He loved looking up on a Sunday morning to see her biting her lip as she worked a crossword puzzle. Loved the sound of her laughter when a wave caught him and soaked him from head to toe.
Loved the way she fit into his arms when he took her dancing at the little jazz club on the seedy edge of Piraeus, the way she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her.
He loved waking with her in his arms and falling asleep with her in them at night.
That his child was in her womb was icing on the cake.
It wasn’t her child, not biologically, and yes, he wished it were, but the other day, when a tiny foot or maybe an elbow had jabbed against his palm, he’d suddenly thought, Ivy is the reason this precious life exists.
And he’d imagined his son slipping from her womb, feeding greedily from her breast, and his heart had filled with almost unimaginable joy.
“Glyka mou,” he’d whispered, “I am so very happy.”
And his Ivy had smiled, brought his mouth down to hers, shown him with her lips, her body, that she was happy, too.
Did she really think he would believe she was weeping in his arms now only because she was happy?
Something was troubling her. Something she’d been keeping from him far too long.
Gently he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the beach, to the dark blue awning of the sprawling cabana he’d had built after he’d inherited Minos and started spending most of his time on the island. He sat her in a lounge chair, went inside the cabana, brought out a box of tissues and blotted her eyes, held one to her nose.
“Blow.”
She did. He almost laughed that his elegant Ivy could sound like a honking goose but a man who laughed when his woman wept deserved whatever punishment he got in return.
After a while, her tears stopped.
“Better?”
She nodded.
“Good.” Damian squatted in front of her and took her hands in his. “Now, tell me why you weep.” He brushed her mouth with his. “The truth, sweetheart. It is time.”
Ivy raised her head. “You’re right,” she said. “It is.” She paused. “I—I haven’t been honest with you.”
Damian nodded. “Go on.”
Her face was so pale. He kissed her again, putting his love, his heart, into the kiss.
“Whatever it is,” he said softly, “I will still love you.”
Would he? She took a steadying breath.
“I’ve let you think a man—a man hurt me and—and that’s the reason I was afraid of sex.”
Her words came out in a rush. Damian’s smile tilted.
“But?”
“But—but it was my fault,” she said, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper. “I mean, he did hurt me, but—”
“If someone hurt you, how could it possibly be your fault?”
She told him.
She started at the beginning. The death of her own father. Her mother marrying Kay’s widowed father a couple of years later.
“I loved him almost as much as I’d loved my real father,” she said. Her voice trembled. “So when he died—when they both died, my mom and my stepfather—”