The Secret Wife

Maurice picked up a large green ceramic rabbit and frowned. ‘Isn’t this part of your own collection?’

It was Rosie’s turn to shrug, faint pink spreading over her cheekbones. ‘I’ll pick up another one.’

‘Nobody’s ever going to pay that for it,’ Maurice told her, studying the price tag and wincing.

‘It’s already attracted interest—’

‘But not a buyer. You’re overpricing it because you can’t bear to part with it.’

Frowning at that uncomfortably accurate assistance, Rosie sipped at her coffee. ‘Did he show up?’

‘Yeah...’ Maurice rearranged the stock on her stall without raising his head. ‘I told him where to find you.’

‘You did what?’ Beneath the brim of her black trilby, Rosie’s startled brows shot heavenward.

‘I’ll watch your stall. Here he comes now...’

As Rosie’s horrified eyes fell on Constantine Voulos, her heart turned a somersault and lodged somewhere in the region of her working throat. Her nerveless fingers shook and coffee slopped everywhere without her noticing.

The tall Greek stationed himself on the other side of the stall, his vibrantly handsome features taut with sardonic impatience as he spread a derisive glance around the shabby covered market. ‘You do like to play childish games, don’t you, Miss Waring?’

Maurice uttered an audible groan. Striding forward, he planted the green rabbit into Constantine Voulos’s startled hands. ‘Can I interest you in an increasingly rare example of Sylvac pottery?’

‘It’s a piece of junk,’ Constantine gritted, and dumped the item back down at speed.

‘You wouldn’t know any different, would you?’ Rosie snapped as she swept round the stall to check that his rough handling hadn’t chipped the rabbit.

Constantine Voulos ignored her to study Maurice with icy contempt. ‘I get the picture. You want me to pay for the lady’s time?’

. Maurice folded his arms, his pugnacious aspect belied by the ever-ready sense of humour dancing in his bright blue eyes. ‘Suit yourself, mate.’

‘What the heck is going on here?’ In utter disbelief, Rosie gaped as Constantine flipped out a wallet, withdrew a handful of notes and stuffed them into her pocket. ‘I don’t want his money!’ ‘When a guy expects to pay for every little thing in life, you ought to satisfy him,’ Maurice contended cheerfully. ‘Take him across to the pub, Rosie.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere with him... in fact the two of you can go take a running jump together!’ Rosie attempted to move past Constantine but a lean, hard hand snaked out and closed round her forearm. ‘Let go of me!’ ‘You harm a hair of her head and I’ll swing for you,’ Maurice warned with gentle emphasis as he extended a laden carrier bag. ‘Don’t forget your purchase, Mr Voulos, and treat it with respect. Rosie’s very fond of rabbits—’

In a gesture of supreme contempt, Constantine grasped the bag and dropped it from a height into the metal litter bin opposite. The sound of shattering pottery provoked a stricken gasp from Rosie.

Maurice groaned again. ‘There is just no telling some people.’

Wrenching herself violently free of Constantine’s hold, Rosie darted over to the bin and looked inside the bag. She paled as she viewed the extent of the damage. It was irreparable. Momentarily her fingertips brushed the broken pieces and then she rounded on Constantine like a spitting tigress, green eyes ablaze. ‘How could you do that? How could you do that?’

‘Why are you shouting?’ Incredulous black eyes clashed with hers.

‘You selfish, insensitive, snobbish pig ...’ Rosie condemned wrathfully. ‘I was prepared to sell that rabbit, but only if it was going to a good home!’

‘Are you unhinged or merely determined to cause a public scene?’ Constantine snarled down at her.

‘At least I’m not wantonly destructive and spiteful!’

‘Spiteful? I wouldn’t be caught dead walking around with that ugly piece of tasteless junk!’

With the greatest of difficulty, Rosie haltered her temper. Well, he needn’t think he was getting his money back now. She swallowed hard, dug her hands into her pockets and walked off. Crossing the pavement, she stepped into the road—or at least she’d started stepping, when a powerful hand closed over her shoulder and yanked her back bodily as a car sped past.

‘Do you have a death-wish?’ Constantine Voulos grated.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t push me,’ Rosie snapped, shaken by the experience but determined not to betray the fact. ‘Oh, I forgot, didn’t I? I’m only worth something to you as long as I’m alive and kicking!’

Across the road, she headed in the direction of the small bar used by the market traders, but her companion strode towards the luxury hotel twenty yards further on. Rosie’s chin came up. She squared her shoulders and then hesitated. The sooner she dealt with the situation, the sooner he would be gone. A wave of exhaustion swept over her then. She had had little sleep the night before and now she found herself thinking guiltily about her father again.

