LITMIR.BIZ

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uncle’s son—just as the legacy of Vasilis’s work, his endless endeavours to preserve the treasures of the past, would pass to her guardianship.

      And she will guard it well. How strange that I can trust her to do that, that I know now that I can trust her.

      Yet it was not strange at all—not now that he had seen her in London, at the exhibition opening, and here as chatelaine of this gracious house. She had grown into it—into a woman who could do these things, be these things.

      Just as I have grown into what I am doing now. Accepting that I want a wife. A child.

      He scooped up the sleeping boy, cradling his weight in his arms as he walked indoors with him. Christine opened the front door, leading the way upstairs in the quiet house—both Mrs Hughes and Nanny Ruth were out for the evening.

      In his bedroom, they got Nicky into bed, still fast asleep, exhausted by the day’s delights. For a moment, Anatole stood beside her as they gazed down at the sleeping child, illumined only by the soft glow of the night light.

      His hand found Christine’s. She did not take it away. She stood with him as they looked down at Nicky. As if they were indeed a family indeed...

      Was there a little sound from her? Something that might have been a choke? He did not know. Knew only that she’d slipped her hand from his and was walking out of the room. He looked after her, a strange expression on his face, then back at Nicky, reaching almost absently to smooth a lock of dark hair from his forehead, to murmur a blessing on the night for him.

      Then he turned and went downstairs.

      Christine was waiting in the hall by the front door. Her head was lifted, her expression composed.

      ‘Thank you for a lovely day,’ she said.

      She spoke calmly, quelling all the emotion welling up inside her. What use to feel what was inside her? It was of no use—it never could be now.

      She opened the door, stepped back. He came up to her, feeling that strange, strong emotion in him again. This time he made no attempt to kiss her.

      ‘It’s been good,’ he said.

      His voice was quiet. His eyes steady. Then, with a quick smile, the slightest nod of his head, he was gone, crunching out over the gravel beneath the mild night sky.

      As he opened his car door he heard the front door of the house close behind him.

      Shut it, if you will—but you cannot shut me out. Not out of Nicky’s life—or yours.

      Certainty filled him as to the truth of that.

      * * *

      In the week that followed Christine did her best to regain the state of mind she’d had since her marriage to Vasilis. But it had gone—been blown away by the return of Anatole into her life. His invasion of it.

      It was an invasion that had been angrily hostile, and he had been scathing in his denunciation of her behaviour. And the searing irony of it was that anger and hostility from him was so much easier for her to cope with. What she couldn’t cope with—what she was pathetically, abjectly unable to cope with—was the way he was with her now.

      Wooing!

      The word stayed in her head, haunting her.

      Disturbing her. Confusing her.

      Changing her.

      And she didn’t want to change. She’d made a new life for herself—made it in tears and torment, but she was safe inside it. Safe inside the life Vasilis had given her. That was what she wanted to cling to.

      Anatole is my past. I can’t—I won’t—have him as my future!

      She dared not. Too much—oh, far too much—was at stake for her to allow that. More than she could bear to pay again.

      Her resolve was put to the test yet again the following Friday—the day the Barcourts had invited her and Nicky over. Her hope that Anatole had forgotten proved to be in vain. He arrived in time to drive them over. And at the rambling Elizabethan mansion the Barcourts’ welcome to Anatole could not have been friendlier.

      ‘I’m glad you could come this evening, Mr Kyrgiakis. We were all so sorry to hear about your uncle—he was well liked, and very well respected.’ Mrs Barcourt smiled kindly at Anatole as she greeted him, then led the way into the oak-panelled drawing room.

      Nicky was scooped up by the nursery party, who were rushing off to see the puppies with the nanny, and Giles’s sister Isabel, as cheerful as her brother, launched into a panegyric about the beneficial effects a puppy had on childhood, adding that Nicky should also learn to ride—as soon as he could. Giles agreed enthusiastically, volunteering their old pony, Bramble, for the job.

      ‘Don’t you agree?’ Isabel said to Anatole.

      ‘I’m sure my young cousin would love it,’ he answered. ‘But it is Christine’s decision.’

      He glanced at her and she smiled awkwardly. What the Barcourts were making of Anatole, she had no idea—knew only that they were asking no questions about him and seeming to take his presence for granted.

      But her relief lasted only until after dinner, when their hostess announced they would leave the menfolk to their port and drew Christine and Isabel off to the drawing room. There, a bottle of very good madeira was produced, and Isabel went off to see her children.

      Mrs Barcourt, Christine realised with dismay, was about to start her interrogation.

      ‘My dear, what a good-looking young man! Such a shame we’ve seen nothing of him until now!’ she exclaimed. She bent to absent-mindedly stroke the ancient, long-haired cat lounging on the hearth rug. ‘I take it we’ll be seeing a lot more of him now?’

      Her smile was nothing but friendly. The question was clearly leading...

      Christine clutched her glass. ‘He would like to get to know Nicky,’ she managed to get out.

      Her hostess nodded sympathetically. ‘Very understandable,’ she said. ‘And very good for Nicky too.’ She paused. ‘It’s early days, I know, but you will need to think of the future, Christine—as I’m sure you realise.’

      She stroked the cat again, then looked at her guest, her expression open.

      ‘A stepfather would be excellent for Nicky—but you must choose wisely.’ She made a face and spoke frankly, as Christine had known she would. ‘Not Giles,’ she said, with a little shake of her head. ‘Fond though he is of Nicky, you wouldn’t suit each other, you know.’

      Christine’s expression changed. ‘No, no... I know that.’

      Her hostess nodded. ‘I know you do, my dear, and I’m glad of it.’ She sat back, picking up her glass. ‘You and Anatole seem to get on very well...’ She trailed off.

      Christine had no idea what to say, but Mrs Barcourt did.

      ‘Well, I shall say no more except that I can see no reason not to look forward to getting to know him better. You must both come over again before long. Ah, Isabel—there you are!’ she exclaimed as her daughter breezed in. ‘How is little Nicky?’

      ‘Begging for a sleepover, and my brood are egging him on! What do you say, Christine?’

      Christine, abjectly grateful for the change of subject, could only nod. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

      ‘Not in the least,’ Isabel answered cheerfully. ‘And tomorrow morning he can try out Bramble, if you’re all right with that. Loads of kiddie riding kit here!’

      Christine nodded weakly. But belatedly she realised that if Nicky slept here tonight she would be without his protective presence herself.

      It was something she felt more strongly at the end of the evening, when she sat beside Anatole in his car, heading home.

      He glanced at her.

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