Christos felt a sharp ache deep in his abdomen. It was their easy affection, that was all.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh, there’s no need.” Her smile, when she tilted her beautiful face to his, was ice. “I’ll never forget where the exit is having been frogmarched to it so well last time I was here.”
She spun on her heel and sashayed from the room, leaving a bemused brother and a powerless ex-lover staring at her departing figure.
“She certainly has not got a lot of time for you,” Filip said with a laugh, spinning on his wheels to come into the kitchen.
“I’m gathering that,” Christos returned throatily.
“She’ll get over it. Elle never stays mad for long.”
Christos poured himself a wine and grabbed a soda for Filip. “You guys are close.”
“You kidding? She raised me.”
Christos pulled the meat from the fridge and put it on the chopping board. “Since your mom died?”
“Nah. Even before we lost mom, Elle was in charge. Of all of us, really.”
“All of you?” He prompted, hating himself for the way he was trying to get information about her through her brother. But what choice did he have? She had closed herself off from him.
You’re a stupid whore, with nothing to offer a man beyond your body.
He winced as those words came flashing back to him.
“Hannah, Chip, me. If it wasn’t for Elle, God knows what kind of trouble we’d have gotten in to.” Filip threw his head back and drank half the can. “She must have been blown away when she saw this.” He nodded towards the piano.
Christos nodded, and as he stared at the piano he could see Elle as she’d been that day, sitting at it, her eyes closed, transfixed. “You could say that.”
“What’s for dinner?” Filip wheeled closer and grinned at the sight of the fillet steaks. “My favourite.”
“Mine too.”
“Must be genetics.” Filip shook his head. Genetics. The tangle of DNA that swam in both of them. Courtesy of a man Filip would never know. A man who hadn’t wanted him. Who’d wished him dead. “So what was he like?”
Christos arched a brow enquiringly.
“Your father.”
“Our father,” Christos amended with a rueful shake of his head. He didn’t know how to answer the question. The man who had raised him would never have had an affair. The knowledge filled him with a deep-seated doubt about his parentage. “He was very clever. An astute businessman.”
“Rakanti Industries was passed down from his father?”
Christos nodded. “My grandfather had a shipping company and a few hotels. My father turned the business into the global name it is now.”
“And you’ve done your own thing.”
“Yes,” Christos agreed.
“Why? You could have just stepped into your dad’s shoes.”
“I know. But I never wanted to inherit my fortune.”
Filip nodded. “I can respect that.”
“Hel-lo?” Xanthe swept into the kitchen with a smile on her beautiful face. “Ah! Still just the two of you, I see.”
“Ellie’s got a concert.”
Xanthe’s lips pulled into a line of disapproval. “I should have thought she’d be desperate to see her brother.”
Christos sent his mother a warning glance. Fortunately, Filip either didn’t hear the undercurrent of distaste or chose to ignore it. “Ellie loves music. I dare say it’s some orchestra or other …”
“Andre Meyers,” Christos supplied.
“Oh! She should have said. That makes sense.”
“Does it?” Christos began to heat butter in the frying pan.
“Yeah. They’re old friends.”
“They are?” There it was again. Jealousy. A sharp arrow in his chest. Filip wheeled into the kitchen and opened the cutlery draw. He lifted out utensils as though Christos wasn’t impatiently waiting for him to expand on the statement.
“Sure. He loves her. He’s her biggest fan.”
“Her biggest fan? Darling, he’s a renowned pianist,” Xanthe piped in, struck anew at the similarities between the two men. She felt like something inside of her was being strangled to see these men – brothers – working in unison together in the kitchen.
“Yeah. He’s great. Not as great as Ellie though.”
Christos placed the steaks onto the sizzling butter and then gave Filip his full attention. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Are you telling me Ellie never played this thing for you?”
Christos nodded. “She’s very talented.”
Filip laughed with undisguised surprise. “She’s more than talented. She’s a prodigy. She taught herself, you know.”
Christos was immobile.
“Well, lots of people tinker with instruments,” Xanthe murmured, wiping her hands on her dress as if to push the conversation away.
“When Ellie was two, our mom dated a high school principal. She used to take Ellie to his place. One morning they woke up to find her playing the theme song to Sesame Street.” Filip laughed. “At least, that’s what mom always said.”
“Mothers!” Xanthe threw her hands in the air in a gesture designed to seem frivolous. “We are universally proud of our children. Any excuse to brag about their achievements, no matter how minor.”
“Not our mom,” Filip demurred, placing the cutlery at each space on the table. “She found Ellie’s piano playing annoying.”
“Did she play a lot, growing up then?” Christos needed more. He needed to know everything about her.
“Nah. Mum wouldn’t have it in the house. She liked to sleep late. But Chip and Hannah had a keyboard, and she’d go to school as much as possible to play in the theatre.”
“I had no idea,” Christos said, rubbing his chin.
“Christos.” Xanthe’s word was shrill. “Turn those steaks or we’ll be eating cardboard. Darling.” She added to soften the shrill command of her statement, busying herself with arranging sofa cushions.
Christos’s frown deepened.
