CAROL MARINELLI - One Kiss in... London - A Shameful Consequence / Ruthless Tycoon, Innocent Wife / Falling for her Convenient Husband

‘Till next time.’ Connie grinned, and then it faded. ‘I’ve got a difficult phone call to make, too. Not tonight,’ she added, as they naturally moved from the table to the lounge. How much more comfortable she felt to sit beside him now. She looked out at the sea and thought for a quiet moment before speaking. ‘But I have been putting it off.’

‘To your parents?’ Nico asked, but Connie shook her head.

Until she had sorted things with Nico, she could not stand to talk with them. She was injured, too, on behalf of Leo, the grandson they had made no effort to contact. ‘I want to know how Stavros is.’

‘Why?’ Nico asked.

‘Because,’ Connie answered, ‘I worry about him—I want to know how things are going …’

‘After the way he treated you?’ Nico shook his head. ‘Why would you care for someone who hurt you?’

‘It wasn’t all his fault.’

‘His part in it was, though,’ Nico pointed out. ‘He chose not to tell you the truth, he chose to deceive you.’ He made a slicing gesture to his throat. ‘Gone!’

‘Just like that?’ Connie challenged, and she wasn’t defending Stavros, more she was defending herself. ‘Sometimes things are more complicated—’

‘Not really,’ Nico interrupted. ‘He lied to you, and in my book that means you don’t have to worry about him any more.’ He flicked his hand and said it again. ‘Gone.’

She didn’t like this conversation, didn’t like learning the rules of relationships according to Nico, painfully aware that very soon it might be she who was gone, dismissed with a flick of his hand, for not telling what she knew.

‘Anyway, let’s not talk about it now,’ Nico said, because tonight he could not accept just wanting. ‘Let’s just enjoy tonight.’ And it wasn’t what he said, more the way he said it that brought something back, that had her remember there was so much more to this man. He turned to face her on the sofa and smiled a smile she had seen before. With just one look he could melt her worries, with the merest lilt to his voice it was only them in the world. He leant over to pour her some wine, but she put her hand over the glass.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

She couldn’t quite work out what had happened, how the sofa had suddenly become the most dangerous place in the house.

‘I’m going to bed. I’ll just clear the bench.’ She stood because Nico was stretching out on the sofa.

‘Leave it,’ Nico said. ‘Despina will do it in the morning.’

She laughed, for the first time in … she honestly could not remember how long, possibly a year, but for the first time in ages Connie threw her head back and laughed. ‘You were almost perfect there,’ Connie explained. ‘I thought you were going to clear it yourself.’

‘Why would I?’ The thought had never entered his head and she watched as he stretched out fully, and somehow she wanted to join him, to look out toward the darkened sea, to talk and, yes, perhaps laugh again, and maybe something more. ‘Goodnight, Constantine.’

‘Connie,’ she corrected him, as she did so often, but Nico shook his head.

‘Not to me.’ She turned to walk toward the bedroom and his voice followed her. ‘And by the way, I am.’

‘Am what?’ It came back to her then—a something that made her dare not turn around, and she stood holding her breath in the hallway, closing her eyes as she heard his response.

‘Perfect.’

She walked to her bedroom, checked Leo and then climbed into bed, trying not to think about the something that had happened, but it was rippling through her body like a tide with no return. A mother, yes, she would always be a mother, but the wave was growing stronger, dousing her, as the woman she also was returned.

Nico Eliades was, to Connie, perfect.

It was she who was flawed.

SHE looked much the same to Nico when he poured real coffee from the pot and offered her one, but Connie, sitting on the sofa holding Leo, shook her head. She seemed unable to meet his eyes.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Nico asked.

‘Wonderfully,’ Connie said, taking great interest in her middle toenail, embarrassed by her own Nicodriven dreams. ‘You?’

‘Not so good.’

Nico was more concerned with the change in himself to notice any in Constantine, how he’d almost lost last night, at least where women were concerned, a very level head.

Last night, watching her eat, hearing her laugh, well, as she’d headed to bed, in an unguarded moment Nico knew he had flirted. It came as second nature to him, he consoled himself, with any beautiful woman … but there must be none of that, Nico firmly decided as the strained conversation went on. They hadn’t sorted out the consequences of their first night together yet. It was not time think about moving on to their next.

‘Did Leo’s crying wake you?’

‘A bit.’

It had.

It had been hell getting to sleep, sensing her in the next room and, like a punishment for the depravity of his own thoughts, every time he finally drifted off to sleep, the baby would wake him, and he would hear the murmur of her voice. He tried not to picture what she was wearing, if anything, tried not to go in there as he heard her settle the babe, tried to ignore the creak of her bed as she climbed back in it.

He had not considered at first that it might be a problem—his mind had been focussed on other things, the news he might have a son, the appalling conditions she was living in, but now they were away from all that, now that she was here in his house, in the next bedroom, suddenly he was remembering all too often, the bliss of their one night.

‘I’m going to work.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to stifle the disappointment in her voice at his abruptness. He didn’t look dressed for work—he hadn’t shaved, he was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt and looked, Connie had thought, rather more casual than usual. There was nothing casual about her thoughts, though. He was sulky and dark and brooding and how she would kill for that smile, or more, for a kiss of those sullen lips.

‘When will you be back?’ And she could have bitten her tongue off, because it sounded as if she was interested, as if it mattered when he returned.

‘Not sure.’

He did not answer to anyone, did not account for his movements—he had built his life around freedom. As he saw the seaplane land by the jetty to collect him he drained his coffee and stood to go then let out a mild curse.

‘What?’

‘I forgot.’

His mind hadn’t particularly been on washing that morning in the shower and he raced in and grabbed the deodorant. He forgot again that life was different when she was near.

He walked out and lifted his shirt to spray the deodorant, a simple movement that millions did each day, but he forgot how aware he was of her and now how aware she was of him. There was the strangest charge to the air as he exposed his stomach, just the flick of her eyes downwards to the olive skin and the black snake of hair, and because he had sprayed one side he had to spray the other, had to pretend he wasn’t hard, had to pretend she had not seen.

Had to walk out without tasting her.

It was a relief that he was gone. The room came back into focus and it looked the same as it had before. There was the kitchen and the coffee pot, too, and there was Leo still in her arms, but how nearly he hadn’t been. How badly she had wanted to put him in his crib and return to the room, to follow on with whatever had been about to take place.

‘So, shoot me.’ She smiled to Leo, who gave her a gummy one back. ‘I fancy your father—it’s hardly the crime of the century.’ She heard the door open, jumped as she turned around, and standing there was Nico, and she knew he couldn’t have heard her, was positive he hadn’t, but she blushed to her roots any way.