One Kiss in... London: A Shameful Consequence / Ruthless Tycoon, Innocent Wife / Falling for her Convenient Husband

‘I rang Stavros.’ He raised his eyes just a little, searched her face for evidence of upset, but she was still calm.

‘How was he?’

‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘And he is happy.’ Nico gave a shrug—he didn’t like Stavros and neither did he like what he had put Constantine through. ‘He has been through some difficult times.’

‘So?’ Nico asked. ‘That does not mean you forgive.’

‘Well, I can. His difficult times have lasted a lot longer than mine—he’s been struggling with this for years. I can see now why he was angry, perhaps mean to me at times …’ Nico looked less than convinced, so she changed the topic to something far lighter, something that still made her smile even now. ‘Actually, I do have some news!’ The sun was coming through the window behind, but it wasn’t as bright as her smile, and it was a Constantine he had never seen, even on their one night together. There was a lightness to her, a calmness, and it reached him, had him smiling back in return. ‘We don’t need a box.’

‘Sorry?’

‘This is your box.’ He had no idea what she talking about. All he could see as she walked over to the table were long brown legs, all he could think of as he walked over to where she stood was the scent of her close up—a feminine scent, a summer scent of oil and woman. She waved at the French windows and he had to force himself to turn his head towards them rather than towards her mouth. ‘It’s the view from here.’

She was right. He looked at the jigsaw and she had been busy. There was the frame of the windows and a dash of red geranium. There was the azure of the pool, the white of the balcony and the red of the flowers. He looked at the jumble of loose pieces, her fingers selecting one and slotting it in as she spoke.

‘Paulo was trimming the bush,’ Constantine explained, ‘and I could see it. Someone has painted the view and then made it into a jigsaw.’

‘Shame,’ Nico said. ‘It would surely be better hung on the wall.’

‘I think it’s fun,’ Constantine said, and that admission surprised even her, for that word hadn’t been in her vocabulary for a very long time. ‘Oh!’ She saw another piece, and her hand moved and collected it. ‘It’s a baby,’ she said, slotting it into its place. He did not care for jigsaws but he was starting to care more for her. He looked at the concentration on her face, the shimmer of her skin, and his next question came from a place he did not know, a place he should not go, but it was a place within that wanted to know.

‘How is Leo?’

‘Wonderful!’ Deliberately she didn’t look up, tried not to seem as if she’d noticed, but her heart tripped faster, for it was the first time he had asked about his baby. Another piece of jigsaw caught her eye and, as nonchalantly as she could, she told him some more. ‘Bathed and fed and fast asleep. I took him in the pool for a little while. Despina said it was too soon, but he laughed and loved it …’

He wished he had seen it.

‘Here’s another one.’ He picked up another piece of the puzzle and slotted it in. ‘Another baby, they must be twins.’ He looked at where she stood, saw her rapid blink and her face redden, and he mistook the reason. He thought she must be suddenly aware of how little she had on, or knew perhaps how much he wanted her.

And he didn’t want to want her.

‘I’m going to get changed.’ His voice was gruffer than intended and Constantine glanced up and frowned.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’

He was far from fine.

Nico was uncomfortable, unsettled, because that walk up the beach, to the stairs, the conversation, for the first time he had felt as if he was coming home—that feeling he had got as he had seen the view of his house had been, Nico now realised, relief.

But it did not soothe him now.

There could be no getting used to it.

He heard a murmur from her room as he walked past, a small wail of distress, and he ignored it. Constantine would get him if he awoke, would soothe him if he cried.

And then it came again and Nico stopped in the hallway.

He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to walk away, yet his feet moved toward her room, to the scent of her, layered with another scent, that sweet, milky, baby scent that was becoming familiar. He had never really looked at the infant, had deliberately tried to separate himself from him.

Because if he was his, what then?

And if he wasn’t?

He moved towards the crib and peered in, with no intention of doing anything, for Nico had never so much as held a baby. But on sight instinctively he knew what was wrong. Leo had lost his thumb. His little hand was caught in the cotton and with heart racing Nico took the baby’s hand and moved it back to his mouth. He smiled at Leo’s relief as he popped his thumb in. His finger pushed up his nose to a snub, his eyelashes so long that they met the curve of his cheek, and Nico’s heart stilled as Leo opened his eyes to his saviour. Huge black eyes stared at Nico, and a smile flitted across the baby’s face. Then, soothed by what he saw, Leo closed his eyes again.

Nico’s heart did beat again but with something that felt like fear, for he recognised him.

Of course he did, Nico told himself, for he was his.

He walked to the bathroom, his breathing hard as if he had been running, sweat beading on his forehead. He felt ill, dizzy, that perhaps he, all six feet two of him, might fall to the floor in a faint.

‘Ridiculous.’

He moved to the sink, ran the taps hard and splashed water on his grey face.

So, the child was his—it could hardly come as a shock. He looked in the mirror to scold himself, to tell himself to pull himself together, but the eyes that looked back, the reflection that stared, only confused him more.

He put his hand to the mirror, and his reflection did the same, which must mean it was him.

He wanted them gone.

He did not love.

And it was love Constantine wanted, not passion or romance or just the house and land and the trappings—it was everything she wanted, and love was the one thing he could not give. This would not last. He lived in the fast lane, he liked his freedom. How soon would he be bored, how soon would she leave?

She would leave. Nico intrinsically knew that, and quite simply he wanted it done. Wanted it over.

He would show her his life, show her firsthand the world he inhabited; he would push her away by her own choice.

Prove how incompatible they were.

She was slicing salad in the kitchen, so confident in her own skin now that she had not gone and dressed. He could see her breasts moving as she sliced, see her brown, sun-kissed stomach, and he could not do this for another night.

He could not let her think this was how he lived. He would show her instead just how impossible they were, push her out of her comfort zone as much as she pushed him out of his.

‘I’m bored eating in.’ He saw her eyes jerk up. ‘We should go out.’ Because that was what he did—he ate out, not home-made salads and jigsaws afterwards, not the walk on the beach she might suggest later tonight.

‘Sure.’ She hesitated for a moment, just surprised, that was all. ‘I’ll get Leo.’

‘Just us.’

She was about to give a smart retort for his abruptness, but conceded she had perhaps misinterpreted his words, and anyway the prospect of a night out was tempting.

‘I’ll see if Despina can babysit.’

When Connie walked over to her house and asked her, Despina said she would be delighted to, of course. Not that Nico seemed particularly pleased by the news when she returned. ‘I’ve rung Charlotte and she’s arranged a table and driver—we leave in half an hour.’