In the hanging silence he looked at her properly, seeing things that he’d failed to notice in his hurry to be introduced and get down to business. The colour of her hair was familiar, a deep russet-red, like the colour of the autumn leaves he’d used to crunch through when he’d been at boarding school in England. It fell like an undulating wave over her shoulders and down her back, framing a pretty face with an English rose complexion, high cheekbones and generous bee-stung lips. Blue-grey eyes pierced him with a look of intense concentration...
He knew those eyes. He knew that hair. It wasn’t a common colour, more like something from the artistic imagination of the old masters of the Renaissance than anything real. But it was those eyes that really cut him short. They too were an unusual shade—impossible to define, but evocative of early-morning skies before the sun had fully risen.
And as all these thoughts rushed through his mind she finally advanced her hand into his and spoke two words. The final two little syllables were delivered with a compacted tightness that sliced through him upon impact.
‘Hello, Theo.’
* * *
He didn’t recognise her.
Jo didn’t know what she’d expected. A hundred scenarios had played out in her mind over the past twenty hours. Not one of those scenarios had involved him not remembering her.
It was like rubbing salt in an open, festering wound.
Something flickered in his dark eyes, and then she caught the flare of recognition.
‘Jo?’
As he spoke her name, the question strongly inflected in a rich, accented voice that sounded just as she imagined a creamy chocolate mousse would sound if it could talk, his long fingers wrapped around hers.
She nodded and bit into her bottom lip, which had gone decidedly wobbly. Her whole body suddenly felt very wobbly, as if her bones had turned into overcooked noodles.
His hand felt so warm.
It shouldn’t feel warm. It should feel as cold as his lying heart.
And she shouldn’t feel an overwhelming urge to burst into tears.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Straightening her spine, Jo tugged her hand out of his warm hold and resisted the impulse to wipe it on her skirt, to rid herself of a touch she had once yearned for.
‘It’s been a long time,’ she said, deliberately keeping her tone cool, trying to turn her lips upwards into the semblance of a smile.
But how could you smile when your one and only lover, the man you’d spent five years searching for, the father of your child, didn’t remember your face?
How could you force a smile when you’d spent five years searching for a lie?
Dimitris, the man who’d collected her from the airport and introduced himself as His Highness’s private secretary, was watching their interaction with interest.
‘Do you two know each other?’
‘Despinis Brookes is an old acquaintance of mine,’ said Theo—or Theseus—or whatever his name was. ‘We met when I was on my sabbatical.’
Oh, was that what he’d been doing on Illya? He’d been on a sabbatical?
And she was an acquaintance?
She supposed it was better than being described as one of his one-night stands.
And at least he hadn’t had the temerity to call her an old friend.
‘I saw a picture of you on the internet last night when I was researching your island,’ she said, injecting brightness into her tone, giving no hint that she’d even thought of him during the intervening years. ‘I thought it looked like you.’
She might not have much pride left after spending the last four years as a single mother, but she still had enough to be wounded and not to want to show it, especially as they had an audience. One thing motherhood had taught her was resilience. In fact it had taught her a lot of things, all of which had made her infinitely stronger than she’d been before.
Theseus appraised her openly, his dark brown eyes sweeping over her body. ‘You look different to how I remember you.’
She knew she was physically memorable—it had been the bane of her childhood. Red hair and a weight problem had made her an easy target for bullies. Having Toby had been the kick she’d needed to shift the weight and keep it off. She would never be a stick-thin model but she’d grown to accept her curves.
She might be a few stone lighter, and her hair a few inches longer, but there was nothing else different about her.
‘Your hair’s shorter than I remember,’ she said in return.
Five years ago Theseus’s hair—so dark it appeared black—had been long, skimming his shoulders. Now it was short at the back, with the front sweeping across his forehead. On Illya she’d only ever seen him in shorts and the occasional T-shirt. Half the time he hadn’t bothered with footwear. Now he wore a blue suit that looked as if it had cost more than her annual food bill, and shoes that shone so brightly he could probably see his reflection in them.