Susannah’s eyes were wide. “Apollonia doesn’t like to work. She likes to talk about working and claim she’s exhausted from some other sort of work that can never be performed when anyone can see it…” He held her gaze until she trailed off and blew out a breath. “Are you certain?”
“The investigators reached this conclusion some weeks ago,” he said bitterly. More bitterly than he should have, because what had he imagined? That a woman like his mother could change? She’d always been selfish. He’d always known that. The only surprise was how much. “But I refused to accept it.”
“Do they have proof?”
“They didn’t,” Leonidas said. His jaw clenched tight. “Now they do.”
And for moment, they only stared at each other, out in the bright Greek sun, held tight in the grip of that horrible truth.
Susannah didn’t apologize for his mother. She didn’t express her sorrow for what could not have been, in the end, that much of a surprise to her. Just as it hadn’t been for him. Loath as he was to admit that, even now.
It wasn’t a surprise. But that didn’t make it hurt less.
She didn’t apologize, but she didn’t look away, either. And he thought that this, right here, was why he was never going to get over this woman. This was how she’d wedged herself so deep inside him that he could no longer breathe without feeling her there, changing everything with reckless abandon whether he wanted it or not. Because she simply stood there with him. As if she was prepared to stand there all night, holding a vigil for the mother he’d never had.
“And now I must face the fact that she is far worse that I could have imagined,” Leonidas said, forcing the words out because he was sure, somehow, that it would be better that way. He couldn’t have said why. “It is not bad enough that she has never displayed the faintest hint of maternal instinct. It doesn’t matter that when she could have protected me from my father’s rages, she only laughed and picked herself another lover. It all follows the same through line, really. There is not one single thing surprising about this news.” He shook his head slightly, almost as if he was dizzy, when he was not. Not quite. “And yet.”
“And yet,” Susannah echoed. This time when she reached over, she placed her palm in that hollow between his pectoral muscles and held it there, pressure and the hint of warmth. That was all. And he felt it everywhere. “What will you do?”
“What can I do?” He didn’t grimace. He felt as if he’d turned to stone, except it wasn’t the stone he knew from before. It was as if he’d lost the ability to harden himself, armor himself, the way he wanted. And he knew it was the fault of the woman who stood there, keeping her hand on him as if her palm was a talisman crafted especially for him. He knew it was her fault that he cared about anything. Because losing the things that had made him harder in that other way felt worth it, he realized, if this was what he gained.
If Susannah was what he had, he couldn’t care too much about the things he’d lost.
Something dawned in him then, deep and certain, that he didn’t want to know. And not only because he’d imagined himself incapable of such things. But because, as the phone call he just had had proved beyond a reasonable doubt, he didn’t know a single thing about love. He never had and he doubted he ever would.
“I cannot haul her before any authority,” he pointed out, fighting to sound dispassionate. Analytical. “I don’t want that sort of attention on the plane crash, much less what happened afterward. Even if I wanted her brought to justice, it would be nothing but a fleeting pleasure. And on the other side of it, more instability for the company. More questions, more worries. Why permit her to cause any more problems than she already has?” He tried to hold his temper at bay. “She took four years of my life. Why should she get another moment?”
Susannah’s eyes flashed. “I admire your practicality. But I want her to pay even if you don’t.”
And he thought he would remember that forever. Her hand on his chest and her blue eyes on fire while she defended him. He’d never felt anything like the light that fell through him then. He’d never have believed it existed.
“Making her pay is simple,” he said, his voice a little gruffer than he’d intended. “She only cares about one thing. Remove it and she’ll act as if she’d been sent to a Siberian work camp.” He shrugged. “I will simply cut her off. No money, no access. Nothing. She should be humbled within the week.”