn—it does matter. Why would I want you to stay on in Greece, live with me in the beach house, sleep with me, if I’d already got what I wanted from you?’
Her brow furrowed. He was going on at her and there wasn’t any point—there wasn’t any point!
‘Well, maybe it was because I might still have come in useful for some reason or other! You might have found it helpful to have me on side when you applied to adopt Georgy. I’d be kept sweet and not contest you.’ Her voice changed. ‘Only that wouldn’t have been necessary, would it? Once you knew I was only Lindy’s stepsister, it meant I wouldn’t stand a chance of fighting you for Georgy. Then you could have—would have—done exactly what your grandfather did. Sent me packing!’
He looked at her. ‘Do you know why he sent you packing, Lyn?’
It was clear to him now—crystal clear. But she couldn’t see it yet. He had to show it to her.
She shook her head dully. Anatole’s eyes—his dark sloe eyes that could melt her with a single glance—rested on her.
‘He was frightened, Lyn. Once he knew that Lindy was only your stepsister he was frightened that you were using me—using me to strengthen your own claim to Georgy. By marrying me you’d become his adoptive mother if our claim went through, whether you were his aunt or only his step-aunt. It would have been too late then. He was scared, Lyn—scared you’d take Georgy back to England, divorce me there, go for custody. Hold Georgy to ransom.’ He paused. ‘It was fear, Lyn, that made him say what he said to you.’
She shut her eyes. Why was he saying these things? It was a torment to her! ‘And did he fake your signature on that document?’ she demanded, her eyes flying open again. ‘Did he?’
Anatole shook his head. ‘No—I signed it.’ He paused. ‘I had to. He gave me no choice.’ His voice was steady. Controlled. Very controlled. ‘I need you to listen to me, Lyn. I need you to hear what I am telling you. I would have told you in Greece, had you not run away.’
He took a heavy breath, keeping his relentless gaze on her. She was as white as a sheet, as tense as stretched wire.
‘I signed that document,’ he said, ‘because Timon was refusing to hand over the chairmanship unless I did. And you know what the situation was in Thessaloniki. But I did not want to sign it.’ He took another breath. ‘I understand now, as I did not then, that the reason he insisted on my signing it was because he already knew about you and Lindy! He already had that report from his investigators—an investigation I knew nothing about. That is what scared him—and that is why he used the only leverage he had: threatening not to give me the power I needed so urgently, that very day, so that I could end that disastrous strike, unless I undertook not to marry you. I only found out about you being Lindy’s stepsister when I rushed back to him from Thessaloniki—after you’d fled with Georgy! He told me then—told me and denounced you for taking the cheque he offered you. And that is why I’ve doubted you—that is why I was angry when I came here!’
‘You had a right to be angry, Anatole—knowing I’d hidden from you how weak my claim to Georgy was compared to yours.’ Her voice was the same—dull, self-accusing.
He stared at her. ‘You think I am angry at you for that?’
‘Just as I was angry,’ she countered. ‘Angry that you said we would marry but you never meant it. That document was proof of that!’
His expression changed. ‘I would never,’ he bit out, his eyes flashing darkly, ‘have signed such a document of my own free will! But,’ he said, ‘I signed it in the end because I didn’t think it mattered. Not in the long term. I didn’t have time to argue with my grandfather. I didn’t have time to debate the issue—question why he was insisting on that condition. I had to focus on what was going on in Thessaloniki! Afterwards I would sort it out! I’d have had to postpone the wedding anyway—because of the strike threatening—and if you’d given me a chance, Lyn, when I got back I would have explained what my grandfather had made me do, why I agreed to it! I would have explained everything to you.’ He took a razoring breath. ‘If you’d trusted me enough not to run away back to England...’ His face worked. ‘If you’d only trusted me, Lyn.’
‘T
rust me—I need you to trust me...’
The words he had said so often to her. And he was saying them again!
Emotion speared within her—emotion she could not name. Dared not name.
‘Trusted me as I need you to trust me now.’
His voice came through the teeming confusion in her head.
‘As I trust you, Lyn—as I trust you.’
