He batted away the voice.
Nikos turned away from the window. And then he went straight back downstairs and into the casino. People looked up from the table, bleary-eyed.
‘Ready for more, Marchetti?’
‘Yes. Except this time I’m not playing for charity.’
One of the other men laughed. ‘Does your wife know where you are?’
Nikos looked up, so cold and numb now that his voice felt as if it was coming from very far away. ‘She doesn’t matter. Let’s get on with it.’
Maggie felt restless. She’d finished washing up the dishes in the sink and now she looked around the vast and gleaming kitchen which was situated in the basement of an even vaster house. A stunningly beautiful, period country house, to be exact. Set in some ten acres of lush green land about an hour’s drive outside Dublin.
There were manicured gardens to the rear and a sizeable walled kitchen garden to the side. There was even a small lake and a forest.
And stables. But the stables were empty. Because the zillionaire heartless owner of the house couldn’t even commit to a passing interest in racehorses, never mind an actual wife and baby—
Maggie put a hand to her belly, overcome with nausea for a moment. But then it passed and she drank some water.
She nursed her anger because it was the only thing that had got her through the last week and the headlines that screamed at her whenever she looked at anything online: Honeymoon is over for Marchetti! Reformed Playboy no more! Is Marchetti back on the market?!
It killed Maggie that she’d told him she loved him in a bid to try and get some reaction. A reaction he couldn’t give because he was incapable. And the worst thing was he’d warned her all along.
At that moment she heard a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door?
Maggie looked at the baby monitor on the table, Daniel was still asleep upstairs. She tucked the monitor into her back pocket and went upstairs.
The knocker went again, louder, and she muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ just as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.
And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her.
A tall dark man dominated the doorway, his hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised and resting on the side of the doorframe. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.
Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick, dark curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face. Cheekbones to die for. Deep-set eyes, dark but not brown. Slightly golden. His skin was dark. There was stubble on his jaw.
His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face and moved over her body—
She shook her head violently. Déjà vu. This had to be a particularly cruel and vivid form of déjà vu.
She opened her eyes. He was still there. Nikos Marchetti. Her husband. Her ex-lover.
She’d known she’d have to see him again, but not like this. She wasn’t ready.
She turned and walked away from the front door. ‘You really should get a key cut to this house.’
‘Ah, but would I be welcome?’
Maggie stopped and turned around. She hated it that she was even wearing almost exactly what she’d been wearing a year before. Cut-off denim shorts and a plaid shirt, tied at the waist. She’d spent the day cleaning the house, finding the monotonous work therapeutic.
Now she felt like a fool.
Once again Nikos was giving off an air of debauched hedonism, but she saw the way his sharp eyes moved over her. He was as sober as she was.
He frowned. ‘Where’s Mr Wilson?’
Maggie folded her arms. ‘I gave him a few days off to visit his family.’ And so she could lick her wounds in private.
She looked him up and down, trying to copy the way he looked at her—except she was probably failing dismally, because her gaze wanted to linger lovingly on every plane of his spectacular body.