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Andreas, as if seizing the opportunity to deflect attention, asked, ‘What what would be like?’
Siena swallowed. ‘Just…what it would have been like to have other siblings.’
Andreas arched a brow. ‘More sisters for your father to parade like ice princesses?’ Before Siena could react to that Andreas was saying curtly, ‘My family is not up for discussion. We come from worlds apart, Siena, that’s all you need to know.’
It was like a slap in the face. Siena sat back into the shadows and looked out of the window. That tiny glimpse into Andreas’s life had intrigued her, but she berated herself now for showing an interest, and hated that her imagination was seizing on what it would have been like to grow up in a large family. How being an only son might have impacted Andreas, fed his ambition to succeed.
She didn’t care, she told herself ruthlessly, as they pulled up outside the opera. A long line of beautifully dressed people were walking in ahead of them. Andreas came around to her door and held out his hand imperiously. Siena longed to be able to defy him but she thought of her only family: Serena, in a psychiatric unit in England, depending on her. She put her hand into Andreas’s.
* * *
Three nights later Siena was standing in Andreas’s London apartment, waiting for him to emerge from his room where he’d gone to get changed. She was already dressed and ready as Andreas had been delayed with work.
Since that evening in Paris things had cooled noticeably between them. Not, she had to admit, that they’d ever really been warm. Andreas had barely said another two words to her that night, and when they’d returned from the opera he’d told her he had to do some work and had disappeared into an office in the suite.
When she’d woken the next morning the bed beside her had been untouched, so Andreas must have slept somewhere else. Siena hadn’t liked the feeling of insecurity that had gripped her as she’d waited for Andreas to finish his meetings that morning so they could return to London.
However, when they’d returned to London that evening Andreas had led her straight to his bed and made love to her with such intensity that she hadn’t been able to move a muscle. Siena didn’t like to think of how willingly she’d gone into his arms, or the sense of relief she’d felt. Was she so weak and pathetic after a lifetime of bullying by her father that she welcomed this treatment? She seized on the fact that soon she would be independent again, and that she’d gone into this arrangement very willingly for an end which justified the means.
The following day Andreas had exhibited the same cool, emotional distance, confirming for Siena that this was how it would be unless they were in bed. On one level she’d welcomed it. She didn’t need Andreas to charm her, to pretend to something their relationship would never be.
On both evenings they’d gone out to functions. Last night had been a huge benefit for a charity that provided money for children injured in war-torn countries to be brought to Europe or the USA for medical treatment. It covered all their costs, including rehabilitation.
Siena had had tears in her eyes when a beautiful young Afghan woman had stood up to tell her story. She’d been shot because she’d spoken out about education as a teenager and this charity had transported her to America, where she’d received pioneering surgery and not only survived but thrived. She now worked for the UN.
It was only when the head of the charity had introduced the charity’s patron and invited him up to speak that Siena had realised it was Andreas. She’d sat there, stunned, listening to him speak passionately about not letting the children of conflict suffer. She’d felt absurdly hurt that he hadn’t told her of his involvement.
When he’d come back to the table, Siena had pushed down the hurt. ‘What made you want to get involved in something like this?’
His stern expression had reminded Siena that she was straying off the path of being his mute and supplicant mistress, and in that moment she’d wanted to stand up and walk out. Only thinking of Serena had kept her where she was.
Eventually he’d said, ‘A child in Mexico was caught in the crossfire between drug gangs. Ruben arranged for him to be brought to New York for treatment…unfortunately the child died, despite the doctors’ best efforts. I have eight nieces and nephews and they take their safety and security completely for granted—which is their right. This child from Mexico… It opened my eyes. After he died I knew I wanted to do more…’
Siena had realised then that she could not cling onto any prejudice she’d had about the kind of man Andreas was now she’d met him again. He was not power-hungry and greedy. Or amoral.
Ignoring his silent instruction not to pursue this topic, Siena had asked, ‘Do you want children?’
Andreas had looked at her and smiled mockingly, making Siena instantly regret her reckless question. She’d realised then that she’d asked it in a bid to pierce that cool control, because the last time they’d shared any meaningful dialogue it had been about his family.
‘Why, Siena? Are you offering to be the mother of my children? So that you can bring them up to follow in your footsteps and tease men before letting them fall to the ground so hard that their whole world shatters? Maybe if we had a daughter we could call her Estella, after that great Dickensian heroine who beguiled and bewitched poor hapless Pip with her beauty only to crush him like a fly…’
She had been so shocked at this softly delivered attack that she’d put down her napkin and stood up, saying quietly, ‘You’re no Pip, Andreas, and you don’t remember correctly. Estella was the victim.’
Siena had walked blindly to the bathroom and shut herself inside. She hadn’t been able to stop the hot prickle of tears from overflowing. She’d been stunned at how hurt she felt, and at the mixture of guilt and shame that churned in her gut along with the awful image Andreas had just put in her head.
He could never know how cruel his words were. Her deepest, most fervent dream was some day to be part of the kind of family unit she’d never known.
She’d used to look out of her bedroom window in Florence to a park on the other side of the tiny piazza outside their palazzo. There she would see mothers and fathers and children. She’d seen love and affection and laughter and she’d ached with a physical pain to know what that would be like. To love a
nd be loved. To have children and give them all the security and affection she’d never known… She’d never even realised until Andreas had uttered those words how badly she still wanted it.
When she’d felt composed enough to return Andreas had been waiting impatiently and they’d left. He’d looked at her in the dark shadows of the back of his car and Siena had instinctively recoiled, unable to bear the thought of him touching her when she felt so raw.
He’d said roughly, ‘You say Estella was the victim? From where I’m sitting she looks remarkably robust.’
He’d reached for her then, and Siena had resisted with all the strength in her body, hating him with every fibre of her being. But with remorseless skill Andreas had slowly ground down her defences and her anger until desire burned hotter than anything else…
By the time they’d made it to the apartment she’d forgotten all about her hurt and had been thinking only about Andreas providing her with the release he could give her, like someone pathetically addicted to an illegal substance.
