He was only a handsome stranger who had delivered her here and then driven off again into the night, job done. Disposing of her like an unwanted parcel.
No one worth dreaming about.
* * *
‘Kyrios Coustakis will see you now.’
The stately manservant was standing at Rosalie’s open bedroom door. She turned from the window. Strong sunlight was shafting across what the morning light showed to be a manicured garden, with fountains, gravelled paths and close-clipped topiary. A garden that looked impressive from the house.
But she wasn’t here to think about ornamental gardens. She was here to go downstairs and finally meet the man who, over a quarter of a century ago, had encountered her mother and brought her into existence.
Emotion knifed in her, but she controlled it. So much was welling up in her, but she dared not let it out. Yet.
Her heart was thumping as she followed the manservant downstairs. She’d dressed with extreme care, wanting to give her father no cause for disappointment or disapproval. Her smart yellow shift dress was knee-length, with cap sleeves and a round neckline, her hair was drawn back into a neat chignon, and she wore minimal make up. Her heels were low, and they clicked as she went down the sweeping marble stairs and across the imposing entrance hallway.
The manservant knocked discreetly at a pair of double doors set opposite, and Rosalie heard a voice say sharply in Greek, what she supposed was ‘Enter’ or ‘Come in.’
The manservant opened the door and Rosalie walked in. Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer with anticipation. With hope.
The man who must be her father was seated at a desk across an expanse of tapestried carpet, and the whole room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books. It was at once impressive and intimidating, Rosalie registered, with the part of her brain that was not focussed on the man watching her approach.
But her eyes were only for her father—fixed on him. She reached the desk, expecting him to stand up, come to greet her. Embrace her. Welcome her to his life.
But he did not. He simply sat back in his chair. Looking her over.
‘So,’ he announced, ‘you are here.’
His gaze was like a gimlet and then he made a sudden gesture with his hand. ‘Turn around.’
Rosalie stared, eyes widening. Suddenly it was as if there was sand in her throat. Why wasn’t he getting up and coming to her, greeting her, hugging her?
‘I said turn around.’
Her father’s voice, strongly accented, had sharpened, as though he disliked not being obeyed immediately.
A frown creased Rosalie’s brow. ‘What for?’ She heard the words come from her without her volition, in an automatic response to an order.
Something snapped in his eyes. ‘Because I tell you to!’
‘You tell me to?’ There was disbelief in her voice.
She saw his eyes snap again.
Grey-green eyes, like mine.
The thought flitted across her brain, but she had no time for it. He was speaking again.
‘If you want what I can give you, you will do what I tell you!’ Something changed in his voice—something that made it not sharp, but as if something were twisting it out of true. ‘And I can see from your expensive get-up that you do, indeed, want what I can give you. If I choose to do so!’
He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
‘Do you understand the situation now?’
Rosalie shook her head. No, she did not understand the situation. She did not understand it at all. This was her father. And yet he was speaking to her as if she were a...a servant! A lowly employee... Not as his long-lost daughter at all...
She felt something stab inside her—a pain so sharp that she felt it pierce to her core. But she also felt the force of what he’d just said. She’d rushed out to buy designer clothes the moment she knew she could.
‘I...I’m sorry...’ The words stumbled from her. ‘I...I bought nice clothes because I thought...thought you would like me to look...nice...for you. I wanted to please you—’ She could hear her voice catch as she spoke, but couldn’t prevent it. ‘I didn’t mean to waste your money!’ she finished in a rush of apology.