terrible—and it was all her fault. Awkwardly, she shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Look, perhaps I can … come back.’
‘You are not going anywhere,’ snapped Constantine as he flicked her a hard glance. ‘Ingrid was just leaving.’
At this, Ingrid’s mouth thinned into a scarlet line. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed, and marched out of the suite without another word.
For a moment there was silence, and Laura’s heart was pounding with fear and disbelief as she lifted up her hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Shut up,’ he snapped, two fists clenching by the shafts of his powerful thighs as a quiet fury continued to spiral up inside him. ‘And don’t give me any misplaced sentiments. Do you think you can hysterically burst in here making veiled threats and then act like a concerned and responsible citizen who cares about the havoc she’s wreaked along the way? Do you?’
Nervously, Laura sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She supposed she deserved that—just as she supposed she had no choice other than to stand there and take it. Maybe if she let him vent his anger then he would calm down, and they could sit down afterwards and talk calmly.
His black eyes bored into her like fierce black lasers. ‘So who are you?’ he continued furiously. ‘And why are you really here?’
Brushing aside her hurt that he still didn’t recognise her, Laura tried again. ‘I …’It sounded so bizarre to say it now that the moment had arrived. To say these words of such import to a man who was staring at her so forbiddingly. But then Alex’s face swam into the forefront of her mind, and suddenly it was easy.
She drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I’ve come to tell you that seven years ago I had a baby. Your baby.’ Her voice shaking with emotion, she got the final words out in a rush. ‘You have a son, Constantine, and I am the mother of that son.’
CHAPTER THREE
CONSTANTINE stared at the trembling waitress who stood before him, and who had just made such a preposterous claim. That she was the mother of his son. Why, it would almost be laughable were it not so outrageous.
‘That is a bizarre and untrue statement to make,’ he snapped. ‘Especially since I don’t even know you.’
Laura felt as if he had plunged a stiletto into her heart, but she prayed it didn’t show on her face. ‘Then why didn’t you have the guards take me away?’
‘Because I’m curious.’
‘Or because you know that deep down I could be telling the truth?’
‘Not in this case.’ His lips curved into a cruel smile. ‘You see, I don’t screw around with waitresses.’
It hurt. Oh, how it hurt—but presumably that had been his intention. Laura forced herself not to hit back at the slur, nor to let herself wither under his blistering gaze. ‘Maybe you don’t now—but I can assure you that wasn’t always the case.’
Something in her calm certainty—in the way she stood there, facing up to him, despite her cheap clothes and lowly demeanour—all those things combined to make Constantine consider the bizarre possibility of her words. That they might be true. He looked deep into her eyes, as if searching for some hint of what this was all about, but all he saw was the stormy distress lurking in their pewter depths, and suddenly he felt his heart lurch. Eyes like storm clouds.
Storm clouds.
Another memory stirred deep in the recesses of his mind. ‘Take down your hair,’ he ordered softly.
‘But—’
‘I said, take down your hair.’
Compelled by the silken urgency of his voice, and weakened by the derision in his eyes, Laura reached up her hand. First, off came the frilly little cap, which she let fall to the floor—she certainly wouldn’t be needing that again. Then, with trembling fingers, she began to remove the pins and finally the elastic band.
It was a relief to be free of the tight restraints and she shook her hair completely loose, only vaguely aware of Constantine’s sudden inrush of breath.
He watched as lock after lock fell free—one silken fall of moon-pale hair after another. Fine hair, but masses of it. Hair which had looked like a dull, mediocre cap now took on the gleaming lustre of honey and sand as it tumbled over her slight shoulders. Her face was still pale—and the dark grey eyes looked huge.
Storm clouds, he thought again, as more memories began to filter through, like a picture slowly coming into focus.
A small English harbour. A summer spent unencumbered by the pressures of the family business. And a need to escape from Greece around the time of the anniversary of his mother’s death—a time when his father became unbearably maudlin, even though it had been many years since she had died.
His father had promised him far more responsibility in the Karantinos shipping business, and that summer Constantine had recognised that soon he would no longer be able to go off on the annual month-long sailing holiday he loved so much. That this might be the last chance he would get for a true taste of freedom. And he’d been right. Later that summer he’d gone back to Greece and been given access to the company’s accounts for the first time—only to discover with rising disbelief just how dire the state of the family finances was. And just how much his father had neglected the business in his obsessive grief for his late wife.
It had been the last trip where he was truly young. Shrugging off routine, and shrugging on his oldest jeans, Constantine had sailed around the Mediterranean as the mood took him, lapping up the sun and feeling all the tension gradually leave his body. He hadn’t wanted women—there were always women if he wanted them—he had wanted peace. So he’d read books. Slept. Swum. Fished.
As the days had gone by his olive skin had become darker. His black hair had grown longer, the waves curling around the nape of his neck so that he had looked like some kind of ancient buccaneer. He’d sailed around England to explore the place properly—something he’d always meant to do ever since an English teacher had read him stories about her country. He’d wanted to see the improbable world of castles and green fields come alive.
And eventually he’d anchored at the little harbour of Milmouth and found a cute hotel which looked as if it had been lifted straight out of the set of a period drama. Little old ladies had been sitting eating cream cakes on a wonderful emerald lawn as he strolled across it, wearing a faded pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Several of the old ladies had gawped as he’d pulled out a chair at one of the empty tables and then spread his long legs out in front of him. Cream cakes which had been heading for mouths had never quite reached their destination and had been discarded—but then he often had that effect on women, no matter what their age.
And then a waitress had come walking across the grass towards him and Constantine’s eyes had narrowed. There hadn’t been anything particularly special about her—and yet there had been something about her clear, pale skin and the youthful vigour of her step which had caught his attention and his desire. Something familiar and yet unknown had stirred deep within him. The crumpled petals of her lips had demanded to be kissed. And she’d had beautiful eyes, so deep and grey—a pewter colour he’d only ever seen before in angry seas or storm clouds. It had been—what? Weeks since he had had a woman?
