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so dangerous it terrified her.

      Temptation.

      Deadly, fatal temptation.

      She had felt it once before—just as strong, just as dangerous. Once before she had been about to do something that with every instinct in her body she had known to be wrong. And the conflict had almost destroyed her. Would have destroyed her had it not been for Vasilis.

      She had poured it all out to him that desperate day in Athens, when Anatole had made it so ruthlessly clear how little she meant to him—had set out the only terms under which he was prepared to continue with her, and what the consequences would be if she rejected those terms, broke them.

      And Vasilis had listened. Had let her weep and sob and pour out all her misery and desperation. And then kindly, calmly and oh-so-generously, he had put forward another possibility for her.

      He saved me. He saved me from the danger I was in of yielding to that overpowering temptation, that nightmare torment, that desperate desolation of realising that Anatole was a million miles away from what I yearned for.

      Restlessly now, all these years later, she crossed to the window of her bedroom to look down over the gardens. She loved this house—this quiet, tranquil house that was so redolent of her marriage to Vasilis. He had brought her peace when her life had been in pieces.

      Her eyes moved to the door set in the wall that led into a little dressing room, and from there into Vasilis’s bedroom. A room that was now empty of him.

      I miss him. I miss his kindness, his company, his wisdom.

      Yet already, in the long months since she’d stood at his bleak graveside, he was beginning to fade in her head. Or perhaps it was not that he was fading, but that another was forcing himself into her consciousness. Into the space that had once been her husband’s.

      Just as her husband had once taken the space that had belonged to the man now replacing him.

      I worked so hard to free myself of Anatole. Yet now he is back in my head, dominating everything.

      And he was offering her now, with supreme, bitter irony, what he had never wanted to offer her before.

      ‘Do I tempt you?’

      Anatole had taunted her with those words and she had felt the force of them...the temptation to let herself be tempted. And then she had felt the touch of his mouth on hers...

      With a smothered cry of anguish she whirled about, forcing herself to get on with the day—to put aside the insanity that Anatole was proposing, force it out of her head.

      But when, mid-morning, she went up to Nicky’s nursery to spend some time with him and let Nanny Ruth have a break, the first thing Nicky did was ask where Anatole was. She gave some answer—she knew not what—and was dismayed to see his little face fall. Even more dismayed to discover that he remembered what he’d said so sleepily the night before. What Anatole had said.

      His little face quivered. ‘He said my pappou sent him to look after me. But where is he?’

      She did her best to divert him, practising his reading and writing with him, until suddenly his eyes brightened and Christine, too, heard a car arriving—crunching along the front drive.

      A bare few minutes later, rapid, masculine footsteps sounded outside, the nursery door opened, and there was Anatole.

      With a whoop of glee Nicky rushed to him, to be swung up into Anatole’s arms. Christine could only gaze at them, emotion scything inside her powerfully at the sight of her son’s blazing delight at Anatole’s arrival—and Anatole, his face softening, showed in every line of his body his gladness to see Nicky.

      He turned to Christine, with Nicky held effortlessly in the crook of his arm, one little hand snaked around his neck, and the pair of them smiled broadly at her.

      So like each other...

      There was a humming in her ears, blood rushing, and she could only blink helplessly. Then Anatole was speaking...

      ‘Who wants to go on an adventure today?’ he asked.

      Nicky’s eyes lit up. ‘Me! Me!’ came the excited reply.

      Anatole laughed and swung him down on his feet again, his eyes going to Christine.

      ‘It’s a glorious day out there—how about an outing? All three of us?’

      She opened her mouth to give any number of objections, but in the face of Nicky’s joyous response could not voice them. ‘Why not?’ she said weakly. ‘I’ll let Nanny know.’

      She made her escape, finding Nanny Ruth in her sitting room, watching a programme about antiques on the TV and finishing off a cup of tea.

      ‘What a good idea!’ she said, beaming when Christine told her of Anatole’s plans. She looked at her employer. ‘It will distract Nicky. And, if I might say...’ Christine got the impression that she was picking her works carefully ‘... I am very glad that young Mr Kyrgiakis is finally in touch.’ She nodded meaningfully. ‘He’s clearly very fond of Nicky already. It will be important for Nicky to have him in his life.’

      Her eyes never left Christine’s and then she took a breath, as if having said enough, and got to her feet.

      ‘Now, where does young Mr K plan on going today? I’ll make sure Nicky has the right clothes.’

      She headed into the playroom, leaving Christine feeling outmanoeuvred on all fronts. With deep misgiving she went downstairs, fetching a jacket for herself.

      A whole day in Anatole’s company—with only Nicky to shelter behind.

      Tension netted her, and she felt her heart-rate increasing. She knew what was causing it to do so. Knew it and feared it.

       CHAPTER NINE

      ‘THIS,’ ANNOUNCED NICKY with a happy sigh, ‘is the best day ever!’ He sat back in his chair, a generous smear of chocolate ice cream around his mouth.

      Christine laughed—she couldn’t help it. Just as she hadn’t been able to help herself laughing when she’d realised just where Anatole was taking them.

      ‘A holiday camp?’ she’d exclaimed disbelievingly as they’d arrived in Anatole’s car.

      He’d somehow procured a child’s booster seat, and Nicky had stared wide-eyed with dawning excitement as they parked.

      ‘Day tickets,’ Anatole had replied. He’d looked at Nicky. ‘Do you think you’ll like it?’

      The answer had been evident for over six hours now. From the incredible indoor swimming paradise—towels and swimwear for all three of them having been conveniently purchased from the pool shop—with its myriad slides and fountains and any number of other delights for children, to the outdoor fairground, finishing off the day with a show based on popular TV characters.

      Now they were tucking into a high tea of fish and chips and, for Nicky, copious ice cream. Christine leant forward to mop his face. Her mood was strange. It had been impossible not to realise that she was enjoying herself today. Enjoying, overwhelmingly, Nicky’s excitement at everything. And Anatole’s evident pleasure in Nicky’s delight.

      His focus had been on her little boy, and yet Christine had caught herself, time and time again, exchanging glances with Anatole over Nicky’s expressions of joy at the thrills of the day. Brief glances, smiles, shared amusement—as the day had gone on they had become more frequent, less brief.

      The tension that had netted her before they’d set off had evaporated in a way she could not have believed possible, and yet so it was. It was as if, she suddenly realised with a start, the old ease in his company, which had once been the way she was with him until the debacle that had ended their relationship, was awakening as if after a long freezing.

      It was

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