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‘It’s not my place to think anything, Mrs Voulos.’
But condemnation was written all over him, his usual quiet friendliness chilled out by what she recognised as fierce defensive loyalty to Constantine. Only the conviction that Constantine was too damned macho and proud to want her around him when he was in that condition spurred Rosie back to her room.
She lay in bed, watching dawn break the skies. He was really upset ... he had to be to have drunk like that. And Rosie tried so hard to understand. Wasn’t she herself equally guilty of betraying Anton’s trust? She had only agreed to marry Constantine under duress, and would have run a thousand miles had she known what fate had in store for them in the morning after the ceremony.
And it wasn’t as if Constantine had tried to disinherit her or anything like that. Anton had got himself into serious financial hot water raising the loan for the Son Fontanal estate. Constantine must have used his own money to bail out his guardian’s business ventures and even the house needed a fortune spent on it. Indeed being Anton’s heir had undoubtedly proved to be a most unprofitable undertaking, but Constantine, famed in the business world for his ruthless pursuit of profit, would never admit that because to do so would be disloyal.
So why had her Greek tycoon drunk himself into a stupor? Guilt at not rolling out a red carpet for Anton’s daughter? Or suicidal depression at the knowledge that if he carried out his guardian’s last wishes he would be stuck with Rosie for ever?
Her sensitive stomach lurching, she got out of bed again. Pulling on jeans and a fresh cotton top, she paused only to drag a brush through her mane of fiery hair. She needed some fresh air and space. The motorbike she had hired was parked below the steps in the courtyard. She hadn’t been out on it since her arrival and maybe a ride down that mountain would blow the cobwebs away...
It was still very early when Rosie stopped in the shade of some sweet-smelling pine trees and ate the snack she had brought with her. The canned drink and the long bread roll filled with ham and luscious wedges of tomato satisfied her appetite but the hollow feeling inside her wouldn’t go away. She was struggling desperately hard to convince herself that there would be life after Constantine. What did they have in common, after all?
He was a domineering, arrogant, workaholic tycoon. He was everything she wasn’t. Rich, educated, pedigreed. He was far better-looking than she was. He also had loads of women running after him and Rosie was not the type to compete in a race. She had her pride, not to mention the painful experience of being brought down to earth with a severe bump only hours earlier.
If Constantine had had any feelings for her, she had killed them. So there was no point in concentrating on the more positive aspects of his personality. Like the fact that he could be incredibly charming and entertaining and give the most astonishing impression of being caring and supportive. That sort of stuff wasn’t relevant. That was her foolish heart talking, not her head. They didn’t have a real marriage. And their temporary arrangement was currently at breaking point.
A big black shiny limousine was parked outside Son Fontanal. Rosie rode past it into the courtyard and slowly, stiffly dismounted. She was removing her helmet when Constantine strode down the steps. Her treacherous heart performed a somersault. Attired as he was in an Italian-cut double-breasted cream suit that highlighted his black hair and golden skin, one look made her melt like chocolate left out in the sun.
Brilliant dark eyes swept over her and lingered, a curious stillness etched into his strong, dark face. ‘Did it even occur to you that I might be worried sick about you?’
Rosie reddened with discomfiture. ‘I was away before I thought about that.’
‘Where the hell did you get the bike?’
‘I hired it for a fortnight the day I arrived.’
‘I assumed it belonged to one of the workmen. Dmitri will see that it is returned. I don’t like the idea of you out on a motorbike on these roads,’ Constantine delivered, the faint pallor beneath his sun-bronzed complexion emphasising the tense line of his mouth.
As he stared at her, holding her there by sheer force of will, the silence mounted, thick and heavy. And suddenly she understood. He hadn’t thought she would be coming back but for some reason he wasn’t saying one half of what he wanted to say on that subject.
‘Thespina arrived ten minutes ago,’ he breathed in taut explanation.
Rosie stiffened and lost every scrap of colour. ‘Oh, no...’
‘I have decided that we have no option other than to tell her the truth,’ he admitted with grim emphasis. ‘Too many people know your identity now. A slip of the tongue and any lies or half-truths would be exposed. I cannot take that risk.’
Shock glued Rosie’s feet to the worn paving stones. Constantine closed a big hand round hers and drew her up the ste
ps into the hall. Rosie tried to pull free then. ‘You do it!’
‘This particular confession needs to come from both of us, pethi mou.’ His lean fingers retaining their determined grip, Constantine led her into the drawing room before she could utter another word of argument.
Thespina rose to greet her with a pleasant smile. Rosie’s stomach lurched and sank to her toes. Oh, dear heaven, she just could not face what was to come!
‘Come and sit down beside me,’ Thespina invited, settling back onto the sofa and patting it cosily.
A maid entered with a tray and began to pour coffee. Positioning himself by the big stone fireplace, Constantine embarked on a somewhat strained conversation. Everyone having been served, the door closed on the maid.
Thespina turned to look at Rosie and, with a slow shake of her dark head, she said gently, ‘I really feel this charade has gone on long enough. I have to confess that there was something rather endearing about Constantine’s efforts to explain the inexplicable and protect me but I should’ve spoke up sooner. Even as a boy, he could never lie and look me in the eye.’
In the act of sugaring his coffee, Constantine straightened so fast that half the contents of his cup slopped onto the saucer. He set it down with a stifled oath. ‘Are you saying that—?’
‘I’ve known about Rosie’s existence for almost twenty years,’ Thespina confirmed, tactfully removing her gaze from Constantine’s stunned visage and affecting not to hear Rosie’s strangled gasp. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for not immediately recognising you, Rosalie. But I knew that you were Anton’s child the instant Constantine said your name. The combination of your hair and that unusual name was too much for me to overlook and the two of you behaved very oddly. I’m afraid that I couldn’t help but know that you weren’t telling me the truth.’
‘Twenty years...?’ Constantine repeated in flat astonishment, still staring at the calm little Greek woman.
‘Anton was never very good at hiding his feelings. He was dreadfully upset after he received that first photograph of Rosie,’ Thespina proffered with a grimace. ‘I found it in his desk with her mother’s letter and then I understood. I was very distressed by what I learnt but in the end I was most concerned with keeping our marriage intact. I could’ve confronted him but what would I have achieved? His guilt and his fear of discovery were very obvious to me. I didn’t want to lose him. Perhaps I was wrong not to bring it all out into the open—’
