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“Do I look as though I’m joking?”
“You’re completely mistaken. We weren’t involved,” she denied hotly, but the tears falling down her cheeks belied that. “Not in a sexual way,” she conceded, so he leaned forward, outraged and frustrated all at once. “It really wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
But she was defensive now, angry, too. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“He was my father.”
“So? If he didn’t mention me to you, then he clearly didn’t think you needed to know about us.”
“Then there was an ‘us’ to know about?”
Her face paled. “Oh, stop being so sick. I didn’t mean that. Only our friendship,” she stressed, in a way that made it impossible to believe her.
“If this is true,” he said, after a beat, “then tell me why he’d leave you money in his will.”
She groaned, dropping her head forward. “He didn’t.”
“In fact, quite a lot of money.”
She lifted a hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe it. Why would he do such a thing?”
“I suppose he thought you’d earned it?”
She slapped him instantly, so fast that he didn’t have time to react and she clearly hadn’t had time to think it through. Her hand connected with his cheek and then she jumped back, shaking all over.
“How dare you?” She demanded fiercely. “Get out of here.”
He glared right back, lifting a hand to his cheek absentmindedly, running a hand over the flesh which would surely show a heat mark from where she’d touched him. He’d dealt with worse, but hadn’t expected such a response from her.
“Get out. I mean it. Leave now.”
He studied her thoughtfully. She was at least a foot shorter than him; there was no contest between them physically, but he’d clearly pushed her too far. Even he was surprised by the approach he’d taken.
There was time to get to the bottom of this, time to get her to confess and admit she’d made a mistake. He’d done enough for tonight.
“This isn’t over,” he promised, ominously, as he threw some fifty pound notes on the counter then turned and left.
Chapter 2
HE WAS TURNING HER into the focal point of all his rage. He fully conceded that, as he stared out at London from his city apartment, eyes gliding over the well-lit city, the buzz and hum of activity despite the fact it was the small hours of the morning.
She wasn’t the woman Konstantinos had been in a long running affair with, nor was she the mother of a secret lovechild. God, at least, he prayed she wasn’t. But it was quite clear that they’d had a relationship. His father had visited her often—on Mondays, by the sound of it—which explained why he’d suddenly started spending so much time in London. Had those frequent visits even contributed to his heart attack? Had he pushed himself too hard, in an attempt to keep up with his nubile young lover?
It was impossible to contemplate, but then again, Phoebe was a very particular type of beauty. It was easy to understand how Konstantinos had fallen under her spell. Far easier to believe that than to imagine any man could be close to Phoebe Whittaker without wanting it to become physical.
All that was left to get her to admit it. And he had a fair idea of how to do exactly that.
Having worked three enormous shifts straight, Phoebe was glad to finally have a day off. Her feet were killing her, and her cheeks hurt from smiling at customers. Not to mention the man from last night. Tasso. Anastasios.
Her heart picked up a notch as she remembered the way he’d watched her all evening, the sensation of butterflies beating inside her belly, of a strange anticipation beating like a drum beneath her skin, as her stomach swirled with unfamiliar and unwanted desire. That had been before she’d known his connection to Kon. Now she did?
She moaned softly as fresh waves of grief assaulted her, and she could barely stand. Leaning her hip against her kitchen counter, she allowed the tears to fall, dropping with fat splashes against her breasts as she gave into the sadness. He was eighty four, but so fit and sharp, hardly a suspect for a heart attack.
“Oh, Kon,” she whispered, shaking her head, moving unsteadily to the gift he’d given her a month or so ago—a small bronze ballerina after she’d told him of her first ever experience of seeing a ballet show. She’d been so excited, recounting the music and movements, the theatrics of it all, and he’d smiled indulgently and nodded, agreeing that live ballet was a true gift. The following week, he’d arrived with this little statue. A memento.
She’d cherished it because he’d given it to her, placing it in middle of the small shelf in the bedsit’s lounge area. She lifted it now, running her fingers over the edges, feeling grateful, more than anything else, that she’d had a chance to know this man, that they’d struck up a conversation on her first shift, when he’d taken pity on her after she’d spilled a bowl of soup across his table. He’d insisted to the maître de that it had been his fault, saving her from termination, for sure. After that, he’d come in often, always sitting at the same table, always making conversation with her. A few weeks after his first visit, she’d finished her shift at the same time he’d paid his bill. They’d walked out together, and without discussing it, had continued walking, all the way to the edge of Kensington garden, where they’d found a bench seat and continued talking.
