“Tanja! I was pretending when we married. I pretended it didn’t matter that I wasn’t taking it seriously. That it was okay to leave you with nothing. Let me fix that much.”
She was in bare feet, hair loose, hugging a silk kimono closed across her nudity.
“Maybe I even pretended...” He paced away, embarrassed to admit he’d wanted to be like her. Warm and sincere and surrounded by open affection. “It was never about you not being good enough for me.”
There was a long, pensive silence before she said quietly, “I still can’t help feeling I’m not—”
He pivoted to face her and cut her off. “You went to a foreign country to teach women how to be as financially independent as you are. You fostered a baby and now you’re a mother. What makes you think you can’t walk into a cocktail party of blowhards and hold your own? Win them over?”
“Fear,” she admitted glumly.
“Well, stop it,” he chided. “You’re actually very brave and bright and likable. If anyone insults your hometown or tries to make you feel small again, say something about the yacht. That usually snaps people into their best behavior, in hopes of earning an invitation.”
She snorted. “You do have a mean streak, don’t you?”
“I come by it honestly.” It should have been a lighthearted rejoinder, but it was too true. His father had held out carrots like that, playing with people’s hopes, manipulating them with the promise of rewards that hadn’t arrived.
When he looked at her again, her teasing smile had faded into a troubled frown.
“My biggest problem is figuring out what’s real and what’s pretend. Sometimes this feels very...”
He nodded, accepting that even as it caused a jolt of guilty conscience.
“I led you on the first time. I wish you could understand how angry I am with myself for that.” The words came from the depth of his chest, scoring behind his breastbone like sandpaper and leaving a scrape in the back of his throat. “That’s why I’m trying to be as truthful as possible now. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“I know.” She nodded jerkily, her lips clamped to withstand some inner agony. “But you will anyway.”
That broadsword went through him so cleanly he could only hiss as it eviscerated him.
“I’m going to take off my makeup.” She moved into the bathroom while he stood there frozen in torment. Absorbing the knowledge that she could—and would—hurt him, too.
“I’ve asked Demitri to reschedule all of your appointments today,” Leon said over breakfast the next morning. “I heard what you said last night. This is a lot to adjust to. I’ll go into the office and the staff will be out. Take the day to get your bearings.”
Great. All the time in the world to dwell and brood and fret over the way they’d come together in a clash. She could pick apart the contradiction of a man who was capable of showing incredible care and concern, who delivered indescribable pleasure, offered remorse over the way they’d parted and said he wanted to make things up to her, but withheld himself.
Refused to open his heart.
She’d been up in the early hours to settle Illi. When she’d come back to bed, he’d spooned her into him, but that cuddle had turned into lazy, wordless lovemaking. He’d risen a few hours later when Illi stirred, leaving Tanja fast asleep and unaware he was even gone.
He could be so considerate and tender. It was no wonder she was beginning to tip into falling for him again, but even his offer to leave her at home alone felt like a withdrawal of sorts. A distance he was putting between them on purpose.
“No?” he prompted at her silence.
“No. I mean yes. Thank you.” She smiled as a thought surfaced. “I could call Shonda.”
“That reminds me.” He rose and came back with a stack of electronic devices. They were programmed with emails and numbers to reach him, his PA, and all his key staff.
She might have refused, but having a laptop would allow her to put out feelers for work. It felt a little defeatist to cold-bloodedly plan her life after her divorce, when they could be married for a year or more, but she accepted everything gracefully.
Once everyone was gone, she spoke to her family, then sent an email to Kahina that included a selfie with Illi. She asked after Kahina’s family and let her friend know she and Illi were well and that Georgiou might be in touch as he worked on the legalities of Illi’s adoption. Tanja also left messages on Brahim’s stale social media accounts, urging him to get in touch when he could.
After that, she wallowed in the quiet of the penthouse, enjoying coffee outside before she sorted through some of the outfits in the spare bedroom and moved a few casual pieces into the section of the master bedroom closet that Leon had set aside for her. She had just fed Illi and was considering her options for lunch, Illi on her hip, when the landline rang.
“Hello?” she asked cautiously, belatedly realizing she should have said it in Greek.
“Tanja, it’s Ophelia. I wondered if I might come up and meet the baby?”
“Um.” Don’t be a coward. “Of course. Um. We would love that. When were you thinking?”
“Would now be convenient?”
Tanja looked from Illi’s soggy chin to her own comfortable but threadbare shorts and T-shirt. “Of course,” she said with false brightness.
She had just enough time to wash her daughter’s face and slip into a simple yet pretty summer dress, then pull her hair into a ponytail before there was a brief knock.
Tanja set Illi under her play set and hurried to let Ophelia in.
Ophelia looked as intimidatingly put together as she had last night, this time in a linen pantsuit with an emerald green blouse. Her hair was pinned in a smooth chignon, her makeup flawless.
“The housekeeper is out, I’m afraid, but I could make coffee and find some cookies?” Tanja offered as she led Ophelia into the lounge. “I should have called you myself this morning, to apologize for not staying last night. I, um, wasn’t feeling well.”
Ophelia gave her a steady look that was even more piercing and unreadable than her son’s. “Leon has already explained that you weren’t feeling welcome.”
“That’s not...quite true.” Tanja flexed her linked fingers. “Out of my depth is a better way of putting it. This is all very overwhelming.”
Ophelia halted to stare at Illi on the blanket on the floor.
“This is Illi.” What had Leon told his mother about her parentage?
“She could be Leon’s, couldn’t she? With that coloring?” Ophelia’s expression softened almost imperceptibly as she shifted to perch on the edge of a cushion, her attention remaining on the baby, while Illi batted at the toys dangling from the play set propped over her.