Page 33 of Greek’s Christmas Heir

And then, whether because that had been her plan from the start or because she saw whatever look was on Anax’s face, Vasiliki smiled as if she’d won a great prize—then made herself scarce.

Leaving Anax with nothing to do but gaze in helpless fascination at his wife.

His wife.

Who was, to his astonishment, completely done over.

Gone was his farm girl. Gone was any faint hint of the cornfields where he’d found her. And there was a part of him that missed the familiarity of that tragic tracksuit ensemble she favored. There was a part of him that longed for that coziness.

But then there was...every other part of him.

“I know,” she was saying, with a wry twist of her lips. “Vasiliki would not be dissuaded. She descended upon me with a battalion of stylists and told me it was my Cinderella moment. So I suppose it’s up to you if you’d like to be the Prince Charming in that scenario, or if you’re feeling a bit more like the pumpkin.”

But something was happening inside Anax.

A terrible illness, he thought, coming at him fast. His lungs hurt. His ribs seemed to be buckling in on his chest. His heart was pounding, too hard, and there was something wrong with his eyes.

He couldn’t seem to tear them away from her.

And Anax realized something then, though it was lowering in the extreme.

Some part of him had preferred it when he could keep Constance in the box where he’d found her. Her terrible clothes. Her costumes. This was exactly what she’d been getting at, he realized in her talk of the kinds of childhood they’d had and the differing degrees of the poverty of their origins.

And he’d missed it because he’d wanted to miss it.

Because some part of him must have known the truth all along.

Because Vasiliki had taken that rough little piece of Iowa rock and polished her into the diamond that had been there all along.

She was buffed to a shine. Everything was done, from her nails to her makeup. The dress she wore, the shoes, even the bag she clasped in one hand.

Constancegleamed.

And Anax could not pretend that this was some costume she was wearing tonight. He knew too well the things fashion could and could not do. This was not a makeover—this washer.This was the Constance he had first seen in the back of that church.

It was just that now, here, there was nothing to detract from that beauty.

Her gown clung to her body in the richest hue of deepest purple. She looked elegant. Sophisticated. And he did not like the part of him that found it easier to recognize her beauty because of those things.

Or his sure knowledge that everyone else here would, too.

“Come,” he said gruffly. “We should dance.”

She laughed, as if that was a joke. “Should we?”

“If you do not, I will have to introduce you to all kinds of people who do not deserve to meet you. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.” Somewhere inside him, the manners he had taken such care to teach himself over the years, so he could painstakingly make his way up into these higher echelons of society, stirred. Reminding him of the man he wished to be, even under duress. He extended his hand, and inclined his head. “If you would do me the honor, Constance.”

Her smile widened, and he could see the delight that poured over her. And it occurred to him that she was simply...attending a party tonight. This was another fancy dress to her and she’d put as much concern into it as she had in the wearing of a chicken suit.

He was the one who was finding it hard to breathe.

Anax was the one who felt something inside of him seemed to change shape. When his hand wrapped around hers. When she leaned into him so she could slip through the throng of people and he caught the faint hint of a scent he knew was only hers. When he pulled her out onto the dance floor—a place he typically avoided like the plague—so that he could finally, finally, pull her into his arms.

Because it was as close as he could get to her here.

“Lucky for you,” she said, sounding nothing butmerryas she tipped her head back to look up at him, “I actually know how to dance. My grandparents used to dance in the kitchen at night, listening to the radio and humming along. I would sneak up the stairs to watch them when I heard the floorboards creak. They always danced cheek to cheek. And they both knew all the words.”

She smiled as if the memory brought her fresh joy and he wondered what that must be like, the kind of life where memory was a true blessing instead of a curse.

---