‘We have nothing to say to each other,’ he bit out.
He made to walk away, but his arm was caught.
‘But I have much to say to you!’ the other man said.
There was hauteur in his voice, but there was something else as well. Something that made Nikos stop.
The man’s eyes—almost as dark as Nikos’s, and as long-lashed—bored into his. Refusing to let Nikos go. The next words the man spoke turned him to stone.
‘Our mother wishes to see you—’
Instantly Nikos’s face contorted. ‘I have no mother.’ The savagery in his voice was bitter.
Emotion flashed in the other man’s eyes. This man who was his half-brother—son of the woman who had given birth to Nikos, a bastard child, unwanted and unacknowledged, thrust away from her unloving arms, given away to foster parents, spurned and discarded.
The other man was implacable. ‘That may soon be truer than you know,’ he said, his voice grim. He took a breath, addressed Nikos squarely. ‘She is about to have an operation that is extremely risky. She may well not survive. For that reason...’ Something changed in his voice—something that Nikos recognised but would not acknowledge. ‘For that reason I have agreed to seek you out. Bring you to her.’
Nikos’s expression twisted. ‘Are you insane?’ he said, his voice low, enraged. ‘She threw me out when I tried to see her. Refused to accept me. Refused even to admit that she was my mother!’
Pain flashed across the other man’s face. His own half-brother. A stranger. Nothing more than that.
‘There are things I must tell you,’ he said to Nikos. ‘Must make clear to you. Mostly they concern my father.’ He paused. ‘My late father.’
Dimly Nikos’s mind clicked into action. The card that this man—this unknown half-brother—had given him.
He lifted it to glance at it again. Read what it said in silvered sloping engraved script.
Le Comte du Plassis
He frowned. But if this man was the Count—?
‘My father is dead,’ his half-brother told him. ‘He died three months ago. And that is why...’ He paused, looked at Nikos. ‘That is why everything has changed. Why there are things I need to tell you. Explain.’ He took a breath. ‘Where can we talk in private?’
He took another breath—a difficult one, Nikos could tell.
‘It is essential that we do so.’
For a long, timeless moment Nikos looked at him. Met the dark eyes that were so familiar in the face that was as familiar as his own. Slowly, grimly, he gave his assent.
Inside his chest his lungs were tight, as if bound in iron bars.
* * *
Diana was still sobbing. She was appalled at herself, but could not stop. The Princess had crossed from her sofa to plump herself down beside her, pick up her hands and press them.
‘Oh, my dear friend—what is wrong?’ She patted Diana’s hands, her dark eyes huge with sympathy and concern.
Helpless to stop herself, Diana let all her anguish pour out in a storm of weeping. Gradually it abated, leaving her drained, and she reached for a box of tissues from a magazine holder by the fireplace, mopped at her face mumbling apologies.
‘I’m sorry. So sorry!’ Dear God, how could she have burst into tears like that in front of the Princess? Was she insane to have done such a thing?
But Princess Fatima did not seem either offended or bemused. Only intensely sympathetic. She leant back, indicating that Diana must do the same. Then poured her a new cup of tea with her own royal hands and offered it to Diana, who took it shakily.
‘You must tell me everything,’ the Princess instructed. ‘What has gone wrong between you and your handsome husband? No, don’t tell me it hasn’t. For I will not believe you. No new wife weeps for any other reason.’
Yet still Diana could not speak. Could only gulp at her tea, then set it down again with still shaky hands. She stared at her royal guest with a blank, exhausted stare.
The Princess took a delicate sip of her own tea and replaced the cup with graceful ease on the table. Then she spoke, slowly and carefully, looking directly at Diana, holding her smeared gaze.