you are?’
Who the hell do you think I am? ‘I’m the babies’ father. Alexandros Pavlidis,’ he bit out. ‘Where is she?’
‘Please follow me, Mr Pavlidis—and I’ll take you to her.’
Rebecca was lying on a bed, feeling as if she were in some kind of drugged daze—though in truth she’d only puffed at a bit of gas and air because that had been all there’d been time for during a labour which had taken her by surprise with its speed and intensity. But now, with the pain and the ordeal part of it over, she was drifting in and out of a strange kind of half-sleep when a familiar accent prickled over her senses and convinced her that she must be dreaming.
‘Rebecca?’
She opened her eyes, screwed them up—as if it might be a trick of the light and the hard, handsome face of her ex-lover weren’t towering over her like some dark, avenging angel.
‘Xandros?’
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
The midwife made as if to object at his tone, but weakly Rebecca shook her head. She wanted to cry. ‘Over there,’ she whispered.
Slowly, he turned and walked towards two cribs which stood, side by side, an identical swaddled shape in each—a shock of black hair the only contrast against the white hospital blanket. He felt a shiver whispering its way over his skin, his throat growing dry as he stared down at them.
‘What are they?’ he questioned thickly.
For a moment Rebecca didn’t understand him—until she realised that he still didn’t know the sex. She paused, as if recognising the significance of what she was about to tell him—resenting it even as she resented the stupid pride she felt in the answer she was about to give him.
‘Boys,’ she answered. ‘Both boys.’
‘Identical?’
‘Yes, Xandros.’
Xandros closed his eyes as the turbulent reality of what she had just told him rocked him to the very core of his being—for it was every Greek man’s dream to have a son to carry on his name and his genes. But twin boys? Just like him and Kyros. The cell split into two. The same and yet not the same. Never the same. Would any other man understand this strange bond of twinship, which now reached down through another generation?
For a moment he was shaken. More than shaken. He felt the strange thunder of his heart as he stared down at the two ebony heads and a terrible tearing at his heart as if someone had just ripped it open.
‘Would you like to hold your sons, Mr Pavlidis?’ asked the midwife with the bright, forced emotion of someone who had asked that particular question a million times.
Xandros looked up, and for a second his intense black gaze burned into Rebecca with an expression which came as close to helpless as she could ever imagine Xandros looking.
‘You mean, both of them?’
Rebecca actually smiled. ‘Well, why don’t you start with one, and see how you go on?’
Did he begrudge her apparent serenity—or was it simply that he felt as uncertain as some of the novice skaters he’d seen on the Rockefeller ice rink as he tentatively looked down at the tiny bundle, which seemed to be making sucking sounds disproportionate to his tiny size. ‘Why not?’ he questioned, and held his arms out.
The midwife bent down and efficiently scooped one of the babies up, before placing him in Xandros’s arms. ‘Make sure you support his little neck,’ she said, in a friendly, bossy manner.
Xandros nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he cradled the scrap of an infant. How could this be? he wondered. This double miracle which had been created. ‘Oyos,’ said Xandros softly, beginning to cradle him now. ‘My son.’
Rebecca swallowed as she heard the primitive note of ownership in his deep voice—telling herself that her fears were irrational. Shouldn’t she be pleased that he had acknowledged his offspring so openly? Why, she hadn’t expected him to turn up here like this. He hadn’t warned her.
In her more vulnerable state during the pregnancy—during some of the long, restless nights when she couldn’t get comfortable—hadn’t she longed for just such a scenario? Xandros appearing out of the blue—all strong and unashamedly masculine. Xandros sweeping in to take over and transform the situation—as if he were possessed of magical powers and could sprinkle her world with stardust.
But that had been then—when Rebecca was feeling all mixed-up and weary with the weight of impending birth. Something had happened in the interim which seemed to have invested her with the magical powers she had foolishly expected Xandros to bestow upon her.
She had become a mother. She had two tiny babies who were dependent on her. It should have scared the life out of her, but somehow it did the very opposite—it filled her with a kind of strength unlike anything she’d ever felt before. The strength to be able to stand up to a man—even one as dominating as Xandros.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ she questioned.
He looked up from where his lips seemed to have drifted automatically to the silken down of the baby’s head. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Or to check up on me?’ she questioned astutely.
The midwife frowned, as if interpreting the beginnings of a row. ‘You are supposed to be resting—’
‘Oh, I will ensure she rests,’ Xandros cut in with a soft arrogance. ‘And please—we must no longer keep you from your work. I should like a little time alone with the mother of my sons.’
Rebecca wanted to lash out—to tell him that decisions to rest or not to rest were down to her. And to protest at his rather cold-blooded description of her, which made her sound like little more than an incubator. But she did not want a scene. She could already sense that the midwife was on Xandros’s side—if the slightly awestruck look she was giving him as she left the room was anything to go by. And more than that, she felt weak—physically shattered, as if she had gone ten rounds in a boxing ring and emerged punch-drunk.
She stared at his powerful dark form and realised that she needed to rest. That being strong was one thing—but who could say how long she’d be able to remain like that?
‘Perhaps you’d like to come back later, Xandros?’ she questioned, forcing her voice to sound polite, as if he was nothing to her. Because he is nothing to you. He might be the father of her two new sons, but that did not mean there was anything left between them and she would be a fool to forget that.
He was still staring at their tiny, sleeping forms. ‘Have you thought of names?’ he demanded, as if she hadn’t spoken.
Of course she had thought of names—there had been plenty of thinking times during the long winter evenings when her bump had seemed to defy gravity and made moving around both difficult and uncomfortable. But it was hard enough choosing one name—
let alone two. And there had been no one to bounce ideas off. No one to say, ‘I hate that name’ which was what the giggling couples at the antenatal classes used
