voice, and Rosalie looked at him blankly. ‘No,’ she said.
The man seemed to be staring down at her as if not believing anything about her. Not believing she was who she’d told him she was. And not believing she didn’t know this Stavros Cous-something-or-other was her father.
Her father...
The word rang in her head. A word she never used—for what would have been the point? It was a word that was utterly nothing to do with her, because he didn’t exist—hadn’t existed except for those pathetically few short weeks in her poor mother’s life, when he had seemed to bring romance before departing for ever.
But suddenly now, at this very moment, he did exist.
She felt shock ricochet through her at the realisation, and it made her voice thready as she asked the question burning fiercely in her head. ‘How did he find me?’
It came out in a rush, a blurting question, and she gazed hungrily at this man who had come here and dropped this amazing, incredible, unbelievable bombshell into her life—a life that had suddenly, out of nowhere, changed for ever.
My father knows about me! He’s sent someone to find me!
Emotion leapt within her, distracting her from the fact that the dark eyes looking down at her had suddenly veiled.
‘That is something you must ask him yourself,’ was his clipped reply, but she leapt onwards to the next question.
‘Where is he?’ Her voice was avid, hungry, the words tumbling from her.
‘He lives in Athens.’
‘Athens?’ Rosalie’s eyes widened. Her father was Greek?
In her head her mother’s voice echoed...
‘He was foreign—so romantic!—working in London...’
‘Yes.’
The man’s voice was curt. She saw his face tighten, as if he were shutting her out of something.
‘As for any other questions you may have, they can wait.’ He glanced around himself. She could see his expression tighten even more. ‘Get your things and we’ll leave.’
Rosalie stared. ‘What do you mean?’
That tight-lipped, angry look was back in his dark eyes.
‘I’m taking you to Athens,’ he said. ‘To your father.’
Xandros glanced sideways at his passenger in the chauffeured car. She still had that blank expression on her face, as if she was not really taking in what was happening.
Make that two of us, Xandros thought grimly.
He’d come to London with no intention other than to warn Stavros’s English daughter against her father’s scheming. But now his anger at Stavros had found a new cause. Hell, he’d always known the man was ruthless—his disowning Ariadne was proof of that!—but what he’d done to this wretched other daughter of his was...unforgivable.
Keeping her in ignorance about her father—keeping her in abject poverty...
Emotion roiled in him, and there was a dark, angry glitter in his eyes. Stavros wanted his English daughter delivered to him in Athens? Well, Xandros would be glad to oblige! No way could he just walk away from her, leave her there in that slum...
She’d come eagerly enough—but then, why wouldn’t she? She’d just discovered she had a father she’d never known about—of course she’d want to meet him! And why delay? There was obviously nothing for her here in London! Not if she was reduced to cleaning for a living!
So he’d waited as she abandoned her bucket and mop, shed her yellow rubber gloves, shrugged on a cheap, worn jacket, picked up a shabby tote bag and left with him—just like that. She’d put the house key back through the letterbox and climbed into Xandros’s waiting car.
She hadn’t asked any more questions and Xandros had been glad of it. Answering them would have been difficult—especially any about how her father had found out about her existence.
His mouth set again. Let Stavros tell her that to her face.
There had been practical issues about getting her to Athens that had required immediate intention. Most importantly, did she have a passport? The answer had been an affirmative, and she’d told him it was in her bedsit. The car had stopped there—on another rundown street not far from the place she’d been cleaning—and Xandros’s frown had deepened. The terraced house was peeling, its railings broken and rusty. Empty bottles and litter lay on the steps, and there were sagging curtains at the window. A total dump.
She hadn’t taken long, emerging ten minutes later lugging a battered suitcase and climbing back into the car.
His eyes flicked over her now. She was looking marginally better, having changed into cheap faded jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was neater, and she had a strong odour of deodorant now—not stale sweat from a day’s cleaning. Her skin