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“He wanted us to strive to be best,” Anastasios said.
“Yes, but there’s a reason for that.”
“Becausehewas always best.”
“Your father had to be. It was the only way to rise above the squalor into which he was born.”
Anastasios was very still, listening.
“He lived in abject poverty for much of his life. When he was fourteen, he was basically the full-time carer to Athanasios. His father was a drunk, a terrible man, I believe. There was no stability. He used to beat Kon, often, and then Athanasios. Your father knew he needed to get out, to make a new life for himself. At eighteen, he left home, began to work, using his guile to build the business.”
Something stammered inside Anastasios. He knew his father had grown up poor, that this was behind his unwavering focus on the business, but he hadn’t known about his father’s abusive childhood. Would that man have looked at Phoebe, and the way she was desperately trying to find her feet in life, and have wanted simply to help her? To help her as he’d needed help? A wave of recrimination rolled through Anastasios. “I thought he was given an apprenticeship.”
“He was, but only because of his focus, intelligence and determination. After two years, he could buy a little place and afford a nanny—he brought Athanasios to live with him. Every moment after that, your father worked, and worked, and worked to become a success, to create safety for his brother. That drove him, and he never relaxed. Even when he had all this, he was, I think, afraid of it being pulled out from under him. He had a hard life, Tasso, but he loved his children so very much.”
Her voice wobbled, and he knew she was thinking not just of her boys, but of Valentina too. Anastasios lifted his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, his heart aching for this woman, and for another woman, far away. Phoebe had done it tough, no question. She’d been born to a bastard who hadn’t deserved her, and yet still she saw the good in people. She’d been trying, for so long, to fix her life, to live to the potential of her spirit rather than the limitations of her birthright. She was so full of character and strength; was it any wonder Konstantinos had wanted to help her?
“You must miss him.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “I do.” She wiped away a tear. “But I’m so lucky, Tasso. We had a wonderful life together. I’m sad he’s gone, but so grateful for the time we had. He was my soulmate.”
Anastasios stroked his mother’s arm, comforting her, even when he rejected her claim. Was there any such as thing as a soul mate? His father hadn’t thought so, or he would never have cheated.
And what did Anastasios think?
He stared out at the ocean, questions in his mind he couldn’t—and didn’t want—to answer.
All roads led to Phoebe.Five weeks after she left the yacht, it didn’t matter if he was working, sleeping, swimming, or running, she was there, in his mind, memories of their conversations, her smile, her laugh, her sheer, unadulterated delight at the sights of Europe, his desire for her, it all swirled through him, all the time.
He had no reason to think this unique, unfamiliar form of torture would ever end, and he knew he couldn’t live like this forever.
Five weeks after she left the yacht, Anastasios boarded his jet, bound for London, and finally, for Phoebe.
She wasdead on her feet. At the end of a double shift, what she wanted, more than anything, was a long soak in a bubble bath. There was no such luxury at her bedsit, but a girl could dream.
When she’d finished, it was almost midnight, and she stifled a yawn as she stepped onto the street, pressing her hand to her mouth, not noticing the black four-wheel drive that was double parked on the pavement.
She stepped around it, just as the door opened, and someone emerged. She lifted her head to apologise automatically, but the words were strangled in her throat.
“You!”
She froze, her body reverberating with the sheer shock of seeing him again.
“Phoebe.” The word rang through the air, or perhaps it just felt that way to Phoebe. Was he really here? She took a step backwards, because otherwise she was afraid she might reach out and touch him.
“I need to speak to you.”
Her face grew ashen. “It’s all sorted. I’ve dealt with the problem. You don’t have to worry that my ‘affair’ with your dad will leak,” she muttered, stepping further back.
“I know. I heard from the paper.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away.
“Then I can’t see why you’re here. We have nothing else to talk about.”
“Youknowthat’s not true.”
She turned back to face him, eyes wild, every bit as angry and as hurt as she had been the night they’d slept together. “Then what? What do you want? What do you have to say to me? More insults? Accusations? Is there someone in the car you’d like to introduce me to as your father’s whore?”
