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‘No.’
‘So your parents were active in your upbringing?’
He lifted his beer to his lips, taking a long sip, and she shivered because a moment earlier her lips had been on the bottle, and in a strange way it almost felt like they were kissing by proxy. Flashbacks of the way he’d kissed her in the spa sent her pulse into overdrive.
‘Until I went to boarding school.’
‘That was after the divorce,’ she murmured, almost embarrassed by the little biographical details she had stored in her brain. As a teenager she’d been so in awe of him that she’d sat on the edge of her seat, listening to every word he said.
‘A week after they told me they were separating.’
‘That must have been hard.’
He ran his finger down the side of the bottle, apparently fascinated by the condensation. ‘Not really.’
‘You don’t want to have this conversation, do you?’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by having it,’ he confirmed, his tone unfamiliar to her, because for a moment, he didn’t sound like a human so much as an automaton, devoid of emotion. But that wasn’t Alex. Not really.
None the less, she let it go. ‘That’s a long way down the track anyway, right?’
He was quiet a moment, then turned to face her, speculatively. ‘It’s not essential that we conceive a child immediately, no.’
She considered that. ‘How come you’re not already settled down with some woman who’s just as desperate to have babies with you?’
His lips twisted in a hint of amusement. ‘Because until you came into my office with your very pragmatic proposal, I had no intention of getting married.’
‘Why not?’
‘For many reasons.’
‘Such as?’
‘Has anyone ever told you, you’d have made a great inquisitor?’
She wiggled her brows. ‘Nope, but thank you.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment,’ he murmured, but with the hint of a smile, so something warm zinged in the centre of her chest.
‘You date women. I’ve seen the proof.’ She tried not to think about the photos of Alex Zacharidis that cluttered the internet, beautiful women hanging on his arm, coming in and out of nightclubs, so handsome, so desired.
‘Have you?’
‘Photos, anyway.’ She shrugged. ‘And you’re obviously a very attractive, successful man.’ The description emerged stilted. ‘I’m guessing lots of women would be interested in becoming Mrs Zacharidis.’
‘Would have been,’ he corrected her tense. ‘You are my wife.’
You are my wife. The words were so possessive, so insanely hot, that her spine felt made of lava.
‘Who knows?’ he said after a beat. ‘I never considered marrying anyone else.’
Her stomach fluttered. She ignored it, focusing on what he was revealing with his very spare answers. ‘Why not?’
He compressed his lips with a hint of exasperation. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Is it some big secret?’
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s not something I generally discuss, but no, it’s not what I would call a secret, either.’ He finished his beer, leaning over the bar then, staring out at the ocean. In profile, his face was determined and strong. ‘My parents’ marriage was a living hell. Their very particular brand of love-hate was my purgatory from birth. I learned to walk on eggshells growing up, and I hated it. I was still a very small boy when I formed an intention to live on my own, always. I didn’t want to fight the way they fought. I didn’t want to know the tension of moving from love and tranquillity to hatred and rage.’ His eyes burned across the horizon. ‘They fought, always. And by that, I mean they almost killed each other. Shouted, cursed, accused, ranted, generally destroyed one another, until they’d make up and for a few days everything would be rosy, but not really, because it was like being in the eye of the storm. I only ever knew one thing for certain: the storm would keep going. They were incapable of being together without arguing.’