He stepped towards her and she could only gaze at him—gaze into his face, his eyes, which seemed to be pouring into hers.
He levered himself down beside her, hunkering on his haunches. ‘You have proved to me that I can have trust in you now, in the most absolute way possible! There is no greater proof possible! None!’
He reached a hand forward. But not to her. To Georgy, who was contentedly sucking at his fingers now, clearly getting sleepy. Anatole stroked his head and cupped his cheek, smoothed his hand down his back. His face softened. Then his gaze went back to Lyn. Clear and unflinching.
‘I trust you, Lyn—absolutely and unconditionally. I trust you to do the one thing that shines from you, that has shone from you like a beacon of purest light from the very first!’ His expression changed. ‘Your love for Georgy, Lyn. That is what I trust—and it is why I trust you. Why I will always trust you!’
There was a wealth of emotion in his voice, pouring from his eyes, from his whole being. She felt herself sway with the force of it.
‘What does it matter, Lyn, whether Lindy was your sister—?’ he began.
But she cut across him, her voice a cry. Anguished and trembling with emotion. ‘She was! She was my sister! My sister in everything! I loved her as just as much! And when she died a piece of me died as well. But she gave me—’ her voice broke ‘—she gave me her son, for me to look after, to love the way I’d loved her. And that’s why...that’s why...’ She couldn’t go on. But she had to—she had to. ‘That’s why I have to give him to you now, Anatole— because it’s for him.’
Now it was Anatole who cut across her. ‘And that is why I know how much you love him! Because you are willing to give him up!’ His voice changed, grew husky. ‘And there is only one kind of love that does that, Lyn—only one kind.’ He looked at her. ‘A mother’s love.’ He took a shaking breath and swallowed. ‘You are Georgy’s mother! You! And it doesn’t matter a single iota whether your blood runs in his veins! Your sister knew that—knew that when she entrusted Georgy to you! She knew you loved her and she knew you would love Georgy all his life, Lyn—all his life! With the love he needs to have—a mother’s love...your love!’
He reached forward again, and now he was taking her hands with his, so warm and so strong, and he was placing her hands around Georgy’s sturdy little body, pressing them around him, his own covering hers.
‘And I love him too, Lyn,’ he said. ‘I love him with the love that Marcos was not able to love him with. I will always love him—all his life.’ He paused and took another ragged breath. ‘Just as I love you, Lyn.’
There was a sudden stillness. An absolute stillness. An immobility of all the world. All the universe.
She could not move. Could not move a muscle.
But she could feel Anatole lifting her hands—lifting them away from Georgy, who slumped his slumberous body back against her, his eyelids closing. Anatole lifted her hands to his lips, kissing first one and then the other. The softest, sweetest kisses...
‘How could you think I didn’t?’ he whispered. His voice was cracking—cracking and husky. ‘How could you possibly think I didn’t love you? How did you think I could hold you in my arms night after night, be with you, at your side day after day, and not come to love you as I do?’
Her eyes clung to his. Was this true? Oh, was this true? These words he was telling her? Those sweet kisses he had blessed her hands with? Was it true? Her heart swelled with hope—with yearning that it might be so—that she was really hearing him say those wonderful words she had so longed to hear and had thought could never be said by him.
But she was hearing them—hearing him say them—and feeling the blissful brush of his lips on hers, the glowing warmth of his gaze, his fingers winding into hers...
He was speaking still, saying what was bliss for her to hear. ‘And I know—I know—you love me too! I can see it now—in your face, your eyes, your tears, Lyn, which are pouring down your face. You love Georgy and you love me—and I love Georgy and I love you. And that’s all we need, my darling, darling Lyn—all that we will ever need!’
He reached with his mouth for hers and found it, kissed it, tasting the salt of her tears.
‘All we’ll ever need,’ he said again, drawing away. He looked at her. ‘You must never, never doubt me again. Never! To think that you thought so ill of me that you fled back here—that you felt you had to give up Georgy to me. To think that is like a sword in my side!’ He kissed her again—fiercely, possessingly. ‘We are family, Lyn! Family. You and me and Georgy—and we always will be! Always!’
