He reached for the cookbook next, and now when he opened it, she saw an inscription on the front page, where he neatly placed the photo before closing the book and sliding it back on the shelf. He moved towards the kitchen, to make coffee, but his back was ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. Tension emanated from him, no matter how he tried to hide it.
‘Damn it, Nikos, don’t you think I deserve to know?’
‘My marriage is my private business.’
It stung. It stung more than she could ever possibly admit in that moment, and more than she could or would show him.
James had hurt her so many times, with his cruelty and his coldness, and she’d become an expert at hiding that. As soon as she’d realised he was trying to hurt her, she’d refused to give him the satisfaction. It had been a sick, gruelling game, and she’d hated playing it, but at least it meant she was match fit for this encounter.
‘Suit yourself,’ she muttered, moving towards the window only because it was the furthest point from Nikos she could get. Her eyes swept across the view without her realising at first how far she could see. But then, it dawned on her. The sky was clear. The sun was shining.
‘The storm’s broken.’ And she wasn’t even regretful about it. Anger and wariness were taking over everything else. The sense that she’d put herself on the line, sharing everything with this man, even when she’d signed an agreement to prevent her from doing so, and he’d never once told her about his own marriage. His wife.
‘Yes. It stopped raining a little after twelve.’
She turned to face him, and just stared. Because they both knew what this meant. They’d promised she would leave as soon as it was safe to do so. Had anything changed? Maybe she’d thought so, at some point over the last two days. But somehow, finding out about his marriage, that he hadn’t told her, made Genevieve doubt the sincerity of everything they’d shared. And she’d been burned by falseness once before.
Burned badly enough to never trust again. At least, that was what she’d thought. But she had let Nikos in. She had started to trust andlikehim. To feel…things that were too complicated. It was a salient reminder of why she needed to avoid relationships altogether. Hurt was the inevitable conclusion of caring.
And yet still, there must have been a part of her that hoped he might want her to stay longer, that might suggest another day and night, because it took a huge effort not to react when he said, ‘I’ll radio Theo to send a boat for you. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.’ And with that, coffee made, he stalked past Genevieve and out of the front door, presumably to the helicopter’s radio.
Her heart sank to her toes, even as she told herself she was glad. This was definitely for the best.
He placed the call to Theo then deliberately stayed away from the cabin, until he saw the boat on the horizon. He knew that if he went back, he’d tell her about Isabella. About his marriage, his regrets, his guilt, and that she might look at him with those soft blue eyes and try to convince him not to be so hard on himself.
He’d heard it often enough from his father-in-law, who’d insisted Isabella had loved Nikos, had understood his drive and commitment. He’d heard it from Theo, who’d known both Isabella and Nikos for years. He didn’t want to hear it from anyone else. Couldn’t they understand?
He’d neglected his wife to the point of her death. He had been the cause of her misery and finally her loss. But perhaps there was another reason he didn’t want Genevieve to know. Because he didn’t want her to look at him and see that he too had been an absolute failure of a husband, in so many of the ways that mattered. True, he’d provided financially, more than Isabella could ever want. And their sex life had been decent, when he was home to be with her. But the time she’d craved, the emotional intimacy, he’d withheld—without intending to—because his focus had been so completely on his fast-growing empire.
By the time he returned to the cabin, Genevieve was dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing that first day, and her hair had been styled into a neat ponytail. She looked so untouchable and sophisticated, so he craved to drop to his knees and remind her of the wildness that ran through her. To make her scream his name, one last time.
But something had shifted between them, with the discovery of the photograph. Her eyes wouldn’t quite hold his and her smile, once glorious and glowing, was now brittle like an aged animal bone.
‘Is the boat on the way?’
He nodded towards the window. ‘It’s almost here.’
He didn’t look at her to see the reaction.
‘Great. I should set off, then.’
‘There is another path to the beach,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘No need.’ That same brittle tone permeated her voice. ‘If you just point me in the direction, I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t want your death on my conscience, remember?’
She flinched at that and he made an effort to soften his tone. But he didn’t feel soft. He felt the very opposite of it. Anger with his life, his choices, with everything, twisted inside him.
‘I will not argue about this,’ he said flatly. ‘Are you ready?’
Her skin was pale but she held her ground. ‘Of course. I can’t wait to leave.’ She stalked towards the door but then paused, and looked around, as if she wanted to remember it. When her eyes landed on the bookshelf, they narrowed, and her spine straightened with renewed determination. She spun away from him and stepped out into the winter sunshine.
He told himself he was glad to see the back of her.
The whole walk down to the beach—much more easily accomplished through this path, which was wide enough for a car, and had probably been used to bring supplies for the cabin, when it was being built—she fumed. She couldn’t believe this was how it was ending between them.
Why hadn’t he told her about his wife? And even then, when she’d found the photo, why hadn’t he just given her a rundown of what had happened?
