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Dark eyebrows swooped upwards. ‘You have a degree?’
Grace didn’t attempt to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘Why? Did you think I was only qualified to answer the door and pour glasses of water for irascible men?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. It’s pretty obvious that’s what you were thinking.’
‘Is that so?’ He stared at her mockingly. ‘Do you have a particular talent for reading people’s minds, Grace, or is that something which just happens with me? In which case, should I be worried?’
If he hadn’t been so sarcastic, she might have explained that when you were a servant—or a servant’s child—you got good at reading body language because you were supposed to anticipate other people’s needs. But, unwilling to risk his derision, she stuck to the facts.
‘I did a language degree and qualified as an interpreter,’ she continued stiffly. ‘I’d just been offered a job in Brussels when my mum…’ And this was why she didn’t talk about it. Because this was what happened. Every single time. That annoying lump in her throat, which was making it difficult to get her words out, had made its presence known and if she’d been telling anyone else, they might have gently suggested she halt her story. But not Odysseus. There was no gentleness in him, she realised, despite the fact that they’d just made love. That cold blue gaze was slicing through her like a blade and the angles of his face were hard and shadowed. She remembered her friends urging her to seek counselling when all this had happened, but so much had been going on that she never had done and, anyway—who would have paid?
‘It was a freak accident,’ she told him flatly. ‘Contrary to popular belief, very few people drown in Venice but one night…’ She swallowed. ‘One night there was a terrible storm and Mum must have lost her footing on her way back from the market and…that was it. At first light the Polizia di Stato came to say they’d found a body in the canal. She…she wasn’t even forty.’
Grace waited for him to come out with conventional expressions of regret but he didn’t say anything and after a moment or two it occurred to her that he was a man who seemed very comfortable with silence. Was that a ploy he’d developed over the years, she wondered, which would make other people want to fill it? Because if that was the case, it was working.
‘My grandmother was so shattered by news of her daughter’s death that she had a stroke,’ she said slowly. ‘The doctors said that sometimes shock can do that to a person. At first, they said she should get better, only it was much worse than they thought and she didn’t recover and needed to go into care, which is unbelievably expensive. She’s got dementia now. And since I’m her only living relative and the only person who can help contribute, I…’ She pressed her lips together, trying to sound brisk and matter-of-fact, because she had loved her nana so much. Still did. Even if she stared at her only grandchild with eyes which were blank and unrecognising whenever Grace paid her a visit. ‘I took over my mother’s job and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.’
‘Wait a minute.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you take your mother’s job? Why didn’t you go off and use your degree and send money to your grandmother that way?’
It was at this moment that Grace lost patience, because what did a man like Odysseus Diamides know about how ordinary people dealt with all the horrible stuff which life threw at them? ‘Why do you think? Because I was broke. I couldn’t afford care feesandrent. And there was Mum’s funeral to pay for, too. You wouldn’t believe how expensive that is in Venice. But Signor Contarini stepped in. He offered to pay for everything if I just carried on from where Mum had left off and became his housekeeper. And we…we gave her a lovely send-off,’ she said, trying to stop her voice from wobbling as she remembered the black gondola, decked with flowers and the cold tears which had streamed down her cheeks as she had watched its slow glide. ‘Plus he gives me enough salary so that I can pay for Nana’s care, though not a lot else. Hence my rather drab wardrobe choices.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s what you call a win-win situation. And I’m indebted to him.’
Or trapped, Odysseus thought to himself. Stuck inside a gilded prison.
But Grace’s explanation about her servile role had surprised him and, though it further fuelled his contempt for his grandfather, it had also stimulated his interest. Pluckiness and stoicism were strangely attractive qualities and it occurred to him that he had never come across a woman so willing to put someone else’s needs ahead of their own.
‘Come on. Isn’t it your turn now?’ she ventured, into the pause which had followed. ‘Isn’t it time I learnt something about you?’
‘I guess so,’ he answered, with practised skill. Bypassing the kind of intrusive detail he suspected she wanted, he chose instead to recount the rags-to-riches account of his time as a runner on the floor of the Athens stock exchange, to the announcement made just a decade later that he was the richest man in all Greece. It was a smooth and potted history he’d got down to a fine art, knowing when to skate over detail, when to elaborate and when to pause for laughs. It left people feeling they understood him. They never did, of course—that was just an illusion and one which he had carefully cultivated. ‘Now my job takes me all over the world and I live on an island—alone—and very happily so.’ He narrowed his eyes, deliberately keeping his tone dismissive. ‘So. Does that tell you everything you want to know, Grace?’
She began to pluck at the silken throw, inadvertently drawing attention to the outline of her body beneath. ‘Well…’
But he shifted the focus, deliberately peeling away the cover to reveal her breasts, allowing his thumb to trace a lazy circle over the peaking nipple. ‘I think we’ve done enough talking,’ he murmured. ‘Isn’t it about time I made you come again?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ she whispered, with shy eagerness.
Which he did. On every available surface. Odysseus had never wanted a woman so much as he wanted Grace. He was hard all the time, vacillating between intense pleasure and intense frustration. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her and couldn’t seem to work out why. Was it her innocent willingness to learn how to pleasure him which was making him feel as if he could explode with lust every time he looked at her, or the fact that he’d never met anyone quite like her? She was humble and polite. She thanked the staff and made a point of chatting to them in French. In between room-service meals and non-stop sex, he realised that in a little over twenty-four hours they hadn’t even left the hotel and that he hadn’t thought about work. Not once.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said suddenly.
From within the deep cushions of the extra-long sofa where he’d left her dozing, she blinked those extraordinarily long black eyelashes at him and, in the spring sunshine, the amber of her eyes resembled molten gold. ‘A walk?’ she echoed in surprise, and he felt an unexpected touch of guilt that his preoccupation up until now had been so relentlessly carnal.
‘It’s a beautiful day and Paris is a beautiful city, of which you have seen very little. The Tuileries Garden isn’t far from here.’ He raised his brows. ‘Does that appeal?’
‘Well, yes, it does. Very much,’ she answered shyly and once again he felt an unexpected punch to his heart.
‘I’ll leave you to get ready while I catch up on some work next door.’
‘But it’s Saturday,’ she objected.
‘I am well aware of what day it is, Grace,’ he said coolly as he reached for his jeans.
Grace watched him go, feeling like a fool. What was shelike? Of course he knew what day of the week it was! He was probably using his work to emphasise the boundaries of their relationship, which he’d been reinforcing whenever he got the opportunity. And he wasn’t exactly subtle about it. She knew what he was doing. Warning her off ever daring to dream of any kind of future between them. He liked living alone, as he’d told her on more than one occasion. He didn’t like commitment. Definitely didn’t want children of his own, although it seemed he had several adoring godchildren scattered all over the world.
After spritzing herself beneath the shower, she pulled on a dress and trainers and, at the last minute, crammed on the floppy hat with the polka-dot ribbon which Sophia had insisted she borrow. ‘Because men love hats,’ she had informed Grace knowingly. ‘And they hide a multitude of sins.’
It seemed her more worldly friend had been correct because when Grace went to find Odysseus—tapping out something on his computer—he went very still when he saw her, his smoky blue gaze travelling all the way up from her feet, to linger on her head.