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His tone had been light and mocking, received with laughter by most. But those that knew him, were familiar with him, held a trace of unease. For that was when he was at his most deadly.
‘I would love to expound on this further, but as we have already agreed to a private interview with areputablejournalist, you will have to read it alongside everyone else.’
‘We have an interview?’ she whispered, from where she remained tucked into his shoulder as they rounded the corner towards the safe haven of the limousine.
‘We will once you tell me what the hell all this is about,’ he bit out. ‘Get in the car.’
Célia slid into the limousine, her body protected from the strobe lights of the paparazzi, but her thoughts flayed by the repeated bursts of shocking white.
Her heart pounded in her chest. The rush of adrenaline soured by self-recrimination. She should have known that they would find out. Should have prepared for it. Denial had not been enough to protect her from their piercing gaze.
The moment the door closed behind Loukis the sleek town car sped off, sending the sprawling mass scattering. The atmosphere in the dark interior was full of tension, as Loukis’s barely leashed control seemed to strain against his hold over it. Her own pulse seemed to thump within the thick air.
‘I...’
A gesture of his hand cut through the space between them, silencing her. She stifled back the words, unsure really where she would have begun anyway.
As the car wound its way towards Loukis’s estate, the silence and tension filled the space between them to the point where Célia feared she might not be able to draw breath.
‘Loukis—’
‘François Paquet is your father?’ he demanded.
All Célia could do was nod.
‘And you—who demanded truth from me—didn’t think to tell me?’
‘He is no longer part of my life,’ she insisted, as if she could make it true.
‘Do you know what this fresh wave of interest from the press will do? They’ll be frothing at the bit now. It will be impossible to keep the custody battle a secret, it will be impossible to...’
He trailed off. She knew he was thinking of how hard it would be to shield his sister from their penetrating gaze.
‘Christos, Célia, if I’d known we could have come out in front of it, but now we’re behind and...’ His fury seemed to be working against his usual smooth calm, stopping words before he could form them. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I haven’t spoken to my father in five years. Not since I changed my degree, my name and left behind almost everything that connected me to that life.’
And with that she had lost any sense of family or belonging. As if she hadn’t even realised until this moment just how isolated and lonely she felt, a sob rose in her chest that she desperately tried to stifle.
‘Why? What happened?’ He demanded explanations as if he could draw blood from a stone.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Tough,’ he said mutinously. ‘Because now I’m going to need to know everything. Including whoever the hell Marc Moreau is.’
The thought of what he wanted turned in Célia’s stomach as they negotiated the bends in the road before pulling up to the estate. She watched him leave the car and stalk towards the front door of his home, realising that it was the first time that Loukis had not opened the car door for her. She was being punished, she realised. Or, he was so consumed by the shocking revelation that he had simply forgotten it. Either way it hurt, strangely.
Her feet felt heavy as she followed through the open doorway, closing it behind her and wishing she could just as effectively close down the events of that evening. She had been so happy! She had been so excited when she’d known she was having lunch with Yalena Adeyemi, and when she’d realised that they’d get a chance to work together? She’d been ecstatic. She should have known better. Because the last time she’d felt that excited, that thrilled, as if on the brink of something marvellous, everything had turned to ash. And once again, it was because of her father.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHEFOUNDLOUKISpacing the living-room area with a drink already in his hand, his hair ruffled as if he’d run his hand through it several times before she’d entered the room.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she said, unconsciously echoing the last time they’d had an uncomfortable conversation in this room. It was, she realised, an act of self-preservation. As if her subconscious knew that flight would be easier from standing rather than from sitting on the plush soft sofa.
He looked at her as if to indicate that he had notasked, but she remained where she stood. Because now she was angry. How dared he find fault with a reputation not of her own making, when his was so debauched? She needed to cling to that anger, because beneath it was a layer of hurt and betrayal so deeply entrenched, she was terrified of hauling it out for inspection. But even that, she realised, covered a guilt that had motivated every single decision she’d made in the last five years. And no matter what, she knew she’d never reveal that to Loukis.
