LITMIR.BIZ

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be lovely—thank you!’ she exclaimed, and Giles grinned back even more warmly.

      She was aware that he was probably sweet on her—as he might have called it, had any such introspection occurred to him—but he never pushed it.

      ‘Great!’ he said. ‘I’ll let her know.’

      He was about to say something else, but at that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path around the side of the house. She looked up, startled.

      A mix of shock and dismay filled her. ‘Anatole...’ she said faintly.

      This time there had not even been any warning from her housekeeper. Anatole must have parked his car, heard voices, and come across the gardens. Now he was striding up to them. Unlike last time he was not in a black business suit, nor in a tuxedo as he had been in London. This time he was wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater and casually styled leather jacket.

      He looked...

      Devastating.

      A thousand memories drummed through her head, swooping like butterflies. Like the butterflies now fluttering inside her stomach as he stood, surveying the group. Her grip was lax suddenly, and she felt Nicky wriggle off her lap.

      Excitement blazed from Nicky’s face and he rushed up to Anatole. ‘You came—you came!’ he exclaimed. ‘I did that painting! I painted it for Pappou, like you said.’

      Anatole hunkered down. ‘Did you?’ He smiled. ‘That’s great. Will you show it to me later?’

      There was something about the ecstatic greeting he was receiving that was sending emotion coursing through him. His grin widened. How could he possibly have stayed away so long when a welcome like this was coming his way?

      ‘Yes!’ cried Nicky. ‘It’s in my playroom.’ Then something even more exciting occurred to him. ‘Come and see my puppy!’

      He caught at Anatole’s hand, drew him over to the bench where Giles had got to his feet.

      ‘Puppy?’ queried Anatole.

      He was focussing on Nicky, but at the same time he was burningly conscious of Tia’s presence. Her face was pale, her expression clearly masked. She didn’t want him there—it was blaring from her like a beacon—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t here for her, but for Vasilis’s son. That was his only concern.

      Not the way that her long hair was caught back in a simple clip...nor how effortlessly lovely she looked in a lightweight sweater and jeans.

      Was her blonde loveliness the reason her current visitor was there? Anatole’s eyes snapped across to the young man who’d stood up, and was now addressing him.

      ‘Giles Barcourt,’ he said in an easy manner, oblivious to what Christine instantly saw was a skewering look from Anatole. ‘I’m a neighbour. Come to show young Nicky Juno’s pups.’ He grinned, and absently ruffled Nicky’s hair.

      Christine saw Anatole slowly take Giles’s outstretched hand and shake it briefly.

      ‘Giles—this is...’ she swallowed ‘...this is Vasilis’s nephew, Anatole Kyrgiakis.’

      Immediately Giles’s expression changed. ‘I’m sorry about your uncle,’ he said. ‘We all liked him immensely.’

      There was a sincerity in his voice that Christine hoped Anatole would respect. She saw him give a tight nod.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said.

      His glance moved between her and Giles assessingly. She felt her spine stiffen. Then he was speaking again.

      ‘A puppy sounds like a very good idea,’ he said.

      Was he addressing her or Giles? Whichever it was, it was Giles who answered.

      ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Take the little guy’s mind off...well, you know.’ His glance went back to Christine. ‘I’ll take myself off, then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll see you on Friday week. Come a bit earlier, so the tinies can have some playtime together and inspect the puppies.’

      His glance encompassed Anatole.

      ‘Dinner with my parents,’ he explained, adding without prompting, ‘You’d be most welcome to join us.’ He smiled with his usual unaffected good humour.

      Christine waited for Anatole to make some polite but evasive reply. To her shock, he did the exact opposite. ‘Thank you—that’s very good of you.’

      ‘Great! Well, see you, then. Cheers, you guys!’ He loped off, waving at Nicky, and disappeared.

      Anatole watched him go. He’d wondered who the muddy-wheeled four by four in the parking area behind the house belonged to, and now he knew.

      He turned back to Christine. ‘An admirer?’ he said silkily. But beneath the silk was another emotion, one he did not care to name.

      Anger flashed in her eyes. Raw, vehement. But she did not deign to honour his jibe with a reply. Instead, she said, ‘What are you doing here Anatole?’

      Nearly a fortnight had passed since that second encounter with him in London, and she had hoped that he’d taken himself off again, abandoned his declared intention to have anything more to do with her. With Nicky.

      But his next words only confirmed that intention. He looked at her. ‘I told you I wanted to see Nicky again.’

      All too conscious of her son’s presence, of the fact that he was tugging at Anatole to get his attention, Christine knew she could not do anything other than reply with, ‘Did you not think to ring first?’

      ‘To ask permission to see Vasilis’s son?’ His voice was back to being silky. Then he turned his attention back to Nicky. ‘OK, so how about showing me your painting, then?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes—yes!’ Nicky exclaimed.

      Christine took a breath. ‘I’ll take you up. Nanny Ruth is having her break now.’

      She led the way indoors. She was trying hard to stay composed, though her heart was hammering. Behind her she could hear Anatole’s deep voice, and Nicky’s piping one. She felt her heart clench.

      Inside, she headed up the wide staircase and then along the landing to where another flight of stairs led to the nursery floor beneath the dormer windows.

      Nicky’s playroom was lavish—Anatole’s glance took in a rocking horse, a train set, a garage and toy cars, plus a large collection of teddy bears and the like. The walls were covered in colourful educational posters, and the plentiful bookshelves were full of books.

      A large table was set by the dormer window, and on a nearby wall there was a wide noticeboard which held a painting of a blue train with red wheels. There were some other paintings pinned up too, and in alphabet letters was spelled out the phrase, Paintings for my pappou. A lot of kisses followed.

      Anatole felt his throat close, a choke rising. This was clearly the nursery of a much-loved child.

      ‘There it is!’ Nicky cried out, and ran to the noticeboard, climbing up on a chair and pointing to the painting.

      Then he pointed to the others—a red car, a house with chimneys and a green door, and a trio of stick people with huge faces. Smiling faces. Underneath each of the stick people was a name, painstakingly written out in thick pen around dotted guidelines: Pappou, Mumma and Nicky. The stick people were surrounded by kisses.

      ‘That’s my pappou,’ Nicky said. ‘He lives in heaven. He got sick. We’ll see him later.’ He cast a quivering look at Christine. ‘Won’t we, Mumma?’

      It was Anatole who answered. ‘Yes, we will,’ he said decisively. ‘We all will. We’ll have a big, big party when we see him.’

      The quivering look vanished from his little cousin’s eyes. Then they widened excitedly. ‘A party? With balloons? And cakes?’

      ‘Definitely,’

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