CHAPTER ELEVEN

T HE WALL - HUNG TV blazed with a last burst of colour and declared The End . Robin Hood and his Maid Marian had just ridden off into their personal sunset. The choice of film had been mutual, and just right. A colourful swashbuckler, traditional Hollywood, as familiar as it was enjoyable.

Eliana stretched her legs from being curled up under her on the sofa. Beside her, but not too close, Leandros sat lounging back, long legs extended, crossed at the ankles, picking at the last of the petits fours on the coffee table.

He turned towards her.

Smilingly.

‘Daft, but fun,’ he said.

She gave a light laugh. ‘Definitely,’ she agreed.

Her gaze lingered on him a moment, eyes veiled, as if she was self-conscious suddenly, and then she reached for her wine glass. They had eaten a leisurely dinner, and had been finishing off the luscious dessert wine since they’d repaired to the sofa. The mood that had prevailed since their outing to Giverny still held, and Eliana was glad of it. Yet a sadness of sorts plucked at her. Leandros had wanted a different answer to the question he had put to her. Different from the one she had given him: that she would make the same choice again as she had six years ago.

I can’t undo the past.

His voice echoed in her head. ‘Things change, Eliana.’

But the past did not change. What had been true then was still true. And her feelings too. Feelings she could never smother or deny, though they would only bring her yet more heartache in the end.

So be content with this—with what is here and now.

‘ Fancy watching anything else?’ Leandros asked in an easy tone.

She gave a shake of her head, finishing the last of her sweet wine and getting to her feet.

‘Time for bed,’ she said lightly.

Did something flicker in his eyes? If it did, she discounted it. ‘Separate bedrooms’ he had said, and she knew he had said it out of concern for her, after the debacle of the night before. But that would not be. That would not be at all.

She gave a secret smile, but poignant. The past was gone. The future was impossible. Only the present was hers.

And that was what she would claim and give to him.

Give to us both.

And she would hold it in her heart against the long, empty years ahead, when Paris was over and done with and this precious time with Leandros would be nothing more than a memory...

Leandros clicked off the TV, his gaze following Eliana as she retreated to her bedroom. He did not want her to do so, but he had given his word.

Memory came. Tormentingly. He sought to hold it back. He would not— must not—recall the night before...recall the feel of her naked body beneath his, her eager mouth, the sensual white-out of his instantly inflamed passion, his desire...

The bedroom door shut behind her, and he got to his feet. Sitting beside her as they’d watched the ancient Hollywood film had been both good...and bad. Good to be so close to her—bad to be so close to her. She’d sat curled up, relaxed, her hair falling from its chignon, the soft drape of her dress shaping her breasts...

It had been hard to focus on the swashbuckling going on onscreen. Hard to think of her now, in her bedroom, removing her dress, loosening her hair...

He snatched up the coffee tray and the wine glasses, taking them through into the kitchen. Busying himself, he washed them up to give him something to do—something to stop him thinking about the rashness of promising Eliana ‘separate bedrooms’, even though that had been the only decent thing to do after the debacle of the previous night.

Leaving the cups and glasses on the draining board, he headed to his own room. He would take a shower—tonight he definitely would.

He did so, turning the temperature as low as was necessary—which was very low. He endured it as much as he could—it was a cure, but a punishing one. He stepped out of the cubicle, seized a towel, wrapping it around his hips, grateful for its warmth. He grabbed another one, patting his chest and shoulders dry, then reached for his toothbrush.

As he brushed his teeth he felt the same heaviness fill him that had assailed him on the balcony, when she’d told him what he knew with bitter truth he had wanted her not to say.

I wanted her to say she regretted marrying as she did...regretted rejecting me as she did. That she would never do so given a second chance. I wanted her to tell me that if she got that second chance she would choose me this time...

But she had said none of that.

He frowned at his own reflection. His jawline was darkening, his hair damp from the shower. His gaze at himself was interrogating.

But that was the past—and it is the present we have now.

His own words sounded again in his head. ‘Things change—they can change again.’

Could they?

And would I want them to?

And Eliana? Would she want them to? Last night she had come to him, just as he had told her he wanted her to, in passion and desire, answering his for her. Last night he had thought that enough—thought it all that he wanted of her. But now...?

His promise to her of ‘separate bedrooms’, of making no more demands of her, setting no expectations on her, had negated the very reason he had brought her here to Paris with him. Negated hers for being here.

It was a promise he would honour. But tonight, he knew, as he replaced his toothbrush, would be an ordeal.

For himself.

Heaviness still weighing him down, he cut the light above the sink, saw his bleak reflection vanish, and went back out into his bedroom.

Where Eliana was waiting for him in his bed.

She saw him stop short. Sudden doubt assailed her, then vanished. She lifted her hand to him. Her other hand was holding the quilt across her breasts. Her hair was loose on her bare shoulders.

She said his name. Her voice low and tender.

For a moment he did not move.

And then—

He was there, taking her hand, pressing it tight, coming down to sit beside her, his eyes pouring into hers. They were alight with urgency—and with doubt. Searching for her meaning.

‘Is this what you want? Eliana—tell me. It must be what you want—only what you want. Or—’

She did not let him finish. His low, husky voice had been fraught, questioning. She lifted her other hand, placed a finger across his mouth. The movement made the quilt slip, exposing one breast, but she did not mind. How could she? She was here for him—and for herself.

For us both.

Her eyelids dipped and she raised her mouth to his, the hand that had touched his now cupping his cheek. It was rough to the touch, but she did not mind that either, smiled at it as she kissed him.

