ose task it was to care for patients in such a condition had to be relentlessly upbeat—or they would be unable to carry on.
The drooping eyes lifted with difficulty again. Nikos felt his shoulders stiffen. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. It was a lie, but he managed it.
It was not good to see Edward Granton again—not like this. It was not good to see a man obviously stricken with a catastrophic blow, confined to a wheelchair, barely able to speak, reduced to a hollow shell.
There was no recognition in the drooping eyes, and Nikos could see puzzlement, as though Edward Granton were searching painfully for who he was. But Nikos was reluctant to give his name—the last thing he wanted right now was for the man he’d left to face financial ruin to remember who he was. He could feel his stomach knotting, as if he’d swallowed a stone.
Edward Granton’s troubled gaze slipped to his daughter’s, and Nikos could see the softening in his expression as she squeezed his hand reassuringly.
‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ she said, and the use of the childish diminutive made the stone feel harder still in Nikos’s stomach. Memory pierced through him—Sophie calling Edward Granton ‘Daddy’ had half amused him, half made him realise just how very young she was, despite her years. A bleak look flashed in his eyes. Well, Sophie Granton was old beyond her years now.
Thee mou—what had happened? What had happened to reduce Edward Granton to this?
Sophie was talking to her father, murmuring to him, leaning forward, still holding his hand in hers, shutting out the world. Nikos glanced at the nurse.
He spoke to her, keeping his voice low. ‘Can you tell me what caused his condition?’
‘Stroke,’ said the nurse, her voice low and professionally concerned. ‘He’s doing very well, considering. It was very nearly fatal, and of course it came on top of all his other health problems. Two heart attacks took their toll, and weakened him considerably. When the stroke hit he wasn’t expected to survive, but his daughter has been an absolute tower of strength, and has performed wonders to pull him through. He’s still extremely frail, as you can see, but so much better than he was at the beginning.’
Nikos swallowed. ‘How…how long since he had his stroke?’
‘Well over a year now,’ answered the nurse. ‘Of course it’s excellent that he was able to come here when he was released from hospital. If I say so myself this is a first-class clinic for stroke rehabilitation—and I believe it’s made a significant difference to his prognosis. Which is why,’ she ran on confidingly, ‘it would be disastrous if he had to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘Well,’ the nurse went on—and Nikos was pretty sure it was because she enjoyed talking to him, as so many females did, and took ruthless advantage—‘unfortunately the clinic is privately run, and it’s understandable that a prolonged stay is sadly beyond the means of many people. But I would very, very much hope that it will be possible for him to continue here.’
Nikos could see her eyes going openly to take in his affluent appearance—the bespoke suit, the handmade shoes, the air of sleek prosperity. But his mind was elsewhere.
Not here. Not in this garden, where patients in wheelchairs were being perambulated by nurses or walking haltingly around, but in a taxi, with rain pounding on the windscreen and roof, and Sophie Granton’s drowned face, cheekbones stark, eyes wild and vicious, mascara running down her hollowed cheeks, hissing at him, ‘I need the bloody money…’
Like in some dark, damnable game, the last of the pieces fell into place.
Gutting him.
He felt himself hollowing out as realisation kicked through him. Everything made sense now—and the sense it made shook him to the foundation. His eyes went to Sophie. So fragile-looking, yet she had had to bear a weight that would have broken anyone, let alone a girl brought up in wealthy comfort by an indulgent, protective, cosseting father who’d sheltered her from every financial chill. Yet both her doting father and her financial security had been ripped from her, leaving her to fend for herself and more—to take on the emotionally and financially crushing burden of care for a father reduced to a stricken figure in a wheelchair.
How had she done it?
The question sounded in Nikos’s head, but he knew the answer already. She’d done what she’d had to.
Whatever it had taken. Giving up her music. Living in a slum. Working at one dead-end job after another. Working as an escort…
His mind sheered away, but he forced it back. That was why she’d taken that repellent job. His gaze moved around, to the manicured gardens and plentiful nurses and the well-kept clinic. He knew how much a place like this would cost.
And I thought she’d run up credit-card debts and didn’t want to let her father know…
Anger at his own presumption stabbed at him. More than anger. For a moment his gaze came back to Sophie, who was still attending to her father, holding his hand, chatting to him tenderly, even though it was clear that Edward Granton found it painfully effortful to respond. They were absorbed in each other. Nikos let them be, and instead returned his attention to the nurse.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, and headed back to the garden entrance to the clinic.
His business at the reception desk did not take long, and then he went out to the forecourt, where his car was waiting for him. He got in and went on waiting, busying himself with his laptop and some documents to pass the time, though his mind was seething with emotion that made concentrating on something as tedious as business all but impossible.
It was well over an hour before Sophie emerged from the clinic, looking drawn and pale. Nikos intercepted her immediately, allowing her no chance to do anything other than be steered peremptorily into the car.
She attempted to remonstrate. ‘Nikos—what are you doing? I don’t want—’
He cut her short. ‘I need to talk to you.’