could only stare, her mind whirling at the bleak, base picture he’d painted.
‘No, she’s not waiting for anything,’ she said finally, unable to meet his incredulous, derisive look. ‘She’s dead.’
The events of the last two weeks danced crazily before her eyes—Leanne’s arrival on her doorstep, her rapid descent to death, guardianship thrust upon Rhiannon without any warning. How could she explain such a chain of fantastic events to Lukas Petrakides? To anyone? It would sound made up; he wouldn’t believe her. He would think it was just part of some nefarious blackmailing scheme.
She let out a wild hiccup of laughter, her arms wrapping around herself as a matter of self-protection. Self-denial.
Lukas muttered something under his breath, then moved towards her. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Before Rhiannon could protest, he pushed her onto the edge of the bed. His hands burned her skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. She felt their warmth and strength like a brand.
‘You’re in shock,’ he stated flatly, rummaging in the room’s minibar and coming up with a small plastic bottle filled with a clear liquid.
‘I’m not in shock,’ she protested, even as her insides wobbled and rebelled. ‘I’m…I’m sad.’ She knew it sounded pathetic; she could tell Lukas thought so too by the way he raked her with one uncomprehending glance.
He wouldn’t understand, of course. He didn’t care about Annabel, and he probably wondered why she seemed to. Rhiannon closed her eyes.
She’d only known the baby two weeks. She still hadn’t quite figured out how to hold her, and bottle feedings were awkward. The nappies she put on fell off half of the time. She wasn’t used to infants, to their noise and dribble. Yet she loved her. At least, she knew she would love her, if she was given the chance.
If she let herself have the chance.
She’d known from the moment Leanne named Lukas Petrakides as the father that she would give Annabel up if she needed to. If he wanted her to.
And she’d hoped he would…for Annabel’s sake. Annabel’s happiness.
Lukas poured the liquid into a glass and put it into her hand. Her fingers closed around it and she opened her eyes.
‘Drink.’
She squinted dubiously at the glass and drank. Only to promptly splutter it all over the carpet—and Lukas’s shoes.
‘What is that stuff?’ she exclaimed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her throat burned all the way to her gut, which churned in rebellion.
‘Brandy. You’ve never had it, I take it?’
‘No.’ Rhiannon gazed up at him resentfully. ‘You could have warned me.’
Lukas took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘It was for the shock.’
‘I told you I wasn’t in shock!’
‘No? You just looked as if you were about to faint.’
‘Thanks very much!’ Rhiannon’s eyes blazed even as hectic, humiliated colour flushed her face. She lowered her voice for Annabel’s sake, and it came out in a resentful hiss. ‘I admit the last fortnight has been a bit crazy. I have every right to look pale.’
She struggled upwards, for control, only to have him place his hands on her shoulders and push her gently, firmly back down onto the bed.
‘Sit down.’
His palms were flat against her breastbone, his fingers curling around her shoulders. Suddenly everything was different. The hostility in the room was replaced with a tension of a completely different kind.
Desire.
Rhiannon gasped at his sudden touch, at the rush of surprised feeling it caused within her.
Lukas’s mouth flickered in a smile—a sardonic, knowing curve of his lips. His head was bent towards hers, his face inches from her own. Her eyes traced the hard line of his mouth, a mouth with lips as full and soft and kissable as an angel’s.
Some angel. Lukas Petrakides, with his dark hair and countenance, looked more like a demon than a cherub. But he was a handsome devil at that. And dangerous.
Her whole body burned with awareness of this man—his body, his presence, his scent. He smelled of pine and soap, a simple fragrance that made her inhale. Ache. Want.
He looked down at her for a moment, regret and wonder chasing across his face, darkening his eyes to iron. His hands were still on her shoulders, tantalisingly close to her breasts, which seemed to ache and strain towards him, towards his touch.
What would it be like to kiss him? To feel those sculpted lips against hers, to caress that lean jaw? Rhiannon’s face flamed. She was sure her thoughts and her desire were obvious. She could feel the hunger in her own eyes.
She tried to look away. And failed.
This was about Annabel.
Her mind screeched a halt to her careening heart, and she dragged in a desperate breath.
This wasn’t about her—her need to be touched. Loved.
‘No…’ It came out as a shaky whisper, a word that begged to be disbelieved. ‘Don’t.’
Lukas stilled, then dropped his hands from her shoulders.
Rhiannon felt bereft, empty. Stupid. A moment of desire, intense as it was, was only that. A moment.
A connection. He stood up, raked a hand through his hair. The room was silent save for their breathing, uneven and ragged, and Annabel’s little sighs.
She hiccupped in her sleep, and Lukas turned, startled. He’d forgotten the baby—as she had, for one damning moment.
‘We don’t want to wake her up,’ he said after a moment. ‘Come outside.’ He opened the sliding glass door that led outside.
The beach in front of the hotel room was private, separate from the crowded public area and blissfully quiet.
Rhiannon kicked off her heels and dug her toes in the cool, white sand. The sun was starting to sink in an azure sky, a blazing trail of light shimmering on the surface of the water.
It was the late afternoon of a day that had gone on for ever.
‘What has happened in the last fortnight?’ Lukas finally asked, his face averted.
She shook her head, tried to focus. ‘Leanne—Annabel’s mother—was a childhood friend of mine,’ she began stiltedly, words and phrases whirling through her mind. None seemed to fit, to explain the sheer impossibility and desperation of Leanne’s situation. Of her own situation. Where to begin? How to explain?
Why would he care?
Why had he come back?
‘And?’
