Bound To The Greek. Кейт Хьюит

of infidelity were virtually impossible; she’d spent nearly every waking moment working, at school, or with him.

      Yet he’d believed it, and believed it so strongly that he’d judged her without trial, without even a conversation. He’d been so sure of her infidelity that he’d left her, left his entire life in the States, without even asking so much as a single question.

      Somehow it was so much worse than what she’d thought all these years: that he’d developed a case of cold feet. In her more compassionate moments, she could understand how a twenty-two-year-old man—boy—with his whole life in front of him might get a little panicked at the thought of fathering a child. She understood that; what she didn’t understand, had never understood, was the way he’d gone about it. Leaving so abruptly. Abandoning her without a word or even a way for him to contact him. Cellphone disconnected. No forwarding address.

      It hadn’t been merely a slap to the face, it had been a stab wound to the heart.

      And he’d done it not because of his own inadequacy, but because of hers. Infidelity. He actually assumed she’d cheated on him.

      The bath water was getting cold, and Eleanor rose from the tub. There was no point letting herself dwell on the recriminations, the regrets. If Jace Zervas had been able to believe something so atrocious and impossible about her so easily, obviously they’d never had much of a relationship at all.

      And that was a truth she’d lived with for ten years.

      She’d just slipped on her comfort pyjamas—soft, nubby fleece—when her doorbell rang. Eleanor stilled. She lived on the thirtieth floor in a building with two security personnel at the front door at all times, so no one made it to her door without her being alerted. The only option, she supposed, was a neighbour, although she’d never really got to know her neighbours. It wasn’t that kind of building, and she didn’t have that kind of life.

      Cautiously Eleanor went to the door. She peered through the eyehole and felt her heart stop for a second before beginning a new, frenetic beating. Jace stood there.

      ‘Eleanor?’

      He sounded impatient, and it was no wonder. Eleanor realised she was hesitating for far too long. Resolutely she drew a breath and opened the door.

      ‘What are you doing here, Jace?’

      ‘I need to talk to you.’

      She folded her arms and didn’t move. She didn’t feel angry now so much as resigned. ‘I told you in your office I had nothing to say.’

      ‘You may not, but I do.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

      ‘How did you get my address?’

      ‘Your boss gave it to me.’

      Eleanor gave an exasperated sigh. Of course. Lily would do just about anything for a client, especially a rich one like Jace. ‘How did you get past security?’

      ‘I sweet-talked him.’

      Eleanor snorted. ‘You?’

      ‘Andreas is manning the door tonight. He has six grandchildren back in Greece.’ Jace smiled thinly. ‘He showed me pictures.’

      Eleanor slowly shook her head. She’d been on the end of Jace’s charm once; she knew how forceful it was. And how false.

      Sighing in defeat, she turned away from the door. ‘Fine. Come in.’

      He entered, shutting the door carefully behind him. Eleanor moved to the window, her arms creeping around her body despite her effort to maintain a cool, composed air. She felt vulnerable, exposed somehow, as if from the stark modernity of her apartment Jace could somehow guess at the emotional barrenness of her life.

      Stop. She couldn’t think like that. She had a job, friends, a life—

      She just didn’t have what mattered.

       Love.

       Stop.

      ‘What do you want?’

      Jace stood in the centre of her living room, seeming too big, too much for the space. He glanced around, and Eleanor saw him take in all the telltale signs of a single life. No jumble of shoes or coats, no piles of magazines or books. Just a single pair of heels discarded by the door. In the galley kitchen she saw her lone coffee cup from this morning rinsed and set by the sink. ‘You live here alone?’

      She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that couldn’t help but seem defensive. ‘Yes.’

      He shook his head slowly. ‘What about—the baby?’ He spoke awkwardly, the words sounding stilted. They felt stilted to Eleanor. She didn’t want him to ask. She didn’t want him to know.

      She didn’t want to tell.

      ‘What about the baby?’ she asked evenly.

      ‘He—or she, rather—doesn’t live with you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘The father retained custody?’

      She gave a short, abrupt laugh. The weariness was fading away and the anger was coming back. Along with the hurt. She was tired of feeling so much, so suddenly, after ten years of being comfortably numb. She dropped her arms to her sides. ‘What do you really want to talk about, Jace?’

      ‘You said you were the one who couldn’t forgive or forget. And I want to know why.’ He spoke flatly, yet she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen in ten years, something that hadn’t been there yesterday or this morning. Need.

      Hunger.

      Why did he want to know? Why did he care?

      ‘Because you may have felt you had just cause, but the fact that you abandoned me the very day I told you I was pregnant was a hard thing to get over.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Surprisingly, it seems.’

      Jace shook his head, the movement one of instinctive denial. ‘Ellie, you know that baby isn’t—wasn’t—mine.’

      Anger, white-hot, lanced through her. ‘I know?’ she repeated, her voice rising in incredulity. ‘I know? I’ll tell you what I know, Jace, and that is that the only bastard I’ve ever met is you. First-class, A-plus, for thinking that.’

      He took a step towards her in an action both menacing and urgent, his features twisted with what looked like pain. ‘Are you telling me,’ he demanded in a low voice, ‘that the baby was mine? Is that what you’re actually saying, Ellie?’

      She lifted her chin. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Jace. And the very fact that you could think for a moment—’

      ‘Don’t.’ He held up one hand, and Eleanor saw to her shock that it trembled. ‘Don’t,’ he repeated rawly, ‘lie to me. Not now. Not again. Not about this.’

      For a second Eleanor’s anger gave way to another powerful emotion: curiosity. Jace faced her, his expression open and hungry. She’d never see him look so… desperate. There was more going on here than she understood.

      ‘I’m not lying,’ she said quietly. ‘What makes you think I ever was?’

      Jace didn’t speak for a moment. His gaze held hers, searching for a truth he seemed hell-bent on disbelieving. ‘Because,’ he finally said, his voice little more than a ragged whisper, ‘I can’t have children. I’ve known it since I was fifteen years old.’ He let out a long, slow breath before stating flatly, ‘I’m infertile. Sterile.’

      Eleanor stared. I can’t have children. Such a stark and sorrowful phrase; she knew just how much. And yet coming from Jace… the words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t. Then in a sudden flash of remembrance she recalled the moment she’d told Jace she was pregnant, and how he’d stared at her so blankly, his jaw slackening, his eyes turning flat and then hard. She’d thought he’d been