Anton would have been appalled by the animosity between his daughter and his ward. In drawing up that wretched will, her father had clearly expected her to tell Constantine who she was. Left in ignorance of their true relationship, Constantine had assumed that she was Anton’s mistress. What other role could he possibly have assigned to her?

So why hadn’t she told him the truth? Rosie’s strained mouth compressed. In her mind, Constantine Voulos had been the enemy long before she’d even met him and Anton’s death had simply increased her bitterness. She resented the fact that Constantine had grown up secure in her father’s love and affection. Why not admit it? At the same age she had lost her mother and had been put into the care of the local authorities...

Dear heaven, could she really have been that unreasonable? The creeping awareness that she had been unjust and immature filled Rosie with discomfiture.

CHAPTER THREE

Two men in dark suits were waiting in the hotel lobby. They looked tense and sprang forward with a strong suggestion of relief when Constantine appeared. A spate of low-pitched Greek was exchanged. Striding ahead of them into the quiet, almost empty lounge bar, the younger man rushed to pull out a pair of comfortable armchairs beside the log fire.

Fluidly discarding his black cashmere overcoat, Constantine sank indolently down and snapped imperious fingers. While Rosie looked on in fascination, the second man stationed behind him inclined his head to receive instructions. The waitress was summoned and drinks were served at spectacular speed.

‘What’s with Laurel and Hardy?’ Rosie nodded in the direction of the two men.

‘Dmitri and Taki are my security men.’

‘I won’t ask why you need them. Your personality kind of speaks for itself.’ Bodyguards, for goodness’ sake? To conceal her embarrassment, Rosie whipped off her hat and a mass of wildly colourful spiralling curls cascaded round her shoulders. In a gesture of impatience, she finger-combed her hair back off her face. As she removed her jacket to reveal the ancient guernsey sweater she wore beneath, she intercepted a disturbingly intent stare from her companion.

‘What are you looking at?’ she demanded aggressively.

An aristocratic ebony brow climbed but rich dark eyes gleamed with grudging amusement and without warning a devastating smile slashed his hard features. That smile blinded Rosie like a floodlight turned on in the dark. Taken by surprise, she squirmed like a truculent puppy unsure of its ground. Her eyes colliding with that night-dark gaze, she experienced the most terrifying lurch of excitement. Her stomach muscles clenched as if she had gone down in a lift too fast.

‘Your hair is a very eye-catching colour,’ he murmured wryly.

‘And usually only rag-dolls have corkscrew curls,’ Rosie completed in driven discomfiture, carefully studying the soft drink she had snatched up, her palms damply clutching the glass and her hands far from steady.

In the church she had assumed that it was the shock of meeting him which had shaken her up. But yesterday she had experienced a magnetic and undeniably sexual response that had briefly, mortifyingly reduced her to a positive jelly of juvenile confusion. But it wasn’t her fault—no, it definitely wasn’t—and there wasn’t anything personal about it either, she told herself bracingly. So there was no need for her to be sitting here with her knees locked guiltily together and her cheeks as hot as a furnace.

It was his fault that she was uncomfortable. He was staggeringly beautiful to look at, but then that wasn’t the true source of the problem. Constantine Voulos had something a whole lot more dangerous. A potent, sexually devastating allure that burned with electrifying heat. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosie watched an older woman across the lounge feasting her attention on Constantine’s hard-cut, hawk-like profile and felt thoroughly vindicated in her self-examination.

‘Let us concede that we met for the first time in inauspicious circumstances,’ Constantine murmured. ‘But the time for argument is now past. There is no reason why this unfortunate affair should not be settled quietly and discreetly.’

Rosie sat forward, tense as a drawn bowstring. ‘I haven’t been honest with you,’ she began stiffly. ‘I made things worse than they needed to be but then you didn’t make things easy either...leaping off on a tangent, making wild assumptions and insulting me—’

‘I don’t follow.’ Impatience edged the interruption.

Pale and tense, Rosie snatched in a ragged breath. ‘I’m not who you think I am. I wasn’t Anton’s mistress...’ She coloured as she said that out loud. ‘I’m his daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket... or whatever you want to call it...’

Constantine Voulos dealt her an arrested look and then his gaze flared with raw incredulity. ‘What the hell do you hope to achieve by making so grotesque a claim?’

Rosie’s brows drew together. ‘But it’s true... I mean, I suppose you have every reason not to want to believe me, but Anton was my father.’