her from accepting a proffered glass of champagne. She sipped it delicately, listening to something the director’s wife was saying, and smiling appropriately. She knew both the director and his wife, having dined with them together with Vasilis, before his final illness had taken its fatal grip on him.
She was about to make some remark or other when a voice behind her turned her to stone.
‘Won’t you introduce me?’
She whipped round, not believing her eyes. But it was impossible to deny who she was seeing.
Anatole.
Anatole in a black tuxedo, like all the other male guests, towering over her.
Shock made faintness drum in her head.
How on earth? What on earth?
He gave a swift, empty smile. ‘I felt it my duty to represent the Kyrgiakis family tonight,’ he informed her.
If it was meant as a barb, implying that she could not possibly do so, she did not let her reaction show. She gave a grave nod.
‘I’m sure Vasilis would have appreciated your presence here,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘He worked hard to ensure this exhibition would be possible. Many of the artefacts have been rescued from the turmoil in the Middle East, to find safety here, for the time being, until eventually they can be securely returned.’
She indicated with a graceful gesture towards some of the exhibits to which she was referring, but Anatole was not looking. His eyes were only on her. Taking her in. The woman standing there, in a black silk evening gown, with long sleeves and a high-cut neckline, was every inch in mourning, but she was not a woman Anatole recognised.
He’d arrived to see her take centre stage, and had not believed it could be Tia—Christine—Vasilis’s widow. Poised, elegant, mature—and perfectly capable of addressing a room full of learned dignitaries and opening an exhibition of Hellenistic archaeology.
No, she was definitely not the socially nervous, timid Tia he remembered.
Nor was it the Tia he remembered who was turning now towards the museum’s director.
‘Dr Lanchester—may I introduce Vasilis’s nephew, Anatole Kyrgiakis?’
If there was any tremor in her voice Anatole did not hear it. Her composure was perfect. Only the sudden masking in her eyes as she’d first seen him there had revealed otherwise. And that masking came again as the museum director smiled at Anatole.
‘Will you be taking on your uncle’s role?’ he asked.
‘Alas, I will be unable to become as directly involved as he was, but I hope to be one of the trustees of the foundation,’ Anatole replied easily. ‘Along with, I’m sure, my...’ He hesitated slightly, turning to Christine. ‘I’m not sure quite what our relationship is,’ he said.
Was that another barb? She ignored it, as she had the first. ‘I doubt it has a formal designation,’ she remarked, with dogged composure. ‘And, yes, I shall be one of the foundation’s trustees.’
Her mouth tightened. And no way on earth will I let you be one too!
The very thought of having to attend trustees’ meetings with Anatole there—she felt a cold chill through her. Then he was speaking again. He was smiling a courtesy smile, but she could see the dark glint in his eyes.
‘I do hope, then, that you no longer believe Alexander the Great to be contemporary with the Greek War of Independence!’ he said lightly.
Did he mean to wound her? If he did, then it only showed how bitter he was towards her.
Before, when she had been Tia—ignorant, uneducated Tia, who’d spent her schooldays nursing her mother—he’d never been anything other than sympathetic towards her in her lack of knowledge of all that he took for granted with his expensive private education.
But he’d meant to wound her now, and she would not let him do so.
So she only smiled in return, not looking at him but at the others. ‘Before I married Vasilis,’ she explained, ‘I was completely ignorant of a great deal of history. But I do now know that in the fourth century BC Alexander was pre-dating the Battle of Navarino in 1827 by quite some time!’
Her expression was humorous. It had to be. How else could she deal with this?
‘I think—at least, I hope!—that now, thanks to Vasilis’s tuition, I can recognise the Hellenistic style, at least in obvious examples. Speaking of which...’ she turned to the curator of the exhibition and bestowed an optimistic smile upon him ‘... I wonder if I might impose on you to guide me around the exhibits?’
‘I’d be delighted!’ he assured her, and to her profound relief she was able to move away.
Nevertheless, as she was conducted around she was burningly conscious of Anatole’s presence in all the rooms.
She prayed that she would not have to talk to him again. Why had he turned up? Had he meant it, saying he wanted to be one of the foundation’s trustees? What power would she have to prevent him? After all, he was a Kyrgiakis—how could she object?
But perhaps he only said it to get at me. Just like he made that reference to how ignorant I once was...
She felt a little sting inside her. Did he truly hate her so much? Her throat tightened. Of course he did! Hadn’t he said it to her face, the day of Vasilis’s funeral, calling her such vile names?
But you didn’t want me, Anatole—and Vasilis did! So why berate me for accepting what he offered with such kindness, such generosity?
The answer was obvious, of course. Five long years of anger were driving him, and Anatole believed that she had manoeuvred Vasilis into marrying her so that she could enjoy the lavish Kyrgiakis lifestyle he provided. For no other reason.
A great sense of weariness washed over her. The strain of having to represent Vasilis tonight, the poignancy of the occasion and then the shock of Anatole intruding, the barbs he had directed at her—were all overpowering her.
Forcing herself to make some kind of appropriate response to the curator as he introduced each exhibit, she counted the minutes until she could decently call a halt. She had to get away—escape.
Finally, murmuring her excuses—readily accepted, given her mourning status—she was treading through the empty corridors towards the museum’s entrance.
‘Leaving so soon?’
The voice behind her on the wide stone staircase echoed in the otherwise deserted building, well away from the exhibition gallery.
This time she was more collected in her reaction. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll drive you back,’
Anatole’s footsteps quickened and he drew level with her. Moved to take her arm. She avoided it, stepping aside.
‘Thank you, but my car is waiting.’
Hurriedly, she went out, stepped onto the wide pavement, thankful
