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But other feelings still took precedence. When they were alone again, she continued, ‘You were married and had a son, and you lost them. You lost your family.’
Her voice caught because she knew more than enough about how that felt—to be safe in the bosom and security of your loved ones one day, then to be adrift at sea, cast out, alone, bereft, with none of the usual place markers to help you find your bearings.
‘Thank you for the neat recitation of this fact.’
Her nostrils flared. ‘I only mean that’s a huge part of you. Don’t you think our child will want to learn about her half-brother one day? That’s a part of her life.’
Despite the fact his expression remained the same, his breath grew louder, and she would have sworn she saw panic cross his eyes.
‘No.’ He said the word like a curse, harsh and compelling.
Hannah sat perfectly still.
‘She will never know about Brax. Never.’
Hannah’s heart thumped hard in her chest.
‘I will not speak of them. Not to you, not to her, not to anyone.’
She truly didn’t think he meant it as an insult—he was caught on the back foot and the sheer strength of his emotions made him speak without thinking. But the vitriol in the statement sliced through her, filling her organs with acid.
‘You’re seeing this marriage, and our daughter, as an abstract concept,’ she said gently, even when her heart was hurting. ‘You’re thinking of her as a baby only. What about when she’s ten? Fifteen? Twenty? When you and she are friends as well as family, when she’s sitting here where I am, on a plane, opposite you, and she’s asking her father about his life. Do you really think you can keep such a huge part of yourself shielded from her? And me, for that matter?’
He drank his coffee, before piercing her with his jet-black eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re being incredibly obtuse and naïve.’ But the words lacked zing. They were said with sympathy. No one knew more about the toll grief took when it was kept locked deep inside a person.
‘I am sorry you think so.’ He pushed his untouched plate aside and pulled a newspaper from the armrest. He flicked it up, pointedly blanking her.
It was galling, and only the fact that his stance was obviously driven by a deep, painful sadness kept her silent.
He didn’t want to talk about his family. Yet.
They barely knew each other, despite this bizarre agreement they’d entered into. They would marry—in a week—and the very idea stirred her pulse to life. But despite the marriage, they’d spent only a few hours in one another’s company. They were virtually strangers. Of course he didn’t want to crack his heart open and lay everything out before her.
He was guarding his privacy, as befitted the newness of all this. Over time, as they grew to know one another, he was bound to change, to open up to her more.
She lifted a strawberry, popping it in her mouth, tasting the sweetness, relishing its freshness. She wanted him to trust her, and she had to show him how. To keep opening up to him, even when it felt counterintuitive, even when the past had shown her to be more guarded with herself, to protect her feelings.
‘I felt undesirable,’ Hannah murmured, reaching for another strawberry.
Leonidas pushed the top of the paper down, so his eyes could meet hers. There was a trace of coldness there, from their earlier conversation. She pushed on regardless.
‘With Angus. I didn’t really feel anything for him, physically, and he suggested we wait until we were married, so I agreed. I heard about couples not being able to keep their hands off each other and, honestly, I thought there was something wrong with me.’
She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I presumed I just wasn’t really sexual. I thought he wasn’t, either. Then I saw him in bed with someone else, and I found out they’d been sleeping together for over a month, and the penny dropped. He was sexual. He liked sex. He just didn’t want me.’
Leonidas placed the paper on his knees, his steady gaze trained on her face.
‘I never felt like I wanted to rip a guy’s clothes off. It was as though hormones left me completely behind.’ She shrugged and then homed her own gaze in, focussing on his lips. Lips that were strong in his face, powerful and compelling. Lips that had kissed her and tipped her world upside down.
‘But you...’
He arched a brow, silently prompting her to continue.
‘You left me breathless,’ she admitted, even when a part of her wondered if she should say as much, if it didn’t leave her exposed and vulnerable, weakened in some way. ‘I can’t explain it. I felt desire for the first time in my life and I...’
‘Go on,’ he prompted, the words a little throaty, and she was so glad: glad that maybe he was affected by her confession in some way.
