What the Greek Wants Most

She mentally scanned her wardrobe and swiftly concluded that he was probably right. ‘There really is no need,’ she tried anyway.

‘It’s too late to change the plan, Inez.’

And, just like that, the subject was closed. He tapped the plate and, as if on cue, her stomach growled again.

Giving up the argument, she devoured the thick sliced beef sandwich and polished off the apple in greedy bites. She was gulping down the bottled water when she saw him pause at her sketch of a boat.

‘This is very good.’

‘Thank you.’

He tilted the page. ‘You like boats?’

‘Very much. My mother used to take me sailing. It was my favourite thing to do with her.’

He closed the pad. ‘Were you two close?’

‘She was my best friend,’ she responded in a voice that cracked with pain. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.’

His fingers seemed to tighten on the rock before they relaxed again. ‘Mothers have a way of affecting you that way. It makes their absence all the harder to bear.’

‘Is yours…when did you lose yours?’ she asked.

He turned and stared at her. A bleak look entered his eyes but dissolved in the next blink. ‘My mother is very much alive.’

She gasped. ‘But I thought you said…’

‘Absence doesn’t mean death. There are several ways for a parent to be absent from a child’s life without the ultimate separation.’

‘Are you talking about abandonment?’

Again he glanced at her, and this time she caught a clearer glimpse of his emotions. Pain. Devastating pain.

‘Abandonment. Indifference. Selfishness. Self-absorption. There are many forms of delivering the same blow,’ he elaborated in a rough voice.

‘I know. But I was lucky. My mother was the best mother in the world.’

‘Is that why you’re trying to be the best daughter in the world for your father, despite what you know of him?’

His accusation was like sandpaper against her skin. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t bother denying it. You know exactly what sort of person he is. And yet you’ve stood by him all these years. Why—because you want a pat on the head and to be told you’re a good daughter?’

The truth of his words hit her square in the chest. Up until yesterday, everything she’d done, every plan of her father’s she’d gone along with had been to win his approval, and in some way make up for the fact that she hadn’t been born the right gender. She didn’t want to curl up and hide from the truth. But the callous way he condemned her made her want to justify her actions.

‘I’m not blind to my father’s shortcomings.’ She ignored his caustic snort. ‘But neither am I going to make excuses for my actions. My loyalty to my family isn’t something I’m ashamed of.’

‘Even when that loyalty meant turning a blind eye to other people’s suffering?’ he demanded icily.

She frowned. ‘Whose suffering?’

‘The people he left behind in the favelas for a start. Do you know that less than two per cent of the funds raised at those so-called charity events you so painstakingly put together actually make it to the people who need it most?’

She felt her face redden. His condemning gaze raked over her features. ‘Of course you do,’ he murmured acidly.

‘It happened in the past, I admit it, but I only agreed to organise the last event if everything over and above the cost of doing it went to the favelas.’ At his disbelieving look, she added, ‘I do a lot of work with charities. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘And did you ensure that it was done?’

‘Yes. The charity confirmed they’d received the funds yesterday.’

One eyebrow quirked in surprise before he jerked to his feet. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to face her. ‘That’s progress at least.’

‘Thank you. I don’t live in a fairy tale. Trust me, I’m trying to do my part to help the favelas.’

‘How?’

She debated a few seconds before she answered. ‘I work at an inner city charity a few times a week.’