“So that’s how I wound up in London. Your father came into the restaurant during my second week. I was wary and angry and sad and somehow, he broke through all that. We became friends almost that first night.”
Anastasios listened without the usual burst of anger. In truth, he was just so glad there’d been someone to support Phoebe emotionally after everything she’d been through. “Your strength of character is a beautiful thing,” he said, simply, and it was.
“I’m flattered,” she said, but she was pushing him away, straightening, perhaps uncomfortable with how much she’d shared.
Being pushed away was the last thing he wanted.
“Dance with me.” He stood, before she could demur, holding out a hand to her.
She looked around. “No one else is.”
“So? I don’t care about anybody else. Dance with me,agape mou.”
She stood then, as if she couldn’t not, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight as they swayed in time to the music, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.
Chapter10
IT HAD ALREADY BEEN a day that had completely topped her wildest expectations, but when Anastasios’ driver pulled up outside the Piazza Navona and he led her into a stunning Palazzo, the strains of classical music audible over the din of the assembled guests, anticipation lifted inside of her.
“What is this?” She turned to face him, but he was distracted, his attention focused elsewhere.
She frowned, a little caught off guard. Had she shared too much at dinner? She hadn’t intended to be so honest with him, but it had felt sorightto speak freely, to open up to Anastasios. She’d felt a connection building between them and had simply trusted him with her story.
Had she misplaced that trust? Or misread his interest?
“Anastasios?” She stopped walking, uncertainty reshaping her features, so he shook his head and offered a smile. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course.” He looked around the grand hall—wide with very high ceilings, chandeliers, cream walls and gold swirling details, then back to Phoebe. “I thought we should go to the opera together.”
Her lips parted, and she was so excited she didn’t hear the tension in his voice. “Ophelia Agnavadi?”
“You seemed impressed by her.”
“I was. Oh, she’s wonderful. You’re going to love her.”
Anastasios compressed his lips. “We’ll see.”
Phoebe suppressed a laugh. “If you don’t like the opera, why did you organize this?”
He didn’t answer, and a moment later, they were moving towards the wide doors at the end of the corridor. Only as they crossed the threshold did he lean close and say, “Because you do.”
Her heart practically skidded into the theater.
They were not seated with the general public; she couldn’t say why she’d expected they might be. Instead, an usher led them to a narrow stairwell which opened out onto a little balconette. They were alone in there.
The singing was every bit as beautiful as she remembered. Phoebe was moved to tears within minutes of the performance commencing. At one point, she looked over at Anastasios, to see his reaction, and she froze, because he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He was transfixed, turned completely to stone. He stared at the beautiful soprano, his skin pale, and she wondered if that was simply how opera affected him? And then, she wondered if there was more to it?
Jealousy, unmistakable and fierce, burst through her, but she tamped down on it. Anastasios was simply caught up in the music. Besides, she had no right to feel jealous. A single kiss did not a commitment make.
Her heart stammered at the harsh reality of that, a heart that was beating, more and more, she feared for Anastasios.
His phone buzzeda little after intermission and he removed it from his pocket, shifting slightly so the light from the screen was visibly only to his eyes. It was a text from Tommy.
I have a photo of the love letter.
He’d forgotten, completely, about his friend’s supposed evidence of the affair, and being reminded now brought a complex tangle of emotions. He should have felt glad. To have proof, to know what he was dealing with, meant he could start planning for how to manage the situation. But only when confronted with the truth did he realise how badly he’d wanted Tommy to be wrong. He’d come to believe Phoebe, and the complication of her relationship with his father threatened to bring out the worst in him.
A moment later, an unsolicited and definitely unwanted photograph landed on his screen. Conscious of Phoebe, spellbound, at his side, he shifted a little more, ensuring his phone was private, then clicked it to large size and read it with a chest that was too full of anger to leave space for air.