Chapter Four
ROSAMUND CHEWED HER PENCIL, trying to concentrate. But her thoughts jumped all over the place.
Exhausted, she’d slept deeply last night and should feel refreshed.
Instead she jangled with nervous energy.
Partly it was from reliving last night’s events and the emotional upheaval of being thrust into that star-strewn world about which her mother had been so ambivalent.
The world which had been both fulfilling and destructive.
Yet it wasn’t the evening spent as her mother’s proxy that unsettled her. It was Fotis Mavridis.
She glanced across the patio to the open doors into the kitchen. He’d looked in again an hour ago, grabbed a drink and left, with barely a nod to acknowledge her presence.
His expression had been as dour as ever. No hint of a smile, not that she’d ever seen him smile. He’d looked as cold and blank, as judgemental, as ever.
Yet last night at the reception she could have sworn there’d been a change in him. When she’d held his arm heat had arced between them and despite his poker face she’d felt the spark of shared awareness.
More than that, he’d stunned her with that unexpected moment of understanding.
Despite all her preparation, Rosamund had been overwhelmed at the sight of her mother’s image, while standing in the place where her mother should have been, accepting her accolades.
For a second all she could think of was how much her mother had missed out on. And how much Rosamund still missed her.
The sight of Fotis blocking out the photo, and the crowd, leaning towards her with concern in his voice and sympathy in his eyes, had stunned her.
She’d known an all-consuming impulse to lean her head against his broad shoulder, breathe in his strength, and step off the merry-go-round of public expectation and royal duty.
For the tiniest instant it had felt like he saw her as no one else did. Saw deep inside to the turmoil, doubt and isolation. And understood.
There was something about that flash of solicitousness that told her he knew grief too. Knew the toll it took to keep pretending everything was okay.
Of course it wasn’t true. Fotis Mavridis knew nothing about her, except, she guessed, the lurid headlines. He didn’t know her, any more than she knew him. It had been wishful thinking. And, she admitted as she sipped her cold coffee, loneliness.
She put the cup down with a clunk and turned to the paragraph she was writing.
She hadn’t felt inspired all morning. But she was a professional and knew she couldn’t wait for inspiration.
Sometimes she had to coax it into appearing.
Her editor, not to mention her readers, were waiting for the next book.
Frowning at the scrawl on the page she knew she’d be better spending her time doing something else. She slapped shut the notebook, secured the elastic band around it to stop any loose pages slipping out, and shoved back her chair.
She’d been here since dawn, trying to get ahead with her story but all she had to show for it were ramblings she knew she couldn’t use and a page full of doodles, cartoonish images of a severe-featured man whose eyes she couldn’t capture. As if she could use those to illustrate the book!
Rosamund was at the coffee machine when a change in the atmosphere made her still. She looked towards the open French doors, expecting to see the daylight darkened by storm clouds, but it was still bright and sunny.
Yet the fine hairs at her nape and along her arms stood up. Slowly she turned.
Fotis Mavridis stood in the doorway, feet wide, arms folded, wearing faded jeans and an olive-green shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy forearms.
A weight plummeted from her chest to her abdomen, sending ripples of awareness radiating to every part of her body. Suddenly the peaceful room felt unnervingly different and out of kilter.
She lifted her gaze and met eyes that today glowed more green than blue. Heat fired her blood, warming her skin.
She turned back to the machine, grateful for something to do. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’ve had mine.’
His tone was brusque, telling her they were back to being enemies. That suited her. Disapproval and dislike she could deal with. That strange…yearning she’d felt around him was an aberration.
Her lips twisted as she frothed hot milk. ‘Is there a car I can use, apart from the limousine?’
‘Why?’
Rosamund bit her lip rather than blurt out an angry answer. For some reason he was trying to provoke her. She was tempted to wonder why he disliked her so much, but refused to waste mental effort on it. ‘I have an appointment.’
When the silence extended she picked up her cup and turned. Only then did he say, ‘There’s no appointment in your diary until this evening.’
She refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘I’m visiting a friend and I’d rather not take the limo. Is there a car I can use or shall I get a taxi?’
‘I’ll take you.’
