LITMIR.BIZ

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turned her head, her eyes widening. Had Anatole really just said that? Anatole who thought her the lowest of the low?

      ‘I did it for him,’ she said quietly, and looked away, out of her window, away from Anatole.

      She could feel his presence in the car as something tangible, threatening to overpower her. How many times had she and he driven like this, through the city night? So many nights—so many cities...

      It was so long ago—five years ago. A lifetime ago. And I am not the same person—not by any measure. Even my name is different now. I have been a wife, and now I am a widow—I am a mother. And Anatole can mean nothing to me any more. Nothing!

      Just as she, in the end, had meant nothing to him.

      Memory stabbed at her of how Anatole had sat her down, talked to her, his face tense, the morning she had told him she wasn’t pregnant after all.

      ‘Tia—this is something you have to understand. I do not want to marry and I do not want to have children. Not with you—not with anyone. Now, if either or both of those things is something you do want,’ he’d continued in the same taut voice, ‘then you must accept that it is not going to happen with me. Not voluntarily.’

      His voice had twisted on that word. He’d been sitting opposite her, leaning forward slightly, his hands hanging loosely between his thighs, an earnest expression on his face as if he were explaining something to someone incapable of understanding.

      And that was me—I couldn’t understand. So I learned the hard way...

      He’d taken a breath, looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I like you Tia. You’re very sweet, and very lovely, and we’ve had a really great time together, but...’ He’d taken another breath. ‘What I will not tolerate is any attempt by you to...to get pregnant and force me to the altar. I won’t have that, Tia—I won’t have it.’

      He’d held her eyes, making her hear what he was telling her.

      ‘So from now on make sure there is no chance of another scare like this one, OK? No more getting “muddled up” over time zones.’ And then an edge had come into his voice, and his eyes had had a look of steel in them. ‘If that is what really happened.’

      He’d got to his feet, his six-foot height dwarfing her seated figure, and she’d looked up at him, her throat tight and painful, her hands twisted in her lap.

      ‘If you want a baby, Tia, accept that it cannot be with me.’ His expression had hardened. ‘And if it’s me you want one with—well, then you had better leave, right away, because it’s over between us—over.’

      He’d left the apartment then, heading to his office, and she’d watched him go. Her vision had grown hazy, and she’d felt feel sobs rising. The moment he’d gone she had rushed into the bathroom, releasing the pent-up tears, hating it that Anatole was being like that—hating it that she’d given him cause.

      What she longed for so unbearably was what he did not want, and her heart felt as if it was cracking in pieces.

      Her red-rimmed eyes had fallen on the little rectangular packet by the basin. It had been delivered the day before but she had dreaded using it. Dreaded finding out. Finding out whether what she had once thought would be a dream come true was instead turning into a nightmare. Was she forcing a child on Anatole—forcing him into a loveless, bitter marriage he did not want to make.

      Then her period had arrived after all, making the test unnecessary.

      She’d stared at the packet. Fear in her throat.

      I’ve got to be sure—absolutely, totally sure—that I’m not pregnant. Because that’s the only way he’ll still want me.

      She’d shut her eyes. She needed Anatole to want her on any terms at all. Any terms.

      So she had done the test. Even though she hadn’t needed to. Because she hadn’t been able to bear not to.

      She had done the test...and stared at the little white stick...

      * * *

      Christine’s car was pulling up at the hotel. Anatole leant across, opening her door for her. The brush of his sleeve on her arm made her feel faint, and she had to fight to keep her air of composure, dangerously fragile as it was.

      She turned to bid him goodnight. But he was getting out too. Addressing her.

      ‘I need to speak to you.’ He glanced at the hotel entrance. ‘In private.’

      He took her elbow, moved to guide her inside. Unless she wrested herself away from him, made a scene in front of Mr Hughes and the doorman tipping his hat to them, she must comply.

      The moment she was indoors, she stepped away.

      ‘Well?’ she said, lifting her eyebrows, her expression still unyielding.

      His eyes had gone to where a small bar opened up off the lobby, and she walked stiffly to one of the tables, sat herself down. The place was almost empty, and she was glad. She ordered coffee for herself and Anatole did likewise, adding a brandy.

      Only when the drinks arrived did he speak. ‘I’ve heard from Vasilis’s London solicitors,’ he opened.

      Christine’s eyes went to him. She was burningly conscious of him there—of his tall, effortlessly elegant body, of the achingly familiar scent of his aftershave, of the slight darkening of his jawline at this advanced hour of the evening.

      How she had loved to rub her fingers along the roughening edges, feeling passion start to quicken...

      Yet again, she hauled her mind away. Anatole’s voice was clipped, restrained as he continued. She realised he was tense, and wondered why.

      ‘Now that probate has been granted they have told me the contents of Vasilis’s will.’ The words came reluctantly from him, his mouth tight. His eyes rested on her face, looking at her blankly. Then his expression changed. ‘Why did you let me think you would inherit all my uncle’s personal fortune for yourself?’

      Christine’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t,’ she said tightly. ‘That, Anatole,’ she added, her voice sharp, ‘was something you assumed entirely on your own!’

      He half lifted his hand—as if her objection were irrelevant. As if there were more he had to say.

      ‘My uncle’s wealth has been left entirely in trust for his son—you get only a trivial income for yourself. Everything else belongs to Nicky!’

      Her eyes flickered and her chin lifted. ‘I wouldn’t call my income trivial. It’s over thirty thousand pounds a year,’ she replied.

      ‘Chickenfeed!’ he said dismissively.

      Her expression tightened. ‘To you, yes. To me it’s enough to live on if I have to—more than enough. I was penniless when I married Vasilis—as you reminded me. Of course everything must go to Nicky. And besides—’ she allowed a flash of cynicism to show in her eyes ‘—as I’m sure you will point out to me, I will continue to reap the benefits of Nicky’s inheritance while he’s a minor. I get to live in a Queen Anne country house, and I’ll have all of Nicky’s money to enjoy while he grows up.’

      A hand lifted and slashed sideways. ‘But you will have no spending money other than your own income.’

      Her composure snapped. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anatole. What am I going to spend money on? I have enough clothes to last me a lifetime. And I’ve told you I have no ambition to racket around the world causing scandals, as you so charmingly accused me of wanting to do. I simply want to go on living where I do now—for my sake as much as Nicky’s. It’s where he’s grown up so far, where I have friends and know people who knew Vasilis and liked him, valued him. If I want to take Nicky on holiday, of course funds will be made available to me. I shall want for nothing—though I’m sure you’ll be the first to accuse me of the opposite!’

      She

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