Lost? He’d pushed her out of his life. Forever.
He looked up dully. In place of a loving, beautiful, kindhearted wife, he had a painting. Love with Birds.
“Sir?” Ross again indicated the leather chair.
Leonidas stared at it. All he had to do was sit, and he’d soon get his divorce. His marriage would be declared officially dead. He’d lose Daisy forever, and their child, too. Just as he’d wanted.
He could take the painting to join the rest of his expensive possessions, back at his empty house in the West Village, or any of his other empty houses around the world. Instead of love and legacy, instead of a family, he’d have the painting.
You hated for her to love you. How could she, when you can’t love yourself?
Leonidas had never been worthy of Daisy’s love. She’d called him wonderful. She’d called him perfect. He was neither of those things. No wonder he was scared to love her. Because the moment he did—
The moment he did, she’d see the truth, and he would lose her.
But he’d lost her anyway.
The thought made his eyes go wide. He’d sent her away because he was terrified of ever feeling that hollowness again in his heart, of wanting someone’s love and not getting it.
But he loved Daisy anyway.
With a gasp, Leonidas stared out the window. A reflected beam from another skyscraper’s windows blinded him with sharp light.
He loved her.
He was totally and completely in love with his wife. And he had been, from the moment he’d married her. No, before. From the moment he’d kissed her. From the moment she’d first smiled at him in the diner, her face so warm and kind, so beautiful and real in her waitress uniform—
Nice suit. Headed to court? Unpaid parking tickets? You poor guy. Coffee’s on me.
Daisy always saw the best in everyone. Including him.
Leonidas looked again at the Picasso. The painting was not love. It could never fill his heart.
Only he could do that.
All these years, he’d blamed his parents for his inability to love anyone, including himself. And maybe it was true.
But sooner or later, a man had to choose. Would he bury himself in grief and blame, and die choking on the dirt? Or would he reach up his hands, struggle to pull himself up and out of the early grave, to breathe sunlight and fresh air?
Leonidas chose life.
He chose her.
“I have to go,” he said suddenly.
“What?” His lawyer looked bewildered, holding a stack of official-looking papers on his desk. “Where?”
“California.” Leonidas turned away. He had to see Daisy. He had to tell her everything, to fall at her feet and beg her to forgive him. To take him back. Before he’d even reached the door, he broke into a run.
Because what if he was already too late?
CHAPTER TEN
THE BOUGAINVILLEA WAS in bloom, the flowers pink and bright, climbing against the snug white cottage overlooking the sea.
After three weeks of living there, Daisy still couldn’t get over the beauty of the quiet neighborhood near Santa Barbara. From the small garden behind her cottage, filled with roses and orange trees, she could see the wide blue vista of the Pacific. Looking straight down from the edge of the bluff, she could see the coastal highway far below, but the noise of the traffic was lost against the sea breezes waving the branches of cypress trees.
Looking out at the blue ocean and pink flowers, Daisy couldn’t stop herself from remembering her honeymoon, when Leonidas had kissed her passionately, on the terrace of a Greek villa covered with flowers, overlooking the Aegean. Even now, the backs of her eyelids burned at the memory.
When would she get over him? How long would it take for her to feel whole again?
“So? Did you decide?”
Hearing Franck Bain’s voice behind her, she turned with a polite smile. “No, not yet. I’m not even sure how long I’m going to stay in California, much less whether I’ll open my portrait business here.”
“Of course.” The middle-aged artist’s words were friendly, but his gaze roamed over her, from her white peasant blouse and denim capri pants to her flat sandals. The echo of her old boss’s words floated back to her. You know he’s in love with you.
No, Daisy thought with dismay. Franck was her father’s old friend. He couldn’t actually be in love with her.
Could he?
Franck had called her from his home in Los Angeles that morning, saying he’d heard she’d moved to Santa Barbara, just an hour to the north. He’d offered to drive up