back to his face to find it softening as he glanced at the baby.
‘She is awake. Would you like to hold her?’
‘Oh, yes, please …’ No one—unless they’d experienced it—could know what it felt like to be separated from the baby she had taken care of single-handedly since their mother had died.
‘Perhaps if you sit down on one of the comfortable chairs then you can cradle her in your lap,’ he suggested.
Claire didn’t need telling twice; walking over to one of the champagne-coloured easy chairs, she sank carefully into its comfort-soft cushions then eagerly accepted the baby.
The moment that Melanie saw Claire’s face smiling down on her, her tiny mouth broke into a welcoming smile.
‘She knows you,’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘Of course,’ Claire answered. ‘I’m her surrogate mother—aren’t I, my darling?’
After that she completely forgot about Andreas Markopoulou, who, after a moment or two, lowered himself into the chair opposite them then sat looking on as Claire immersed herself in the sheer pleasure of her mother’s baby, talking softly to her while Melanie looked and listened with rapt attention.
Dinner was pleasant. Nothing fancy, just simple but tasty vegetable soup followed by boiled rice and thin slivers of pan-fried chicken that she could easily manage to eat by only using her fork.
Refusing the deep red full-blooded wine he was drinking with his meal, she asked for water instead. And they talked quietly. Well, she talked—Claire made the wry distinction—whilehe encouraged her with strategically placed questions that resulted in her whole life to date getting aired at that dinner table.
When she eventually sat back, talked-out and replete, having refused any dessert to finish her meal, she made herself ask the question that had been troubling her on and off throughout the whole day.
Only one day? She paused to consider this with a small start of surprise. It was beginning to feel as if she’d spent a whole lifetime here with this strangely attentive, very intriguing and enigmatic man.
‘Why did you send my aunt away?’ she asked him.
He sat back in his own chair to idly finger his wineglass while he studied her face through faintly narrowed eyes.
‘She was never very close to you or your mother, was she?’ he said, frustratingly blocking the question with a question.
Still, Claire answered it. ‘They never got on,’ she admitted with a shrug. ‘My mother was …’ She stopped, her soft mouth twisting slightly because what she was going to say sounded as if she was being critical of a mother she’d adored—when in actual fact it wasn’t a criticism but a flat statement of fact. ‘A bit frivolous.’ She made herself say it. ‘Aunt Laura was the older sister. Much tougher and … less pretty,’ she added with wry honesty.
‘People liked to spoil my mother.’ Even I did, she thought, glancing at those slightly narrowed, intent black eyes then away again quickly. ‘Aunt Laura would have bitten their heads off for trying the same thing with her,’ she went on. ‘She’s a staunch feminist with a good business brain and she likes to use it.’
He nodded in agreement and once again Claire felt herself being subtly encouraged to continue. ‘She has no time for—sentimentality.’ Claire thought that described her aunt best. ‘Her philosophy is that if something goes wrong you eitherfix it or throw it away and start from scratch again,’ she explained sadly.
‘And which category do you and Melanie come under?’
‘She wants me to have Melanie adopted,’ she replied, her expression turning cynical. ‘So you tell me because I still haven’t decided whether that particular solution is supposed to be fixing us or throwing us out.’
‘Which means,’ he concluded, ‘that you also have not decided whether to take her advice or not.’
Shrewd devil, Claire thought bitterly, and rose tensely to her feet as the rotten truth in that statement
‘She is awake. Would you like to hold her?’
‘Oh, yes, please …’ No one—unless they’d experienced it—could know what it felt like to be separated from the baby she had taken care of single-handedly since their mother had died.
‘Perhaps if you sit down on one of the comfortable chairs then you can cradle her in your lap,’ he suggested.
Claire didn’t need telling twice; walking over to one of the champagne-coloured easy chairs, she sank carefully into its comfort-soft cushions then eagerly accepted the baby.
The moment that Melanie saw Claire’s face smiling down on her, her tiny mouth broke into a welcoming smile.
‘She knows you,’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘Of course,’ Claire answered. ‘I’m her surrogate mother—aren’t I, my darling?’
After that she completely forgot about Andreas Markopoulou, who, after a moment or two, lowered himself into the chair opposite them then sat looking on as Claire immersed herself in the sheer pleasure of her mother’s baby, talking softly to her while Melanie looked and listened with rapt attention.
Dinner was pleasant. Nothing fancy, just simple but tasty vegetable soup followed by boiled rice and thin slivers of pan-fried chicken that she could easily manage to eat by only using her fork.
Refusing the deep red full-blooded wine he was drinking with his meal, she asked for water instead. And they talked quietly. Well, she talked—Claire made the wry distinction—whilehe encouraged her with strategically placed questions that resulted in her whole life to date getting aired at that dinner table.
When she eventually sat back, talked-out and replete, having refused any dessert to finish her meal, she made herself ask the question that had been troubling her on and off throughout the whole day.
Only one day? She paused to consider this with a small start of surprise. It was beginning to feel as if she’d spent a whole lifetime here with this strangely attentive, very intriguing and enigmatic man.
‘Why did you send my aunt away?’ she asked him.
He sat back in his own chair to idly finger his wineglass while he studied her face through faintly narrowed eyes.
‘She was never very close to you or your mother, was she?’ he said, frustratingly blocking the question with a question.
Still, Claire answered it. ‘They never got on,’ she admitted with a shrug. ‘My mother was …’ She stopped, her soft mouth twisting slightly because what she was going to say sounded as if she was being critical of a mother she’d adored—when in actual fact it wasn’t a criticism but a flat statement of fact. ‘A bit frivolous.’ She made herself say it. ‘Aunt Laura was the older sister. Much tougher and … less pretty,’ she added with wry honesty.
‘People liked to spoil my mother.’ Even I did, she thought, glancing at those slightly narrowed, intent black eyes then away again quickly. ‘Aunt Laura would have bitten their heads off for trying the same thing with her,’ she went on. ‘She’s a staunch feminist with a good business brain and she likes to use it.’
He nodded in agreement and once again Claire felt herself being subtly encouraged to continue. ‘She has no time for—sentimentality.’ Claire thought that described her aunt best. ‘Her philosophy is that if something goes wrong you eitherfix it or throw it away and start from scratch again,’ she explained sadly.
‘And which category do you and Melanie come under?’
‘She wants me to have Melanie adopted,’ she replied, her expression turning cynical. ‘So you tell me because I still haven’t decided whether that particular solution is supposed to be fixing us or throwing us out.’
‘Which means,’ he concluded, ‘that you also have not decided whether to take her advice or not.’
Shrewd devil, Claire thought bitterly, and rose tensely to her feet as the rotten truth in that statement
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