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He was dressed all in black; well-worn jeans and a jet black sweater that showed off his bulging muscles and the olive skin at the vee of his neck. His hair was a little longer than he’d worn it when they were married; the dark curls ran just to the collar of his shirt.
She dug her nails into her palms, so hard that she could have drawn blood, and forced her expression to mirror his. Calm, implacable, disinterested.
“Niko, I’m freezing out here. Do you mind?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course. Mi casa e su casa.”
The irony was not lost on her. His house had been her house, once upon a time. She stepped into the hallway, casting her eyes around. It was as it had been during their marriage, with the exception of the wedding photo that had hung above the hall table. A Mondrian was now its place, large and bright. Happy and ordered, the painting was everything they were not.
“Drink?” He asked, moving through the house towards the kitchen at the rear of the property. She followed behind, glumly remembering how she’d always admired his economy of movement, and his economy of words. Now, it felt like he was wasting as few syllables on her as possible.
“Yes. Something strong.”
He flashed her a derisive smile. “You hate this, don’t you?”
“Hate what?” She queried, watching as he tipped scotch into two cut-crystal tumblers. Her fingers crept up to her KitcheAid stand mixer and slowly she ran a hand down its silver mixing bowl. The kitchen had always been her domain. It was odd being back now.
“Asking me for help.”
“Yes.” She took the glass from him and tilted it to her lips. She pulled a face as the liquid burned its way down her esophagus, into her empty stomach.
“Then why are you?”
“Asking you for help?”
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, obviously impatient. “Yes.”
She placed the scotch glass onto the bench, staring at the orange liquid while her brain tried to find words. “It’s easier than telling them the truth.”
He didn’t react visibly. “I’m pretty sure your family thinks I’m a hard-headed, arrogant, demanding husband. Why do you think they’d blame you?”
“They love you,” she contradicted forcefully. “You know that. My father hugely admires you. My mother thinks you’re gorgeous. Even Sarah is a little bit in love with you.”
“Your sister doesn’t love anyone or anything except the whales.”
Bianca grimaced at his correct characterization. Sarah had spent the better part of a decade on the oceans for Greenpeace, only a very tenuous link to her environmental law degree.
Bianca picked her scotch up and took another sip; this time the liquid burned a little less and she was able to savor the tastes of the aged liquor.
It was truth time.
“My dad had a heart attack.” Her pale blue eyes lifted to his face, and still he was unmoved.
“When?” He asked finally, throwing his own scotch down and immediately topping the glass up.
“About ten months ago.” She colored, knowing that the date would have significance to him.
“When you cheated on me.”
“When we broke up,” she corrected automatically. “Yes. I was going to tell them, but when I finally got around to calling mum, she was at the hospital.”
He was watching, silently waiting for her to continue.
“Dad wasn’t out of the woods for months. And once he was more or less fully recovered, I felt like too much time had passed. Now, mum wants to have a happy family holiday. She’s gone off on some tangent about the unpredictability of life, and heaven forbid anyone who stands in her way.” Despite her strain, a small smile touched her lips. Sylvia Scott-Lee was a force to be reckoned with.
He nodded slowly. “So you want to lie to them.”
“It’s not lying,” she said quietly. “Not exactly. We are technically still married. We’ll just leave out a few details.”
