Securing the Greek's Legacy. Julia James
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as if his throat weren’t working properly. ‘Hello, little fellow.’
There was, Lyn could see as plain as day, extraordinary though it was, a look of stunned wonder on his dark, formidable face.
She felt emotion stab at her but did not know what it was. Only that it was powerful. Very powerful...
Her eyes could not leave his face, could not stop staring at the transformation in the man. But Anatole had no eyes for her stunned scrutiny of him. He had eyes only for one thing—the baby in her arms who had brought him here. His dead cousin’s child.
Lyn heard him murmur something in Greek. Something that sounded soft and caressing. Something that felt like a warm touch on her skin even though it was not directed at her. It drew a response from her, all the same, and she felt a strange, potent flickering of her senses.
Then Georgy was wriggling impatiently in her arms, tugging on the finger he was clutching. She loosened her hold automatically, so that he could gain his objective, but now he had seen something more enticing to clutch, and he dropped the finger he’d been gripping. Instead he made a lunge at the dark silk tie dangling so tantalisingly close to him as its wearer leant forward. To his own considerable pleasure he made contact, grasped it greedily, and pulled the end into his mouth, sucking vigorously.
A burst of laughter broke from Lyn. She couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, Georgy, you monkey!’ she exclaimed ruefully.
She lifted a hand to disengage the tie, conscious as she did so that the gesture brought her disquietingly closer to the man wearing it. Deprived of his tasty morsel, Georgy gave a howl of outrage. Lyn took his tiny hands and busied herself in remonstrations that enabled her to straighten up, increasing the distance between herself and this most disturbing of men.
‘No, you can’t have it! You little monster, you! Yes, you are! A little monster!’ She nuzzled his nose with an Eskimo kiss and set him laughing. She glanced across at Anatole at what was doubtless a hideously expensive tie now somewhat soggy at the end. ‘I’m sorry about that. I hope it’s not damaged too much.’ Her voice was apologetic, constrained with an embarrassment that was not just due to Georgy’s misdemeanours but also to the awkward self-consciousness of sharing a sofa with Anatole Telonidis.
Anatole surveyed the soggy item. ‘It is of no consequence,’ he remarked.
Then, before Lyn realised what he was doing, he was unfastening his gold watch and offering it to Georgy. Eyes widening in disbelieving delight, Georgy snatched up the shiny treasure and clutched it to his chest, gazing wide-eyed at the giver of such largesse.
‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Lyn, throwing a shocked glance at Anatole. ‘He’ll try and eat it!’
But Anatole merely looked at the baby. ‘Georgy. No eating. A gentleman does not eat his watch. Understood?’
Georgy stared, his eyes wide in wonder. This stern, deep voice had clearly made a deep impression on him. Dutifully, he made no attempt to ingest the Rolex, contenting himself with continuing to clutch it while staring riveted at this oracle of good advice.
Anatole cast a long-lashed sardonic look at Lyn—a strangely intimate glance that sent a quiver through her. Then the next second his moment of triumph evaporated. With a jerky movement Georgy slammed the watch to his mouth.
‘Georgy—no!’ Both adults moved fast but, alas, Anatole’s belated attempt to remove his watch incited outrage in the infant, whose little face screwed up into angry tears.
Hastily Lyn fumbled in the plastic toy bucket beside the sofa to fetch out Georgy’s favourite—a set of plastic keys—and managed to swap them, with some difficulty, for the precious gold watch. Charily, she handed the latter back to its owner, avoiding eye contact this time, and then busied herself settling Georgy in her lap as he chewed contentedly on his keys. She felt unbearably awkward, and yet she knew that something had changed. Thawed.
Imperceptibly, she felt a tiny amount of the tension racking her easing. Then, into the brief silence, a deep voice spoke.
‘So, what are we to do?’
CHAPTER THREE
LYN’S EYES FLEW upwards. Anatole Telonidis was looking at her, and as he did so she knew for sure that something had definitely changed between them. She was still wary, yes—wariness was prickling through her every vein—but that wash of rage and outrage against him had gone. His tone of voice was different too. It was more—open. As if he were no longer simply dictating to her what must happen. As if he were truly asking a question of her.
A question she could give no answer to other than the one she had hurled at his head five minutes ago. She could not—would not—ever give Georgy up!
She gave an awkward shrug, dropping her eyes again. She didn’t want to look at him. Her self-consciousness had soared suddenly, and whereas before she might have found refuge in animosity and resentment and rage against him and his autocratic demands, now she felt raw and exposed.
Anatole watched her sitting there, with the baby on her lap, her attention all on the infant who was busily chewing on his keys and chuntering away to himself. Emotion poured through him, powerful and overwhelming. Even without the formality of DNA testing his heart already knew that this was Marcos’s son. And already he felt a powerful urge to protect and cherish him.
Which is what she feels too! That is what is driving her!
Her obduracy, her angry outburst, were both fuelled by the deepest of emotions—emotions that he understood and recognised.
Love and grief.
She could not give up the child. Not now. Not like this. It was impossible for her to conceive of such a thing. Impossible for her to do anything other than what she had done—rage at the very notion of it! A flicker of a different emotion went through him—one he had not envisaged feeling. One that came again now as he let his eyes rest on her while her attention was on the baby in her lap.
There was something very moving about seeing her attend so tenderly to the tiny scrap of humanity she was engaged with. Her face seemed softer somehow, without that pinched, drained, defensive look that he’d seen in it. The contours of her profile, animated by her smiles of affection for the infant, were gentler now.
He found an irrelevant thought fleeting through his head. If she had her hair done decently, took some trouble over her appearance, she would look quite different—
He reproached himself. What time or funds did she have to pay any attention to her appearance? She was studying full-time and looking after a baby, on what was clearly a very tight budget. And it was obvious, too, from the circles under her eyes, that she wasn’t getting enough sleep.
A sudden impulse went through him.
I could lighten her burden—the load she is carrying single-handed.
But not by taking from her the baby she was so devoted to.
He heard himself speaking. ‘There must be a way we can reach agreement.’
Her eyes flew to his. Back in them, he could see, was the wariness and alarm that he was so familiar with.
‘You’re not taking Georgy from me!’ Fear and the hostility raked through her voice, flashed in her eyes.
He held up a hand. His voice changed, grew husky. ‘I can see how much Marcos’s son means to you. But because he means so much to you I ask you to understand how much he means to his father’s family as well.’ He paused, his eyes holding hers, willing the wariness and resistance to dissolve. ‘I need you to trust me,’ he said to her. ‘I need you to believe me when I say that there has to be a way we can resolve this impasse.’
She heard his words. Heard them reach her—strong, fluent, persuasive. Felt the power of that dark, expressive gaze on her, and the power, too, of the magnetism of the man, the power of his presence, the impact it had on her. She felt her senses stir and fought them back. But she could not fight back the intensity