Genevieve sighed heavily. ‘It sounds to me as though she loved you a great deal, Nikos. She stayed with you, when she could have left. You need to stop torturing yourself.’
But she could see by his reaction that he had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘Let’s go to dinner,agape. It’s time to let the world see you’ve moved on from your ex-husband.’
She didn’t dare ask if he would ever move on from his late wife. Besides, she had the answer, and it sat in her gut like an oversized lead balloon.
Chapter Eleven
EVERYTHING ABOUT THEnight had been scripted to perfection. From the limousine that had whisked them through the streets of Athens to one of the most prestigious restaurants in the city, with striking views of the Parthenon, and the golden glowing city beyond. Whether by request or happenstance, they had been placed on an intimate table on a private balcony, with overhead heating to keep them toasty warm. It hadn’t been necessary. Just the way Nikos’s legs had brushed hers had lit a fire in Genevieve’s soul that only he could extinguish—later, in his own, sweet time.
Though their table had been private, their entry to the restaurant had taken them past a dozen paparazzi, and once inside, she’d been aware of several patrons surreptitiously lifting their phones to snatch photos of the reclusive Greek billionaire and the woman on his arm. Genevieve realised later that the way she’d held his forearm would have displayed her engagement ring—without her intending to—to perfection, leaving no one in any doubt as to what their relationship was. There was also the possessive way Nikos had kept an arm around her waist as they’d left the restaurant, and Genevieve had leaned into his warm side, not caring about the photographers so much as being near him.
The same car had returned them to the marina, to her surprise, where they’d boarded the yacht using the side-facing gangplank. Once they were onboard, it had been retracted, giving them total privacy and security.
‘Is this where you stay, when you come to Athens?’ she asked as he brewed a pot of dark coffee and came to sit on the sofa beside her. He poured two small cups of the sticky, dark liquid, then sat back in the seat, casually draping his arm along the back so his fingers brushed her shoulder and she tingled.
She hesitated for only the briefest moment before curling her legs up beside her and leaning close to him, her eyes fanning shut as she listened to the solid beating of his heart.
‘No. In fact, I’ve never stayed here before.’
She opened her eyes and glanced up at him. ‘Oh. Why not?’
He held her gaze a long moment, then reached for his coffee, taking a sip. He placed the cup on his knee, before returning his eyes to her face. ‘I bought the yacht a month before the accident.’ His voice had a hoarse quality to it. ‘It was intended as a gift, for Isabella.’ He closed his eyes then. ‘A guilt gift. I knew she wasn’t happy, that she liked nice things. I thought—’
Genevieve nodded. She understood. His guilt and grief, the knowledge that he had made the wrong choices then.
‘I was trying to keep the peace.’
‘And she didn’t like it?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to give it to her. I kept waiting for the right moment—a day in which we didn’t argue, a moment when things felt as they once had. Happy and normal, easy. It never came.’
Genevieve placed her hand on his taut, muscular abdomen, inwardly marvelling at the sheer strength of this man.
‘So where do you stay?’ she asked, rather than pushing him to continue talking about his wife.
She felt him tighten, his belly drawing inwards as though he’d taken a deep breath. ‘Our home.’
Her heart wrenched at the pain loaded into those two simple words.
‘You lived in Athens?’
He nodded once.
‘What’s it like?’
‘Exactly as it was, before she died,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t go there often. I can’t bear to. But there are certain dates in the year when it feels right to remember.’
‘To remember your wife, or remember what you perceive you did to her?’
His eyes showed surprise at her perceptiveness. ‘Both,’ he admitted, after a beat. ‘Mainly the latter. It is hard to allow myself to remember her without also recalling the pain I inflicted, by being so careless.’
Genevieve shook her head. ‘You know, I wonder if your memory is a little flawed.’
‘It’s not, believe me.’
‘I believe you’re remembering things as you think they were, but our memories are fallible, shaped by our present perceptions. I’ve known you less than a week, yet I know you’re not the kind of person who’d willingly, knowingly hurt another.’
A muscle ticced in his jaw. ‘She told me how she felt. I refused to listen.’
