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Again, he glanced at her, his black gaze oddly searing. ‘I’m not cooking for you, Elenitsa. You just happen to be here while I’m cooking.’
Elenitsa.
What he’d called her all those years ago, after he’d rescued her and she’d told him her name. After he’d discovered that she was all alone, that everyone she knew and everyone she’d loved had died in the earthquake. That she’d been surviving for a week on her own, with no one and nothing.
She hadn’t known Greek or English, but he’d had a smattering of the Russian that was her birth language, and so he’d taught her a few words of both so they could communicate. He’d told her that he would take her away and find her a family, but all she’d wanted then was to stay with him. He was her saviour, her protector. He’d cared for her when no one else had and she didn’t want or need anyone else.
Abruptly, she didn’t want him to call her Elenitsa. He’d abandoned her; he didn’t have a right to it. Only Aristeidis did.
‘Don’t call me that,’ she snapped, her temper already on a short leash. ‘Only your father gets to call me that.’
Atticus looked up, something gleaming in his gaze. ‘How quickly you forget who saved you all those years ago. And it was not my father.’
A strange, hot thrill chased along her skin and she found herself lifting her chin in response, as if he’d challenged her. ‘And how quickly you forget who you abandoned all those years ago. Who you left alone in a foreign country, with complete strangers.’
He didn’t look away. ‘I did not forget. Are we going to have the same argument now as we did back then? When you were eight years old?’
She felt a flush creep over her cheeks. She didn’t want him reminding her of the child she’d once been, and she didn’t want him treating her like that either. The angry, abandoned child who’d been left by everyone who’d cared about her. The needy, desperate child...
Well, she wasn’t that child any more. She wasn’t needy or desperate or vulnerable in any way. Aristeidis loved her and had told her that he’d made provision for her in his will so she wouldn’t be left with nothing after his death. It mattered to him that she was looked after once he was gone.
From out of nowhere came a sudden surge of the grief that had become her constant companion since Aristeidis’s health had declined. It was nice that he’d thought of her, but money was a poor substitute for a person. He was her only family and once he was gone, she’d have no one.
Again.
The grief must have showed on her face because Atticus frowned abruptly, his gaze sharpening. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
But she wasn’t going to explain her grief, not to him, not when it was still too close to the surface. It made her feel too vulnerable and she couldn’t bear the thought of being vulnerable in front of this hard, uncompromising man. The man who’d once praised her bravery and strength, making her feel as if she was indeed brave and strong and not just a coward who’d run and hid instead of getting help for her family.
Grief wrapped its cold fingers around her throat, squeezing tighter.
Elena turned away, clutching her towel around her. ‘I’m going to get changed,’ she muttered and fled.
Atticus watched Elena’s small figure disappear back down the hallway and frowned. For a second there she’d looked almost distraught and he couldn’t think what he’d said to upset her. He’d only mentioned the argument they’d had when she’d been a child and he’d left her on Kalifos, but that had been years ago. Surely she couldn’t still be angry about that? She was an adult now and should understand why he hadn’t been able to take her with him.
Or perhaps leaving a traumatised child in the company of complete strangers wasn’t such a great idea after all?
Doubt tugged at him again, but he pushed it aside and looked back down at the marinade he was preparing.
What else could he have done? He’d been twenty-three, a mercenary soldier growing his small private army, and there had been no way he could have looked after a child. Not that he could have even if he’d wanted to. He would never be father material and he’d already had ample proof that he wasn’t big brother material either. On Kalifos she’d wanted for nothing. So why would she still be angry that he’d left her alone? If that was even what she was upset about.
Why are you so curious? Does it matter why?
He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. She wasn’t his responsibility and hadn’t been for some time, and, apart from anything else, she was an adult now. Her reasons were her own and they were none of his business.
Irritated with himself for even bothering to think about it, Atticus concentrated on finishing up the marinade, putting his fish into it, then putting the bowl into the fridge.
Yet his thoughts kept straying back to Elena and how she’d looked wrapped up in that white towel, with her blonde hair hanging damply over her shoulders and curling as it dried. She’d clearly kept her underwear on since he’d seen the delicate straps of her bra, and that beast in him had wanted to pull her towel away, pull that bra away too so that nothing marred the smooth perfection of her skin.
It had liked her snapping at him when he’d called her Elenitsa, as well, and then when she’d lifted her chin, responding to his challenge about their old argument. There had been electricity in the air between them, he’d felt it, and he was pretty sure she’d been aware of it too, though maybe she hadn’t known what it meant.
Again, though, that was something he shouldn’t be thinking about, most definitely not.
Even more irritated at himself and the direction of his thoughts, Atticus busied himself with getting her wet clothing. He rinsed her skirt, jacket and blouse, and hung them out to dry in a covered area near the house, though he was pretty certain the items were ruined, in which case he’d buy her some replacements.
After he’d finished dealing with that, he went back into the living area to find Elena standing in front of one of the shelves and looking at the items on it.
The only clothing he had in the house was his, so he’d found an old white T-shirt and a pair of loose, linen drawstring trousers that would have fitted her. Except all she wore now was the T-shirt, which hung down almost to her knees, leaving a pair of shapely calves and ankles bare.
