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She glared at him, hating him and his stupid, blinkered view of life, but hating herself more for still caring what he thought.
‘But there’s more to life than business. There’s feelings and people—friends, family—’
She broke off, the emotion in her voice echoing inside her head. Glancing up, she found him watching her, his gaze darkly impassive, and it was hard not to turn away, for the heartbreakingly familiar masculine beauty of his face seemed so at odds with the distance in his eyes.
‘You don’t have a family,’ he said.
It was one of the few facts she’d shared with him about her life—that she was an orphan. Dazed, Teddie blinked. She was about to retort that she was a mother to his son, when abruptly her brain came back online and she bit back her words. Given how he’d behaved, and was still behaving, she certainly didn’t owe him the truth.
But George was his child. Didn’t he deserve to know that?
Her heartbeat stalled, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Her stomach seemed to be turning in on itself. Wishing that she could make herself disappear as effortlessly as she could make watches and wallets vanish, she forced herself to meet his gaze.
‘No, I don’t,’ she lied.
And suddenly she knew that she had to leave right there and then, for to stay would mean more lies, and she couldn’t do it—she didn’t want to lie about her son.
Neither could she carry on lying to herself.
Up until today she had wanted to believe that she was over Aristo. But as she stared into his dark, distant eyes, the pain of pretending erupted inside of her, and suddenly she needed to make certain this never happened again.
She’d made the mistake of letting him back into her life before—made the mistake of following her heart, not her head. And although she didn’t regret it—for that would mean regretting having her son—after that one-night stand she’d accepted not only that their marriage was over, but that it was the best possible outcome.
Only by staying out of his orbit would she be safe—not just from him, but from herself.
She lifted her chin. This meeting would be their last.
Ignoring the intensity of his dark gaze, and the full, sensuous mouth that had so often kissed her into a state of helpless bliss, she cleared her throat. ‘Fascinating though this is, Aristo, I don’t really think there’s any point in us carrying on with this conversation,’ she said. ‘Small talk—any kind of talk, really—wasn’t ever your strong point, and we got divorced for a reason—several, actually.’
He held her gaze. ‘Are you refusing to talk to me?’
‘Yes, I am.’
But she didn’t want to explain why. Didn’t want to explain the complex and conflicting emotions swirling inside her.
Her heart was banging against her ribs and, breathing in deeply, she steadied herself. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pen and a notebook and scrawled something on a page inside it. Tearing the page free, she folded it in half and slid it onto the table.
‘I don’t expect to hear from you again, but if you have to get in touch this is my lawyer’s number. Goodbye, Aristotle.’
And then, before he’d even had a chance to react, let alone respond, she turned and almost ran out of the hotel lounge.
Left alone, Aristo stared at the empty seat, a mass of emotions churning inside him. His heart was beating out of time. Teddie’s words had shocked him. But, although she had no doubt intended her curt goodbye to be a slap in the face, to him it felt as though she’d thrown down a gauntlet at his feet.
And in doing so she’d sealed her fate. Four years ago she had waltzed out of their marriage and his life and he’d spent the intervening years suppressing hurt and disappointment. Now, though, he was ready to confront his past—and his ex-wife.
But he would do so on his terms, he thought coldly. And, reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his phone.
* * *
Three hours later, having fed and bathed George and tidied away his toys, Teddie leaned back against the faded cushions of her sofa and let out a long, slow breath. She felt exhausted. Her apartment—her wonderful apartment—with its bright walls and wooden floors, which was usually a place of sanctuary, looked shabby after the high gloss of the Kildare Hotel. And, although her son was usually a sweet-tempered and easy-going toddler, he must have picked up on her tension. Tonight he’d had a huge tantrum when she’d stopped him playing with his toy speed boat in the bath.
He was sleeping now, and as she’d gazed down at her beautiful son she had felt both pride and panic, for he so resembled his father. A father he would never know.
She felt a rush of guilt and self-pity. This wasn’t what she’d wanted for herself or for her son. In her dreams she’d wanted to give him everything she’d never had—two loving parents, financial security—but she’d tried marriage and it had been a disaster.
Even before Aristo’s obsession with work had blotted out the rest of his life she had felt like a gatecrasher in her own marriage. But then what had they really known about one another? How could you really know someone after just seven weeks?
Maybe if their marriage had had stronger foundations it might have been possible for them to face their problems together. But they’d had no common ground aside from a raging sexual attraction which had been enough to blind both of them to their fundamental incompatibility. He had been born into wealth. She, on the other hand, had grown up in a children’s home with a mother dosed up on prescription drugs and a father in prison.
