‘Just because it was still a joint account that didn’t mean you had the right to empty it.’
‘If it bothered you that much you could have talked to me,’ she snarled. ‘But I was only your wife—why would you want to talk to me?’
‘Don’t give me that,’ he said sharply. ‘I talked to you.’
‘You talked at me about work. Never about us.’
Never about the fact that they were basically living separate lives—two strangers sharing a bed but never a meal or a joke.
Hearing the emotion in her voice, she stopped abruptly. What was the point of having this conversation? It was four years too late, and their marriage couldn’t have mattered that much to him if all he wanted to discuss now was their bank account.
And was it really that surprising? His whole life had been dedicated to making money.
She breathed in unsteadily. ‘And, as for the money, I took what I needed to live.’
To look after our son, she thought with a sudden flare of anger. A son who even before his birth had been relegated to second place.
‘I’m not going to apologise for that, and if it was a problem then you should have said something at the time, but you made it quite clear that you didn’t want to talk to me.’
Aristo stared at her, anger pulsing beneath his skin. At the time he had seen her behaviour as just more evidence of his poor judgement. More proof that the women in his life would inevitably turn their backs on him.
But he was not about to reveal his reasons for staying silent—why should he? He wasn’t the one who’d walked out on their marriage. He didn’t need to explain himself.
His heart began to thump rhythmically inside his chest, and an old, familiar feeling of bitter, impotent fury formed a knot in his stomach. She was right. He should have dealt with this years ago—because even though he had succeeded in erasing her from his heart and his home, he had never quite managed to wipe her betrayal from his memory.
How could he, though? Their relationship had been over so quickly and had ended with such finality that there had been no time to confront her properly.
Until now.
Teddie stared at him in appalled silence as, leaning back, he stretched out his legs. Moments earlier she had wanted to throw George’s existence in his face. Now, though, she could feel spidery panic scuttling over her skin at the thought of how close she’d come to revealing the truth.
‘So let’s talk now,’ he said, turning to nod curtly at a passing waiter, who hurried over with almost comical haste.
She nearly laughed, only it was more sad than funny. He didn’t want to talk now any more than he had four years ago, but he knew that she wanted to leave so he wanted to make her stay.
Nothing had changed. He hadn’t changed. He just wanted to get his own way.
‘An espresso, please, and an Americano.’ He gave the order without so much as looking at her, and the fact that he could still remember her favourite drink, as much as his arrogant assumption that she would be joining him, made her want to scream.
‘I’m not staying,’ she said coldly. She knew from past experience that his powers of persuasion were incomparable, but in the past she had loved him to distraction. Here, in the present, she wasn’t going to let him push her into a corner. ‘And I don’t want to speak to you,’ she said, glancing pointedly past him.
He shrugged, a mocking smile curving his mouth. ‘Then I’ll talk and you can listen.’
Cheeks darkening with angry colour, she sat mutinously as the waiter reappeared and, with a swift, nervous glance at Aristo, deposited the drinks in front of them.
‘Is there anything else, Mr Leonidas?’
Aristo shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’
Teddie stared at him, a beat of irritation jumping in her chest. It was always the same, this effect that Aristo had on people. When they’d first met she’d teased him about it: as a magician, she was supposed to be the centre of attention. But even when his wealth had been visible but not daunting, he’d had something that set him apart from all the other beautiful rich people—a potent mix of power and beauty and vitality that created an irresistible gravitational pull around him.
She could hardly blame the poor waiter for being like a cat on hot bricks when she had been just as susceptible. It was still maddening, though.
Some of her feelings must be showing on her face, for as he reached to pick up his cup, he paused. ‘Is there a problem?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Other than you, you mean?’
He sighed. ‘I meant with your drink. I can send it back.’