Elle had been nervous to meet Xanthe; and he understood it. But it appeared Xanthe was likewise nervous to meet Elle. For what reason? He added some green beans to the pan and several moments later lifted the steaks out to rest. He added butter and white wine to the beans and left them to simmer.
“How did she meet Andre?”
“The Julliard sent him,” Filip said, sipping his cola.
“The Julliard? The music school?” Christos wondered then at how little he knew of this woman. For a week she’d lived in his home and he had the bare minimum facts. It was filling him with doubt, anger and resentment. How could he have possessed her again and again and yet know so little?
Filip rolled his eyes in a gesture so reminiscent of Elle that Christos’s gut rolled. “No. The fast food restaurant. Of course the music school.”
“Hang on. I didn’t know she went to Julliard.”
Filip’s face was suddenly pale. “She didn’t.” He frowned. “I shouldn’t be talking about it anyway.” He smiled disjointedly at Xanthe. “Did you bring those photos?”
Xanthe, relieved to have an ally finally in avoiding talk of Elle, reached into her handbag. “Yes. Here. This is an album of your father’s from school. You are so like him. Just as Christos is.”
* * *
Elle tiptoed into the kitchen but she felt like she was dancing. The music of that night throbbed through her whole body. What room was there in her life for sadness and loneliness when there was such melody to be had? She turned on the spot and wiggled her hips, remembering the chord progressions.
Andre Meyers was a genius. An actual genius.
She sighed wistfully, staring at Christos’s piano. Her fingers tingled but she didn’t move closer, lest the temptation to play overtook her and she woke the whole house. Instead, she walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on.
Three plates were drying on the side of t
he sink. So Xanthe had been and gone. And Elle had dodged that bullet.
She was happy to pretend that she had broken the news to the papers. It was best for Filip that she kept that secret. But she didn’t relish coming face to face with the woman who must hate her.
To the woman who, if a million little details had been different, would have possibly, one day, been a part of her family. Who might have been her mother-in-law. She shook her head to clear the errant thought. It was foolish in the extreme to go down that path.
A million little details weren’t different though; they were the important reasons she had for staying away from him for good.
Apart from anything else, Filip would be miserable if they became romantically involved and then broke up. His relationship with Christos was more important than anything else she might feel. Besides, Christos might still desire her sexually, but he hated her. And by his own admittance, it had always been about sex with them.
She tossed a teabag into a mug and sloshed the boiling water in, then added a few drops of milk. As she placed the milk in the fridge, her eyes dropped to a photo album on the edge of the bench.
Absentmindedly, simply because it was there, she flicked it open. She shut it again almost instantly.
The last person she felt like seeing, Filip Rakanti, had been staring back at her. And she saw it. Christos, when he’d told her to leave, had reminded her so much of Filip Senior that she’d hated him. She’d loved him, but she’d hated him too. And she wasn’t sure she could ever undo that hatred.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Did you change your mind?” Christos asked, admiring Elle’s summery dress and sandals as he chewed his toast.
She smiled pointedly at Filip. “About what?”
“Coming to the office with us.”
“No.” She stiffened her spine and placed her teacup from the night before into the sink.
“How was the concert?” Filip aimed to defuse the palpable tension.
“Great.” She could barely keep the grin off her face. God, she was beautiful when she smiled. Christos ached to kiss those lips; to taste the happiness she was exuding.
“And how’s Andre?”
“Great.” She grinned. “He says hi.”
“You didn’t say that you know him personally,” Christos interjected, taking another bite of toast.
“No.” Her expression was loaded with saccharine. “I suppose I thought it wasn’t your business.”
He ground his teeth together. You were home late. He pushed the statement out of his mind. He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her lover. He certainly wasn’t her friend.
“So? Come on. What happened?”
“What do you mean?” She asked her brother, bringing a fresh mug of tea and sitting at the table. She curled her legs up beneath her on the chair.
“Did you play for him?”
Her eyes drifted to Christos and then returned to Filip. She nodded cautiously but her eyes were sparkling.
“You played at the concert?” Christos wondered, wishing that he could have seen it.
“No! Not at the concert. Afterwards. Just for Andre.” She sipped her tea then turned to face Christos. “He asked me to spend the day with him. I wondered if I could catch a lift into town with you.”
Christos cleared his throat. He could hear his blood pounding loudly through his body.
“That makes sense,” Filip answered smoothly. “Saves you having to take a cab. We’re going in anyway. Right?”
“Of course,” Christos nodded, his expression cold.
“There’s a restaurant he was raving about. Zucca, I think he said it’s called.”
Christos nodded. “I know it. It’s excellent. Seafood, largely.”
“Did he say anything about …?” Filip’s question trailed into the air as Elle reached over and grabbed his hand.
“We’ll talk later.” She softened the harsh invective with a smile. “Eat up. You’re going to learn what it’s like to be the son of a tycoon.” She stood, still clutching her mug. “I’ll wait outside.” Her face was stony but her implication was clear. To Christos, at least. Like always.
Christos was in free fall. She was never going to forgive him. Why should she? And why did he want her to?