‘I’ll be quite safe there. As I said, I’m visiting a friend.’
Yet her assurance only provoked a frown. ‘How well do you know this friend?’
Rosamund blinked. If she didn’t know better she’d think that sounded like pique or even… No, impossible to think it was jealousy.
‘Well enough to know I’ll be safe.’ She refused to explain. She was entitled to privacy.
Strolling across the kitchen, she scooped up her notebook and stopped only because he blocked her exit. When he didn’t move she sipped her coffee and let the familiar taste soothe her ruffled edges.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get ready to leave.’
For a second she thought he’d refuse to move. Her pulse quickened and something like excitement jagged through her.
Finally he stepped aside with a mock bow, just far enough for her to exit. But he stood close enough for her to feel his body heat and detect the scent of soap and virile man.
Her nostrils quivered and that weight in her abdomen became a hollow ache as female hormones blasted into awareness.
Rosamund breathed out quickly, fighting the tug of attraction. It was horribly unfair that this provoking man aroused her. Silently she cursed her biological clock or whatever it was that made her susceptible.
He was waiting when she came downstairs carrying the enormous gift box of macarons.
‘What’s the address?’
Of course a greeting was too much to expect. But even surly, he commanded her attention. Damn the man!
She walked towards the garage. ‘You can drive but you’re not going in with me.’
‘I don’t care about your secrets, Princess. Whether your lover’s married or why you want to keep your assignation quiet. I promised your brother I’d keep you safe and I intend to do just that. I need to check the place.’
Her lover!
Indignation rose, but it was quickly swamped by weariness.
Her father had always judged her harshly, their characters too different for her to fit his expectations.
The press had cast her into a convenient role years ago and now invented stories about her.
It should be no surprise this stranger did the same.
Yet it infuriated her that he, like so many others, felt he had the right to jump to conclusions and condemn her.
Let him. She wouldn’t waste her time on explanations.
As he took the box and secured it on the back seat of a gleaming grey four-wheel-drive, she slid into the front passenger seat and gave him the address, catching his frown at their destination.
‘Well, well, well. Your macho man isn’t such a prig after all.’
Rosamund looked up from the kitchen table where she was putting delicate, pastel-coloured macarons in a battered biscuit tin. ‘Sorry?’
Lucie was peering outside. ‘Your man, Fontis.’
‘Fotis, and he’s not my man.’
Which Lucie knew full well. The old lady’s brain was as sharp as ever. Rosamund caught her speculative glance and shook her head. ‘Truly, Lucie. We barely speak and certainly don’t like each other. It will be a relief to go our separate ways in a week.’
When they’d arrived, Fotis had insisted on coming to check out the flat.
If he’d been surprised to meet a grey-haired woman in a wheelchair instead of a lover, he hadn’t shown it.
Rosamund had explained he was her temporary bodyguard—she had no intention of lying to her old friend—and shut the door on him as soon as he’d finished his security inspection.
But annoyingly, over the next two hours her thoughts kept straying to him.
Was he standing guard outside the ground floor flat, or minding the luxury vehicle, since this area of social housing was known for its crime rate?
She’d suggested he leave and return when she texted, but the set of his jaw and glitter in his eyes had told her what he thought of that.
‘You take me for a fool, cherie?’
Rosamund looked up to see Lucie watching her, head tilted as if fascinated. ‘Of course not. I’m telling you the truth. We can hardly stand to be in the same space as each other.’
‘Get on each other’s nerves, do you?’
Rosamund met Lucie’s bright eyes and realisation dawned. ‘You can’t possibly think—’
‘I don’t think, I know. I may be old but there are some things you don’t forget.
The way you pretend not to look at each other, yet you’re both completely attuned to each other.
The air sizzled between you.’ Lucie waved her hand as if fanning herself.
‘And the intense stares when the other one isn’t watching. Tss! I remember that heat.’
‘Pure dislike,’ Rosamund said quickly.
‘You’re not that na?ve. And your mother would never raise a fool. There’s more than dislike going on between you two.’
Rosamund caught her lip with her teeth. It wasn’t true. Fotis had made his distaste obvious. He avoided her when he could. She’d never known anyone so eager to get away from her.