A Shameful Consequence - By Carol Marinelli Page 0,39

his voice it was only them in the world. He leant over to pour her some wine, but she put her hand over the glass.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

She couldn’t quite work out what had happened, how the sofa had suddenly become the most dangerous place in the house.

‘I’m going to bed. I’ll just clear the bench.’ She stood because Nico was stretching out on the sofa.

‘Leave it,’ Nico said. ‘Despina will do it in the morning.’

She laughed, for the first time in … she honestly could not remember how long, possibly a year, but for the first time in ages Connie threw her head back and laughed. ‘You were almost perfect there,’ Connie explained. ‘I thought you were going to clear it yourself.’

‘Why would I?’ The thought had never entered his head and she watched as he stretched out fully, and somehow she wanted to join him, to look out toward the darkened sea, to talk and, yes, perhaps laugh again, and maybe something more. ‘Goodnight, Constantine.’

‘Connie,’ she corrected him, as she did so often, but Nico shook his head.

‘Not to me.’ She turned to walk toward the bedroom and his voice followed her. ‘And by the way, I am.’

‘Am what?’ It came back to her then—a something that made her dare not turn around, and she stood holding her breath in the hallway, closing her eyes as she heard his response.

‘Perfect.’

She walked to her bedroom, checked Leo and then climbed into bed, trying not to think about the something that had happened, but it was rippling through her body like a tide with no return. A mother, yes, she would always be a mother, but the wave was growing stronger, dousing her, as the woman she also was returned.

Nico Eliades was, to Connie, perfect.

It was she who was flawed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE looked much the same to Nico when he poured real coffee from the pot and offered her one, but Connie, sitting on the sofa holding Leo, shook her head. She seemed unable to meet his eyes.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Nico asked.

‘Wonderfully,’ Connie said, taking great interest in her middle toenail, embarrassed by her own Nicodriven dreams. ‘You?’

‘Not so good.’

Nico was more concerned with the change in himself to notice any in Constantine, how he’d almost lost last night, at least where women were concerned, a very level head.

Last night, watching her eat, hearing her laugh, well, as she’d headed to bed, in an unguarded moment Nico knew he had flirted. It came as second nature to him, he consoled himself, with any beautiful woman … but there must be none of that, Nico firmly decided as the strained conversation went on. They hadn’t sorted out the consequences of their first night together yet. It was not time think about moving on to their next.

‘Did Leo’s crying wake you?’

‘A bit.’

It had.

It had been hell getting to sleep, sensing her in the next room and, like a punishment for the depravity of his own thoughts, every time he finally drifted off to sleep, the baby would wake him, and he would hear the murmur of her voice. He tried not to picture what she was wearing, if anything, tried not to go in there as he heard her settle the babe, tried to ignore the creak of her bed as she climbed back in it.

He had not considered at first that it might be a problem—his mind had been focussed on other things, the news he might have a son, the appalling conditions she was living in, but now they were away from all that, now that she was here in his house, in the next bedroom, suddenly he was remembering all too often, the bliss of their one night.

‘I’m going to work.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to stifle the disappointment in her voice at his abruptness. He didn’t look dressed for work—he hadn’t shaved, he was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt and looked, Connie had thought, rather more casual than usual. There was nothing casual about her thoughts, though. He was sulky and dark and brooding and how she would kill for that smile, or more, for a kiss of those sullen lips.

‘When will you be back?’ And she could have bitten her tongue off, because it sounded as if she was interested, as if it mattered when he returned.

‘Not sure.’

He did not answer to anyone, did not account for his movements—he had built his life around freedom. As he saw the seaplane land by the jetty to collect him he