He spent the morning with Filip, trying not to think of Elle. What was she doing? Andre Meyers, he knew from a google search earlier, was not only a world-leading musician. He was also old enough – almost—to be her father.
It was surely not romantic between them.
When he and Filip left that afternoon, he enquired casually, “Did Elle say if we should pick her up?”
Filip shook his head. “She’s going to go watch Andre perform again.”
“I see.” Christos’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles glowed white.
“He’s a great guy,” Filip said, not helping Christos’s mood.
“I’ll bet. Why did The Julliard send him?”
Familiar pride swarmed through Filip, momentarily making him forget that Elle didn’t like him to talk about her career. “Oh, they like to keep track of people like Elle.”
“How did they hear of her?”
“The teacher mom was dating sent a recording of Elle to them. Suffice it to say she progressed from Sesame Street to Mozart within weeks. She can play anything she hears, even if she only hears it once. Her memory is just … crazy.”
Even for words, he realised, thinking with harsh regret of the things he’d said to her. “Did she gain a place at the school?”
“Are you kidding? Of course she did. They’ve wanted her for years.”
“But she never went?”
Filip was torn. Loyalty to his sister was making him want to change the conversation’s direction, but he was also so proud of her he could burst. “She was due to start right around the time of the accident.” He shook his head. “There was no way she would go.”
“Because of the fees?”
“No. Not just the fees.” Filip clutched his hands on his knees. “I mean, she was offered a great scholarship. She would have been able to do it. But then there was me.” He grimaced. “You don’t know how I’ve felt, going to my great school, so spoiled in comparison, while Elle gave everything up to basically be a parent to me.”
Christos was going under with the current. “You cannot shoulder guilt for this. Elle chose to do that because she loves you.”
“I know. But life’s been anything but fair to her, you know? She’s just the sweetest girl. I love her to bits. I just want her to do what she loves and stop worrying about me.”
“You’re what she loves,” Christos pointed out as though his chest wasn’t being compressed in sympathy for Elle. “She wants to make sure you’re happy. That’s her prerogative.”
“I am happy.” Filip turned as much as he was able to face Christos. “She’s not. I mean, she doesn’t date. She doesn’t go out. She works. And she waits for me to come home in the holidays so she can make up for the fact that she has legs and I don’t.”
Christos’s heart was churning. He was suffocating with a need to see Elle. It was deep inside of him. He pulled up outside the house and rolled Filip’s chair out of the boot. He placed it beside the passenger door and watched, beyond impressed, as Filip manouevered himself into it. “What time’s the concert?”
“Not sure. They’re usually like eight o’clock.”
“Perhaps we should go as well.”
“Tickets would have sold out ages ago,” Filip said with a shake of his head.
Christos’s smile was laced with the arrogance that Filip would, perhaps, one day learn. “Filip. We’re Rakantis. Nothing is ever truly sold out.”
And sure enough, just before eight o’clock, they were shepherded to seats in the very front row. “How did you do this?”
“I told you. We’re Rakanti.”
Filip shook his head. “I don’t feel like one.”
Christos winked. “You will.”
The curtain opened and the concert began. While it was beautiful, Christos was largely unmoved. He had never heard anyone interpret music as Elle had that first night he’d heard her play. His mind was straying, going over the day’s work, thinking about the night he’d met Elle, remembering how good it had felt to be able to roll over in the middle of the night and pull her towards him, when Andre Meyers stood from behind the piano.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his accent was Germanic, and thick. “Throughout my career, one of the most privileged things I have been able to do is mentor young musicians. Some of them have passion, some have flair and all are talented. But none combines those three qualities in quite the same way as this young lady. I would like you to welcome my favourite protégé, a woman whose name I am sure you will soon be very familiar with: Elle Bradley.”
Christos froze as Filip excitedly squeezed his arm.
“Look!” He whispered. “It’s Elle!”
And Christos was looking. Elle took to the stage, only she had changed out of the flimsy summer dress. Now, she wore a black cocktail dress, fitted to her sexy body like a glove. Her hair was back in a neat bun, and her shoes were flat.
Christos felt a groan heave through his body.
She bowed and the audience clapped politely, though there was evidently a curiosity over the unscheduled appearance. Andre stepped back into the shadows as Elle lifted her hands to the keys.
And despite the fact she was performing in front of hundreds, if not a thousand, people, she wasn’t nervous. Her hands didn’t shake. She looked utterly serene.
Like she was meant to be there, more than anywhere else on earth.
A smile whispered on her lips as she began to play the first mournful notes. It quickly picked up, moving at a rapid tempo, and her fingers flew over the keys.
“It’s Thomas Adés,” Filip whispered. “She’s obsessed. Mainly because he wrote the most technically challenging songs. There’s a running joke that he recorded most of his own songs because he’s the only one who can play them.”
Christos heard but didn’t dare respond. He wanted only to watch Elle. To hear Elle.
The audience was silent. Completely quiet. There was just Elle and the music. The piece went for several minutes, and she cast a mood as she played, captivating the entire audience. As she brought the song to a close and opened her eyes, her smile made his heart throb.
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