or finance. He was a scholar, content to bury himself in libraries and museums, using the Kyrgiakis money to fund archaeological research and sponsor the arts. He disapproved of his younger brother’s amatory dissoluteness, but never criticised him openly. He was a lifelong bachelor, and Anatole had found him kindly, but remote—though very helpful in coaching him in exam revision and for university entrance.
Anatole had come to value him increasingly for his wise, quiet good sense.
He cleared his thoughts. ‘Well, here’s to your first trip to Greece—which I’m sure you’ll make one day.’ He smiled, tilting his glass again at Tia, then taking a mouthful of the softly beading champagne. He watched her do likewise, very tentatively, as if she could not believe she was doing so.
‘Is this real champagne?’ she asked as she lowered her glass again.
Anatole’s mouth twitched. ‘Definitely,’ he assured her. ‘Do you like it?’
And suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge smile split her face, transforming the wary nervousness of her expression. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ she exclaimed.
Just like you are!
Those were the words blazing in her head, as she gazed at the man who was standing there, who had scooped up the crumpled heap she’d made on the road and brought her here, to this beautiful apartment, to drink champagne—the first champagne she’d ever tasted.
Should I pinch myself? Is this real—is this really, really real?
She wanted it to be—oh, how she wanted it to be! But she could scarcely believe it.
Maybe the single mouthful of champagne had made her bold. ‘This is so incredibly kind of you!’ she said in a rush.
Kind? The word resonated in Anatole’s head. Was he being kind? He’d told himself he was, but was the truth different?
Am I just being incredibly, recklessly self-indulgent?
He lifted his glass again. Right now he didn’t care. His only focus was on this lovely woman—so young, so fresh, so breathtakingly captivating in her simple natural beauty.
She is practising no arts to attract me, making no eyes at me, and she asks nothing of me—
He smiled, his expression softening, a tinge of humour at his mouth. ‘Drink up,’ he said, ‘we’ve a whole bottle to get through!’
He took another mouthful of the fine vintage, encouraging her to do likewise.
She was looking around her as she sipped, out over the rooftops of the houses nearby. ‘It’s nice to think,’ she heard herself say, ‘that even though up here used to be the attics, where the servants lived, they got this view!’
Anatole laughed. ‘Well, the attics have certainly gone up in the world since then!’ he answered, thinking of the multi-million-pound price tag this apartment had come with. ‘And it’s good that those days are gone. Any house staff these days get a lot better than attics to live in, and they are very decently paid.’
Probably, he found himself adding silently, a lot more than you get as a care worker...
He frowned. Essential though such work was, surely it would be good if she aspired to something more in her life?
‘Tell me,’ he said, taking some more of his champagne, then topping up both their glasses, ‘what do you want to do with your life? I know care work is important, but surely you won’t want to do it for ever?’
Even as he asked the question it dawned on him that never in his life had he come across anyone from her background. All the women he knew were either in high-powered careers or trust fund princesses. Completely a different species from this young woman with her sad, impoverished, hard-working life.
Tia bit her lip, feeling awkward suddenly. ‘Well, because I was off school a lot, looking after Mum, I never passed my exams, so I can’t really go to college. And, though I’m saving from my wages, I can’t afford accommodation of my own yet.’
‘Have you no family at all to help you?’ Anatole frowned.
She shook her head. ‘It was just Dad, Mum, and me.’
She looked at him. Nearly a glass down on the champagne and she was definitely feeling bold. This might be a daydream, but she was going to indulge herself to the hilt with it.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t Greek families huge?’
Anatole gave a thin smile. ‘Not mine,’ he said tersely. ‘I’m an only child too.’ He looked into his champagne flute. ‘My parents are divorced, and both of them are married to other people now. I don’t see much of them.’
That was from choice. His and theirs. The only regular Kyrgiakis family gathering was the annual board meeting when all the shareholders gathered—himself, his parents and his uncle, and a few distant cousins as well. All of them looked to him to find out how much more money he’d poured into the family coffers, thanks to his business acumen.
‘Oh,’ Tia said, sympathetically, ‘that’s a shame.’
An unwelcome flicker went through her. She didn’t want to think that fantasy males like this one could have dysfunctional families like ordinary people. Surely when they lived in fantastic, deluxe places like this, and drank vintage champagne, they couldn’t have problems like other people?
Anatole gave another thin smile. ‘Not particularly,’ he countered. ‘I’m used to it.’
Absently, he wondered why he’d talked about his family at all. He never did that with women. He glanced at his watch. They should go indoors. Dinner would be arriving shortly and he didn’t want to think about his family—or his lack of any that he bothered about. Even Vasilis, kindly though he was, lived in a world of his own, content with his books and his philanthropic activities in the arts world.
He guided his guest indoors. Dusk was gathering outside and he switched on the terrace lighting, casting low pools of soft light around the greenery, giving it an elvish glow.
Once again, Tia was enchanted. ‘Oh, that’s so pretty!’ she exclaimed, as the effect sprang to life. ‘It looks like a fairyland!’
She immediately felt childish saying such a thing, even if it were true, but Anatole laughed, clearly amused.
The house phone rang, alerting him that dinner was on its way up, and five minutes later he and Tia were seated, tucking in to their first course—a delicate white fish terrine.
‘This is delicious!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up as she ate.
She said the same thing about the chicken bathed in a creamy sauce, with tiny new potatoes and fresh green beans—simple, but beautifully cooked.
Anatole smiled indulgently. ‘Eat up,’ he urged.
It was good to see a woman eating with appetite, not picking at her food. Good, too, to see the open pleasure in her face at dining with him, her appreciation of everything. Including the champagne as he topped up her glass yet again.
Careful. He heard the warning
