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Last night all of the above had crowded in on her, and that was why she had walked into the water, then had unprotected sex with a man who didn’t want children.
But it wouldn’t happen again.
There would be no further risk-taking.
What had happened last night had been a one-off. Everything had been so raw, so painful, and sex had been both a balm, and a place to get lost. A place to hide from the swirl of emotions churning inside her. Pushing aside all those confusing and confused feelings, she had chosen to embrace her need and his—because it had been all either of them could handle.
That was their truth. That dark, mesmerising hunger. That shimmering fire.
Achileas hadn’t been ready to accept the other truth. That he loved his father. Andreas’s rejection still hurt him too much.
She gritted her teeth. She was doing it again. But this wasn’t her problem to fix. She wasn’t going to be like her mother, clinging on to something that would break her. She wouldn’t and she couldn’t be that woman.
That wasn’t what she’d signed up for, and from now on she was going to stick to the script.
As the launch came to a stop Achileas helped her disembark, and she gazed up at Andreas’s villa. It was more like a palace, really, and Achileas was like the prodigal son, returning home to sit at his father’s table.
Albeit with conditions attached.
Her stomach clenched. It still shocked her that Andreas could have treated his child so ruthlessly and was manipulating him even now. Yet she was sure that there was more to it. Sure that Andreas was too proud to admit to his mistake, much less apologise for it, and that this was his way of making amends without losing face.
Not your problem, she told herself firmly as a uniformed maid stepped forward, smiling stiffly.
‘Welcome to the Villa Thymári. Please, if you would follow me?’
‘Thank you,’ Achileas said beside her.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Effie added quickly.
It was stupid, but the maid’s black dress and white apron felt like an omen. A reminder of that version of herself she had left behind in London.
Or she had thought she’d left behind.
The interior of the house was stunning. Walking through it, Effie felt less like Cinderella and more like the Little Match Girl. With a mix of statuary and modern art adding texture and colour to its soaring high-ceilinged rooms, the villa was cool and pale and exquisitely beautiful.
A lot like their hostess, Effie thought as Eugenie rose to greet them.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said quietly. ‘Andreas has been so excited about you coming.’
If Andreas was excited, he hid it well. But perhaps if you belonged to the exclusive top one percent of the richest men in the world there was very little left to excite you. He greeted both her and Achileas in that same polished marble voice, his blue eyes moving over them like a searchlight.
‘Are you recovered, Ms Price?’
‘Yes, thank you, Kýrios Alexios,’ she said carefully. ‘But please call me Effie.’
He inclined his head. ‘And you shall call me Andreas. Now, Effie, shall we have that glass of champagne? And then we can eat.’
As she’d expected, the meal was delicious. A sea urchin and artichoke salad, followed by roasted lamb that fell off the bone and aubergine with a feta crust. To finish there was traditional Greek kadaifi and pink peppercorn ice cream.
The conversation was just as sophisticated. They discussed the ball, Greek political issues, and their English and American counterparts, and then Andreas and Achileas talked about something called long short equity.
Andreas seemed perfectly at ease, as if having lunch with his estranged son was something that happened every day. But although Achileas might look handsome and relaxed too, with his hand curving easily around the stem of his wine glass, there was a taut set to his body—as if he was holding a kite steady in a high wind.
And that was understandable. He was in his father’s home. Finally. She could only try to imagine what that would feel like to the boy who had been handed a runner-up medal by the same man over two decades ago.
A man who had silver-framed photos of three beautiful blonde women prominently displayed on every surface. Three sisters. His daughters. Achileas’s half-sisters.
Their mother, Eugenie, was also on edge. Outwardly the older woman was the perfect smiling hostess, polite and attentive to their every need. Occasionally, though, her serene smile seemed to slip a little, as if it was an effort to keep it in place.
