Page 28 of Modern Romance June 2025 1-4

Her tongue flicked over bone-dry lips. ‘So did your father find another woman to act as a mother figure?’ she whispered.

‘Let’s just say he found anumberof women who were more interested in sex than looking after a baby who never stopped crying.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And a toddler who, apparently, was nothing but trouble.’

So Odysseus had never known unconditional love, Grace realised. Not for a single second of his life. The maternal bond had been severed by nature’s cruelty and that tearing void in his life had been compounded by the absence of a caring father. Was it any wonder the little baby had cried and the toddler who followed had played up? Why the adult he had become was so distant and remote? Her heart went out to him but she didn’t show it, just continued to study his face as if he’d been talking about nothing more controversial than the weather.

‘It wasn’t as bad as it could have been,’ he continued. ‘I was a curious child, hungry for information—saved by a teacher at the local school, who encouraged my love of reading. And then,’ he added, almost reflectively, ‘just before I turned sixteen my father married and my stepmother came to live with us. And that’s when I realised that three was a crowd.’ The crack of his knuckles sounded exceptionally loud against the distant sound of waves beating against the shoreline. ‘Only she decided it was my father who was in the way, not me.’

It took a moment or two for the meaning of his words to sink in and when it did, Grace didn’t ask him to elaborate, because the contempt in his voice told its own story. You wouldn’t need to be a genius to work out that some women might find a handsome, virile teenager preferable to an aging drunk. Had his stepmother actually made a pass at him? she wondered, with a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.

‘So what did you do?’ she asked and the tension which made his carved features resemble granite made her wonder if she’d pushed him too far. But after a while he spoke, slowly at first, as if the words were unfamiliar. As if he’d never said them before.

‘I left. Slept rough for a couple of nights until I found a job as a security guard, which came with a room—though calling it that was a bit of a stretch.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘The wardrobe I keep my suits in these days is bigger than that room. The rest of the story you’ve already heard, Grace. The air-brushed, edited version, which illustrates the young colossus going out and conquering the world.’ He gave a mocking replica of a smile. ‘This version doesn’t ever get aired and I’m sure you understand why.’

Yes, she understood why. Grace nodded, trying to get her scrambled thoughts in order. Mostly she was aware that he had confided in her, which meant that on some level he must trust her and that was something she needed to cling on to. But his story threw into sharp relief what had made him the man he was.

No wonder he didn’t believe in love. How could he, when he’d never experienced it during the most formative years of his life? A child—certainly up until the age of three—could do without a mother, so long as it received unconditional affection from someone else. But his womanising drunk of a father seemed to have left the young Odysseus to fend for himself.

Suddenly she pictured the man beside her—not as the embodiment of material success, with his handmade suits, his private plane and his billions, but as a lost little boy who nobody had wanted. She felt his pain and wanted to put her arms around him. To cradle him and comfort him. To absorb some of the terrible emptiness which existed inside him, but he would interpret that as pity and she knew exactly how he felt about that.

She met his gaze, aware of those bright blue eyes burning into her—as if daring her to say the wrong thing so that he could push her away. Ever the watchful servant, she wondered how best to react to what he’d told her.

What did Odysseus Diamides want from her?

Sex, obviously. His self-professed obsession with her body was the main reason he was going to slide a golden band on her finger for his upcoming work trip to a country where the cohabiting laws were strict. That, and the quietening of speculation—the normalising of his life through a fake marriage which didn’t require him having to put any work in.

But what did heneedfrom her? That was the more important question.

He’d never known a mother, his stepmother sounded as perverted as hell and he’d been targeted by the opposite sex for most of his adult life, as if he were a rich, sexy trophy. To say he didn’t like or trust women would be an understatement. She wanted him to know that he could trust her, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it.

Unless she showed him something he seemed to have been lacking all his life…something as simple as kindness. Couldn’t she just be there for him and prove she could be steadfast and true? Couldn’t she demonstrate to this powerful but essentially lonely man that she cared about him, without asking for anything in return?

Because shedidcare. That much she knew. A fierce certainty seized her heart. He’d given her the ability to support her beloved nana. He had bared his soul and shown her that he too could be vulnerable and that insight had made her feel closer to him. He’d shown her the real man beneath all the fancy trappings. How could she want to do anything but fight his corner?

But she mustn’t be obvious about it. Still smarting from the disclosure of all that pain, he would lash out like a wounded animal if she tried to get too close.

Her pragmatic course of action decided, she rose to her feet and straightened her bikini strap. ‘Right, then,’ she said, firmly. ‘I suppose we’d better think about getting all this stuff cleared away.’

She saw his eyes narrow and felt a momentary flicker of triumph as she observed his surprise. Had he expected her to keep digging into his past when it was obvious he’d reached saturation point?

‘Whatare you talking about?’

‘This.’ The wave of her hand encompassed the debris of their picnic. The half-empty glasses of champagne. The cherry stones and the single chocolate she had consumed, its glittery wrapper completely outsparkled by the spectacular yellow diamond glittering on her finger. ‘We can carry some of this stuff up to the house.’

‘There’s absolutely no need,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve got staff to do that.’

‘But that doesn’t mean we can’t help, does it?’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘I’m going to take up these leftovers anyway. Otherwise we’ll risk getting a swarm of flies down here.’

‘A swarm of flies?’ he repeated faintly.

‘Or wasps. Nobody likes wasps, do they?’

He started laughing and Grace couldn’t help but smile back. And she found herself wanting to hug herself because, for some strange reason, the sound of his laughter felt almost as good as the sex.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘No,honestly,’Gracesaid firmly, even though the stylist was looking at her in some dismay. ‘I can’t possibly accept all this.’

Her gaze drifted over the abundant offerings, which were occupying every available spot in the bedroom, making it look like an upmarket department store. There were silk dresses. Linen trousers. Fine lawn blouses. Long dresses displaying intricate embroidery, or scatterings of sequins. A shimmering evening coat, and an incredible denim jacket. Handbags for every conceivable occasion. And shoes. She had lost count of the number of shoes. Grace looked at it all askance. A wedding dress and matching lingerie were one thing—but allthis?

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