She swallowed, fighting back the longing to believe everything he was telling her. ‘Our plan was to marry and then divorce,’ she said. Her voice sounded wonky to her, the words coming out weirdly. It must be because there wasn’t any room for them, she thought. There was only room for the tidal wave of emotion coursing through her—filling her being.
‘That,’ he answered her roundly, ‘was the stupidest plan in the universe! What we are going to do is just marry. And stay married! For ever!’
‘That document you signed...’
‘Timon will tear it up—or I will do it for him!’ He gave a ragged laugh. ‘Timon will only have to take one look at us to know his fears are groundless—pointless.’ His expression changed, and so did his voice, becoming sombre, worried. ‘Can you forgive him, Lyn? For lying to you and saying that I never intended to marry you so that he could drive you away? It was fear that made him do what he did. I can see that now. The fear of losing Georgy.’
Her eyes shadowed. She knew what fear was. Knew it in her bones—knew the fear of losing Georgy...knew just what that fear could make one do...
She took a breath, looked at Anatole straight. ‘I lied to you because I was so frightened I might lose Georgy,’ she said, swallowing. ‘I understand why Timon lied to me for the same reason.’
His hands tightened on hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said. His eyes were expressive. ‘And I can tell you with absolute certainty that when he knows that we are to be a real family now he will be overjoyed!’
A little choke escaped her. ‘Oh, God, Anatole—is it true? Is any of this true? I walked in here and my heart was breaking—breaking in two. Breaking at giving up Georgy, breaking because I love you so much and I thought you’d only used me and thrown me away! I can’t believe this now—I can’t believe this happiness I’m feeling! I can’t believe it!’
Did she dare? Did she dare believe what Anatole was saying to her? Did she dare believe in the love pouring from his eyes...?
Believe in the love pouring from her heart...
There was only one answer he could give her. Only one answer, and she heard him say the words she had heard him speak so often.
‘Lyn, I need you to trust me on this!’ He took a ragged breath. ‘I need you to trust that I will love you for the rest of my days! Just—I beg you!—trust me!’
As he spoke, with his love for her pouring from his eyes, she felt the dam of her fears break—and all those hideous, nightmare fears that had convulsed and crucified her flowed away, emptying out of her, never
to return.
And in their place blossomed the sweet and glorious flower of her love for Anatole—love given and received, each to the other.
Anatole! Her Anatole. And she was his—his! And she always would be. She would trust him now—for ever, in everything!
He kissed her again, sealing that love in tenderness and passion, with Georgy cradled in her lap, their arms around him. It was an endless kiss...interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat from the doorway. She and Anatole sprang apart.
‘Oh,’ said a surprised voice. ‘Ah...’ It fell silent.
Lyn bit her lip, looking down at Georgy, unable to look anywhere else. But Anatole got to his feet, slipping Lyn’s hand from his but standing beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder warmly. Possessively.
The room was bathed in sunlight—which was odd. Because outside he could see that it was mizzling with the doleful rain of an English summer. Yet the air inside the room seemed golden with the sun...as golden as the happiness flooding through him.
He looked across at his lawyer. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we’ve just reached an out of court settlement.’ His voice was very dry.
His lawyer’s was even dryer. ‘Well, I’ll just leave you, then, to...ah...hammer out the details, shall I?’
‘That,’ said Anatole, and his hand pressed down on Lyn’s shoulder, ‘might take some time.’
He glanced at Lyn and his gaze was as warm as the love he felt for her. Her answering gaze was just as warm.
‘It might take a lifetime,’ he said.
EPILOGUE
LYN SETTLED BACK into the padded beach chair beneath a striped parasol. Beside her Timon, resplendent in a very grand wheelchair, sat smiling benevolently. A little way in front of both of them, on the beach in front of Timon’s villa, was Anatole, in shorts and T-shirt in the late summer heat, sprawled on the sand with Georgy, showing him how to use a bucket and spade. Georgy, recklessly waving his own plastic spade in a manner likely to engage hard with Anatole’s tousled head, was happily thumping at his upturned plastic bucket with enthusiastic dedication and muscular vigour.