mouth tightened, eyes hardening. But by the same token it was what Tia had wanted. And because she hadn’t been able to get it from him—well, she’d gone and got it from his uncle.
In his head, he heard Christine’s words.
You may not have wanted to marry me, to have a child with me—but your uncle did! It was his choice to marry me—
He felt his mind twist. Could it possibly be true? Could his lifelong bachelor uncle actually have wanted a child? A son?
But even if that were true, why take someone like Tia for a wife—of all women! His own nephew’s ex-lover—thirty years his junior! If he’d wanted a wife there would have been any number of women in their own social circle, of their own nationality, far closer to him in age, and yet still young enough for child-bearing.
His eyes went to Christine.
She’d trapped him. It was the only explanation. She’d played on his good nature, his kindness—evoked his pity for my spurning of her, of what she wanted from me.
His mind twisted again, coming full circle. What did it matter now how Tia had got his uncle to marry her? All that was important to him now was the little boy sitting there, who was going to have to grow up without a father. Without the father he should have had.
A loving, protective father who would have devoted himself to his son, made him centre stage of his life, the kind of father that every boy deserved...
Thoughts moved in his head, stirred by emotions that welled up from deep within. He lifted his wine glass, slowly swirled the rich, ruby liquid as if he could see something in those depths. Find answers to questions he did not even know he was asking—knew only that he could not answer them. Not yet.
His eyes lifted, went to the woman at the foot of the table. Her attention was not on him, but on her son, and Anatole felt emotion suddenly kick through him. Gone was the strained, stiff expression she always had on her face when he himself was talking to her, as if every moment in his company was an unbearable ordeal. Now, oblivious of him, she was talking to her little boy, and her expression was soft, her eyes alight with tender devotion.
Once, it was me she looked at like that—
His gaze moved over her, registering afresh her beauty, her youthful loveliness now matured. A beauty that would be wasted unless she remarried.
Instantly the thought was anathema to him. Urgently he sought reasons for his overwhelming rejection of Tia remarrying—or even having any future love-life at all. Sought them and found them—the obvious ones.
I won’t have Vasilis’s fatherless son enduring a stranger for a stepfather. Worse, a succession of ‘uncles’—Tia’s lovers!—parading in and out of his life. Let alone any who crave to share in the wealthy lifestyle that Nicky will have as he grows up—that a stepfather could have too, courtesy of Tia. And Tia could take up with anyone! Anyone at all!
Even if it was some upper-class sprig like Giles Barcourt—there was no harm in a man like that—he’d never make a good husband for Tia...not for the woman she’d become. And besides—another thought darkened his mind,—any man she married would want children of his own, children who would displace Nicky. Yet it was impossible to think she could live in lonely widowhood for ever. She was not yet thirty!
His eyes went to her again, drawn to rest on her as she talked to her son. Thee mou, how beautiful she was! How exquisitely lovely—
Emotion kicked again. Something was forming in his mind, taking shape, taking hold. Yes, she would marry again. It was inevitable. Unavoidable. But no stranger that she married could be the father that Nicky needed. No man could be the father that Nicky needed.
Unless...
From deep within, emotion welled. In the flickering synapses of his brain currents flowed, framing the thought that was becoming real, forcing its way into his consciousness. There was only one man who could be the father Nicky needed. One obvious man...
* * *
Nicky was all but falling asleep as he polished off his ice cream, and Christine abandoned her slice of tarte au citron to go and lift him up, carry him to bed. But Anatole was been there before her, effortlessly hefting Nicky into his arms.
Christine followed them upstairs, her face set. It was hard—very hard—to see Anatole carry Nicky so tenderly, so naturally.
Into her head sounded those bleak words he’d spoken to her that final harrowing morning.
‘I don’t want to marry and I don’t want children.’
Her face twisted. Well, maybe a young cousin was different. Maybe that was OK for Anatole.
Something rose in her throat, choking her. An emotion so strong she could not bear it.
As she settled her son into bed, kissed him goodnight, Anatole stepped forward, murmuring something to him in Greek. Christine recognised it as a night-time blessing, and felt her throat tighten with memory. It was what Vasilis had said to bless his son’s sleep.
And his son had recognised it too. ‘That’s what my pappou says,’ Nicky said drowsily. His little face buckled suddenly. ‘I want my pappou,’ he cried, his voice plaintive.
Instinctively Christine stepped forward, but Anatole was already sitting himself down beside Nicky, taking his hand.
Anatole thought how strange it was to feel the feather-light weight of this cousin of his, to feel the warmth of his little body, to feel so protective of him.
It isn’t his fault that he is now bereft, he thought. Or that his mother inveigled Vasilis into marrying her. None of that is his fault. And if it was truly Vasilis’s choice—however bizarre, however unlikely that seems—to marry Tia, then my responsibility to my uncle’s child is paramount!
But was it just a case of responsibility? That sounded cold, distant. What he felt for this little boy was not cold or distant at all—it welled up in him...an emotion he’d never felt before. Never known before. Strong and powerful. Insistent.
‘How about if you had me instead, Nicky?’ he said, carefully choosing his words, knowing he absolutely must get this right. ‘How about,’ he went on, ‘if your pappou had asked me to look after you for him? Would that do?’
Dark, wide, long-lashed eyes stared up at Anatole. He felt his heart clench. He didn’t know why, but it did. He stroked the little boy’s hair, feeling his throat tighten unbearably.
‘Yes, please,’ Nicky whispered. He gazed up at Anatole. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ Anatole echoed gravely. And it was more than a word. It had come from deep within him.
Yet even as the word echoed he wondered if it could really be true, after his own miserable childhood, that he could make such a promise? All his life he’d resolved never to tread this path—but here he was, dedicating himself to this boy who seemed to be calling to something inside him he had not known he possessed. Had always thought was absent from him.
He watched Nicky’s face relax, saw sleep rushing upon him. ‘Don’t forget...’ were his slurring last words.
‘No,’
