The Marakaios Baby. Кейт Хьюит
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child. So much more than she’d had.
‘You ask so nicely,’ Leo said, his eyes glittering now.
He was furious with her, even after so many months apart. She wondered if his anger could ever be appeased. Perhaps if she told him the truth...if only he would believe it.
‘I’m willing to live in Greece,’ she continued, deciding she might as well say it all.
‘Even in the “middle of nowhere”?’
‘I’d leave my job at Achat. I’d want to stay home with the baby for the first few years, at least.’
‘I thought the whole “housewife routine” bored you to death?’
Once again he was throwing her words back in her face, and she couldn’t blame him. ‘It’s different now.’
‘So you’re saying you want those things? That life?’
He sounded incredulous—contemptuous, even—and bile surged in her stomach again. She swallowed past the metallic taste in her mouth. ‘I’m saying that I am willing,’ she answered. ‘It’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.’
‘So I’d be marrying a martyr? What an appealing thought.’
‘You’d be making a sacrifice too,’ Margo replied. ‘I understand that.’
‘I still don’t understand you,’ Leo answered.
‘Why is it so hard to believe I’d be willing to do this?’ Margo demanded. She could take only so much of his sneering disbelief. ‘Most women would.’
‘And yet,’ Leo reminded her softly, ‘you aren’t “most women”.’
She closed her eyes, felt herself sway.
She heard Leo’s sharply indrawn breath. ‘Margo, are you all right?’
His voice was rough, although with impatience or anxiety she couldn’t tell.
She forced her eyes open.
‘I’m just very tired, and still quite nauseous,’ she said levelly. ‘Obviously you need time to think about my—my proposal.’ Not the word she’d wished to use, and Leo’s mouth twisted cynically when she said it. There had been too many proposals already. ‘If you could let me know when you’ve decided...’
‘Are you actually intending to return to France?’ Leo asked sharply. ‘You’re in no condition to travel.’
‘I’ll spend the night at a local hotel,’ she answered, ‘and fly out of Athens tomorrow.’
‘No.’ Leo’s gaze was cold and implacable as he gave his order. ‘You’ll stay here. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.’
Which made her feel like Scheherazade, wondering if she was to be beheaded in the morning. Not the way she would have wanted to think about her marriage, but she’d reconciled herself, or thought she had, to what life with Leo would be like. She’d told herself it was worth it, that anything was worth it if she could give her baby a stable, loving home.
Even if you and Leo will never love each other?
Some sacrifices, she reminded herself grimly, were necessary. And maybe it would be better this way. Without the complication and risk of loving someone, you could never be hurt. Hopefully.
She rose from her chair, blinking back dizziness. Even so Leo must have seen something in her expression, for he reached forward and steadied her elbow with his hand. It was the first time he’d touched her in three months, since he’d made love to her against the window and then walked away.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, and shook off his hand. ‘Just a little dizzy when I stand up, that’s all.’
‘I’ll arrange for someone to show you to the guest suite,’ Leo said.
He was frowning, although over her dizziness or the whole situation she didn’t know. Couldn’t think. He was right: she really wasn’t in a fit state to travel.
She stood, swaying slightly, as Leo made arrangements on his phone. Then he ended the call and gave her one last, hard look.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, and Margo knew it was a dismissal.
A BABY. HE WAS going to be a father... If the child was truly his. Leo knocked back his third whisky and stared grimly out at the starless night. It had been eight hours since Margo had confronted him in his office, and he was still reeling.
He hadn’t seen her in all that time. Elena had taken her to the house, and then his personal staff had seen to her comforts. He’d called his housekeeper Maria to check on her, and she’d told him that Margo had gone to her room and slept for most of the afternoon. He’d requested that a dinner tray be taken up to her, but Maria had told him it hadn’t been touched.
Anxiety touched with anger gnawed at his gut. If the child was his, he wanted to make sure Margo was staying healthy. Hell, even if the child wasn’t his, he had a responsibility towards any person under his roof. And he hadn’t liked how pale and ill Margo had looked, as if the very life force had been sucked right out of her.
Restlessly Leo rose from the leather club chair where he’d been sitting in the study that had once been his father’s, and then his brother Antonios’s. And now it was his. Six months into his leadership of Marakaios Enterprises and he still burned with the determination to take the company to a new level, to wield the power his father and brother had denied him for so long.
A lifetime of being pushed to the sidelines, being kept in the dark, had taken its toll. He didn’t trust anyone—and especially not Margo. But if the child was his...then why not the cold marriage of convenience she’d suggested? It was what he’d determined he’d wanted after she’d turned him down. No messy emotion, no desperate searching for love. He just hadn’t expected Margo to be his convenient bride.
Grimly Leo turned back to the whisky bottle. What she’d suggested made sense, and yet everything in him resisted it. To live with a woman who had been unfaithful, who had rejected him, and who was now viewing their marriage as the altar upon which she’d sacrifice herself, her hopes and dreams... It was a bitter pill to swallow—and yet what was the alternative? To come to some unsatisfactory custody arrangement and not be nearly as involved in his child’s life as he wanted?
If the child was his.
If it was then Leo knew he had to be involved. He wanted to be the kind of father his own father hadn’t been to him. Loving, interested, open. And he wanted a family—a child, a wife. Why not Margo? He could control his feelings for her. He had no interest in loving her any more.
He could make this marriage work.
* * *
Margo had thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but she was so tired that she’d fallen into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep the moment her head had hit the pillow, after Leo’s housekeeper had shown her to her room.
When she awoke it was dark and the room was chilly, the curtains open to the night sky. Margo rolled over in bed, feeling disorientated and muzzy-headed, as if she were suffering from jet lag or a hangover, or both. She heard a knock on the door, an urgent rat-a-tat-tat that made her think it was not the first knock.
She rose from the bed, pushing her hair out of her face, and went to answer the door.
The housekeeper Maria stood there, with a tray of food. The salad, bread, and lentil soup looked and smelled delicious, but Margo’s stomach roiled all the same. She didn’t think she could manage a mouthful.
‘Efharisto,’ she murmured, and reached out to take the tray.
But