LYNNE GRAHAM - The Secret Wife

Certainly Anton had lamented long and hard on the topic of that unsuitable relationship. In his opinion, Constantine had, at the tender age of twenty-five, fallen live into the paws of a designing married woman with a husband who was perfectly content to turn a blind eye to his wife’s infidelity if the financial rewards were great enough.

And although several times over the past four years Anton and Thespina had been encouraged to hope that the affair had run its course Cinzia had ultimately appeared to triumph over every other woman who entered Constantine’s life. Maybe that situation had even been on Anton’s mind when he’d changed his will, Rosie reflected ruefully.

Anton had had the optimistic hope that marriage would cure Constantine’s desire for another man’s wife. And long before his death Rosie had known that her father cherished a happy daydream in which she and Constantine met, fell madly in love and married, thereby bringing his daughter into the family by the only possible route that would not hurt his wife.

Maurice frowned in surprise when she rejoined him. ‘Don’t tell me you walked out on Voulos again.’

‘No. I agreed... OK? I even told him who I was this time.’ Rosie gave her friend a grim little smile. ‘Only he didn’t believe me.’

Taken aback, Maurice stared at her. ‘Why not?’

‘Why should he have? I don’t even look like Anton. I don’t have any evidence of who I am either. In fact, sitting there with Constantine Voulos, those four months started feeling like a rather embarrassing juvenile fantasy,’ Rosie confided thinly, tucking herself back behind her stall. ‘So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it any more—’

‘But Anton had all those photos your mother sent him and he must have had other things.’

‘If he did he never mentioned them and heaven knows what he did with those photos.’ Tired and drained of emotion, Rosie shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter much now, does it?’

Late that night, the front door slammed noisily. Half-asleep on the sofa after an evening of exhaustive cleaning, Rosie sat up with a start. Maurice burst into the lounge looking excited and tossed a glossy but somewhat dog-eared magazine down on her lap. ‘Lorna had this. She was able to tell me all about Constantine Voulos.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Rosie mumbled drowsily.

‘My sister has a stack of magazines about the rich and famous. The minute I mentioned his name it rang a bell with her and she looked that out for me. Voulos is a genuine Greek tycoon,’ Maurice informed her impressively. ‘He’s loaded! The guy was born into a fortune. Your father was only a small-time businessman in comparison.’

‘So?’ Rosie groaned as she stood up.

‘Rosie...you don’t want to sign anything away before or after that wedding,’ Maurice warned her. ‘Voulos doesn’t need your father’s estate. He’s already rich as sin. It’s all wrong that you should be cut out just because the guy doesn’t want you around!’

‘I’m going to bed—’

‘I’m trying to look out for you, Rosie. You have got rights too,’ Maurice told her with stark impatience. ‘Your dad would turn in his grave if he knew what Voulos was doing!’

‘Maurice, Constantine Voulos has not one thing that I want.’

But was it true that Constantine was wealthier than her father had ever been? Anton certainly hadn’t travelled around in a chauffeur-driven limo or hauled bodyguards in his wake. She shrugged. Either way, what did it matter to her? And even if Constantine was filthy rich it didn’t mean he couldn’t also be disgustingly greedy.

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