‘Surely it’s time for you to resume your journey to Paris?’ Arielle said, taking her place, as he did likewise opposite her. The soft folds of the beautiful shawl nestled against her shoulders and upper arms. She knew it flattered her. For reasonsshe wasn’t about to examine she’d made more of an effort this evening. She still wore the sun dress she’d worn during the day, but had added a simple necklace of blue beads and scooped her hair into an up style. Nothing formal, but graceful for all that. Her lips had felt a little dry, so she’d glossed them with a slightly tinted gel and spritzed a light floral scent over her throat. She hadn’t let herself think about the reasons, she’d just done it.
Her eyes went to him now, hearing her own question to him. Feeling, suddenly, a little dart of fear go through her.
I should want him to clear off to Paris and leave me here on my own for just a little bit longer.
But I don’t.
Her expression changed. No, she did not want Lycos Dimistrios to go. To leave her.
So when he gave his answer, as he poured their wine handing one glass to her, she knew from her reaction that he had given the answer she should not want to hear and yet did want to hear at the same time.
‘There’s no rush,’ he said easily. ‘Paris can wait. This is far more pleasant.’ He lifted his glass to her. ‘Santé!To a very enjoyable day. Thank you for being my tour guide.’
She gave a flickering smile, conscious of conflicting thoughts. Confusing thoughts. She dropped her eyes to the plates on the table, laded with the purchases from the delicatessen.Charcuterieand olives, a jar of caviar with blinis, poached chicken breasts and smoked trout, artichoke hearts and tiny stuffed peppers,remouladeand finely sliced tomatoes in a piquant vinaigrette, and assorted cheeses, together with the bread she’d bought.
Her gaze returned to him across the table, as she picked up her own glass. The dusky early evening, the soft glow from the table lamp, the light thrown from the parlour behind where they were sitting out on the terrace, all threw his features intochiaroscuro,highlighting them for her. She wanted to gaze and gaze, drink him in, but that would be far too obvious. So, she dropped her eyes instead, taking a delicate mouthful of her wine and setting back her glass on the table.
‘What do we start with?’ she asked, indicating the spread before them.
‘Caviar,’ Lycos pronounced, helping them both to generous portions. ‘Do you like caviar?’ he asked, making a start on his.
‘It’s not part of my everyday diet,’ Arielle said wryly. ‘I assume it is for you, though?’
He glanced across at her. ‘Not always. I remember my first taste vividly. It was in my early days of making wins and I was flushed with success. I cashed in my chips and went to the bar to celebrate. Someone further down was having caviar and champagne, so I ordered the same.’
Arielle heard something change in his voice as he continued.
‘I was on my way to a new life and I wanted to mark the occasion. That first taste of caviar put my old life behind me.’
There was an edge in his voice, she could hear that too. Then, abruptly, it was gone again. ‘This should be such a moment for you too, Arielle. Putting your old life behind you. Walk away from themas, head held high. Don’t look back. I didn’t. Nor should you.’
She felt her finger tighten around the knife she was using to lift caviar on to her blini.
‘You don’t understand—’ she started. Her voice was as tight as her grip on the knife.
He cut across her. ‘Arielle, move on! I did. I had to or I’d have gone the same way as my father—’
He broke off, swallowed his caviar and blini, reached for his wine, set the glass down with a click. Looked across the table at her.
‘My father was not a stupid man,’ he said. ‘But he was weak and self-indulgent and self-pitying. He felt hard done by, so he drowned his sorrows. When his sense of frustration mounted, he took it out on me.’
She stared across at him. ‘He…he hit you?’
‘Until I got big enough to hit back. Then he stopped.’
‘But…but what about your mother?’
‘My mother?’ Lycos’s voice was harsh now. ‘She’d walked out, fed up with his self-pity.’
‘She left you with a father who hit you?’ Arielle’s voice was hollow.
‘She went off with a man who didn’t want any baggage.’
‘But that’s awful! How could she?’
‘Very easily, apparently. But she’d never been much of a mother anyway. My memories are of her complaining vociferously to my father all the time. They only married because I was on the way. She left just after the economic crash in Greece came. My father lost his job—not that it was much of a job, but it brought in a wage at least—and then there were no more jobs to be had. But there was liquor to be had, so he took to that instead. Stayed with it to the end. He was a full-blown alcoholic by then. I took what care I could of him. Not that he noticed.’
He took a breath, looked right at her. ‘Arielle, that’s what I meant when I talked about responsibility and the freedom you have when you accept that you can’t be responsible. I tried to stop my father drinking, felt responsible for him. But it wasn’t my responsibility, it was his. And when I finally realised that, accepted it, I knew I was free. Free to walk away. So I did. He’s dead now, long ago. As for my mother? I have no idea and don’t care. Because she never cared about me either, so we’re quits.’
