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He ground his teeth together, not wanting to elaborate on the reason for his perceived exhaustion—the thoughts that kept him up at night, the distraction that was constantly chewing through his focus.
“I just wondered if there was something else going on?”
He stiffened, careful not to reveal any response to that. What was happening between himself and Phoebe was not something he wanted to discuss, with anyone. A waiter appeared with their drinks, a scotch for Anastasios and a pink champagne for Cora. She lifted it to her lips, sipping it gratefully. Her glossy brown hair was piled on her head in a ballerina bun, and she wore a tutu dress that showed off the slender lines of her body, and a tan she didn’t have to work to cultivate at all.
“Such as?” His voice was neutral, his face nondescript.
She hesitated.
“I presume this is what you wanted to discuss. Cut to the chase, Cora. It’s not like you to obfuscate.”
“It’s delicate,” she leaned closer, her mouth, painted a coral pink, pursed in a serious line of concentration.
The hairs on the back of Anastasios’ neck stood on edge. This wasn’t about Phoebe. It couldn’t be. And the only other situation of any gravitas was Kon’s affairs…He had no reason to suspect she knew, and yet there was something in her demeanour, and the timing, that had him bracing for the worst.
“I’m waiting.”
She reached into her clutch purse and pulled out a pamphlet, passing it across. It was the brochure for an opera performance in Verona. He scanned it, then pushed it back. Confusion shifted inside his chest.
“You’re asking me to go with you?”
“I’ve already been,” she corrected. “Two nights ago.”
“And you’re recommending I go?”
“Yes, but not for the reason you might think.”
“It wasn’t good?”
“Oh, no. It was excellent. A particularly fine soprano, a relative newcomer to the scene. Ophelia Agnavadi.”
“Should I have heard of her?”
“Not necessarily, though in a few years, I think she’ll be as famous as Pavarotti.”
“Good for her. Your point?”
“There’s a rumour about her.”
“No doubt.” He glanced back at the pamphlet, studying the beautiful brunette with dispassion. She was quite stunning, and yet, compared to Phoebe, she was too—something. Or not enough of something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she was dull compared to the light that shone from Phoebe’s eyes.
“It concerns you.”
“Me?” He looked more closely at the picture. Was it possible he’d met her? Slept with her? He racked his brain, but he was sure he’d remember her name, if not her face.
“Or more specifically, your father.”
He gripped his scotch glass tighter, his face giving nothing away, his mind in freefall. Another lover? Heaven help him. He couldn’t imprison or bribe them all.
“Yes?”
“It’s delicate.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“So I should just blurt it out?”
“I promise not to shoot the messenger.”