Not urgently, or on fire, but sweetly, softly—tenderly.

She drew back, her hand in his, pressing him back. She held his gaze again.

‘This is our time, Leandros.’ Her voice was soft and low and very, very certain. ‘This time is ours...’

Again, for a moment he did not speak—not with his voice. But with his eyes... She felt her breath catch. Oh, with his eyes he said all that she wanted to hear.

‘Eliana...’ He breathed her name, and it seemed to her a blessing and a gift.

A redemption for all that she had done to him and the pain she had caused—to him, and to herself. She did not ask for forgiveness, only for this. For this coming together now, as they would have done so long ago.

This is our wedding night.

The words were in her head, and it seemed they were a gift and a blessing too.

And then there were no more words, only the sweetness of his kiss and all that came thereafter, as gently, tenderly, he lay her back and finally made her his own.

She was softness, she was sweetness, she was wonder. And a delight to savour and behold...to tenderly caress and to possess. But unhurriedly and carefully...oh, so carefully. The flame between them was a gentle one, a slow-burning one, taking its time. For why should there be a rush? They had all night.

He had one focus only: that this time he would make amends. Last night there had been a desperate hunger, an urgency to assuage his needs and hers. Tonight he would be as gentle, as patient, as she desired—as he desired too. And with each trace of his lips, of his fingertips, with the smoothing of her sweet delights with his palms, from breasts to thighs, and all that lay between, he would give her the slow, sensuous pleasure that he was receiving from her in return.

This was passion—oh, this was passion, indeed. But slowed to a tempo that Leandros knew with every instinct he possessed was what this moment needed. What Eliana needed.

And what I need too.

Time—just time. So simple and so precious. As precious as the little sighs of pleasure that sounded in her throat as he drew from her, slowly and sensuously, the delight that he knew he could give her, felt her own body’s response to his. Slowly and sensuously, he took her on that journey with each soft kiss, each languorous caress, taking his time, cupping her breasts that swelled to his touch, trailing his fingertips along the silken columns of her thighs, the delicate folds, drawing from her yet more low sighs of soft, melting pleasure.

She wound her arms loosely around his neck, gazing up at him. There was ardency in her gaze, invitation in her smile. And when he moved his body over hers that invitation was in her body too. Slowly, with infinite care, infinite patience, he eased into her, pausing, as his lips moved across hers tenderly and reassuringly, to let her body accommodate him.

He heard her sigh—with completion, with acceptance. Felt her enclose him, hold him, fold around him. Bring him to his own moment...

He lifted his mouth from hers. ‘Eliana, I can’t—I can’t...hold back...’

Though he had known he must be infinitely gentle, now it was impossible to deny his body the fulfilment it sought when it had found so perfect a union with her, so absolute a fusion.

Her hands cradled the nape of his neck and she smiled at him.

‘No more can I,’ she said, and as if a bow had been released she arched her spine, her fingers flexed into his nape. Her head was going back. Face transformed.

She cried out—but not with pain. Never that—never again. With an ecstasy that pierced him to the core he felt her convulse around him, and in that moment came his.

Fusion upon fusion, they held each other as their flesh became one. As they became one...

Eliana lay in Leandros’s arms. It was the sweetest place to be in all the world. Her hand was splayed upon his chest, the other wound around his waist. Their thighs mingled, tangled. His arm curved along her spine, holding her close to him, his other cradled her head against his shoulder.

They did not speak. There was no need to. No need for words. Only for this moment, this time, held in each other’s arms in the velvet darkness of the night.

So much filled her. So much she could not believe her heart could hold it all. It flowed from her, enveloping him, encompassing him, binding him to her.

For this moment. For this time. For now.

This now was everything to her. All the world and more.

She was in the arms of the man she loved.

But she must lose him again.

A cry of protest rose within her, silent and imploring.

But not yet—not yet. Grant me this time—this precious time—before I must break my heart again.

She had been granted time. That much had been given to her.

A week.

A week in which to live out a lifetime of her love for him.

‘Time for our treats,’ announced Leandros. ‘Lunch was a long time ago!’ He pointed to a nearby bench. ‘What about that spot?’

‘Perfect,’ said Eliana. She looked around as they headed for the bench. ‘I had no idea the Luxembourg gardens were so vast!’ she exclaimed.

Everywhere there were vistas, a mix of formal gardens and more natural—even an orchard.

‘Over sixteen hectares,’ answered Leandros, quoting from the tourist guide.

They settled down on the bench at the edge of the gravelled pathway. Across the gardens they could hear the happy laughter and glee of children enjoying the rides and slides, and from their bench they could see the huge stone pond, where toy boats were being sailed.

Leandros undid the ribbons around the box of patisserie he’d been carefully carrying since they’d availed themselves of a convenient boulangerie after lunch. The good weather was holding, and he was glad, but autumn was on the way. The sun was not as warm, and the leaves of the trees in the gardens were visibly beginning to turn.

But for now it was pleasant—very pleasant indeed—to sit here, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, his feet in comfortable trainers for all the walking he and Eliana were doing as they made their daily explorations of the city.

Contentment filled him. How could it not?

He smiled at Eliana. She was wearing lightweight trousers in dark blue, and a lightweight knit with a vee neck that showed off the delicate sculpture of her neck. Her hair was caught back with a barrette, her make-up only lip gloss and mascara. Yet his breath caught at her beauty.

With so much more than her beauty.

She was leaning forward, lifting the lid of the cardboard box holding the patisserie .

‘The religieuse for me,’ she said decisively, helping herself to the choux and crème confection, sinking her teeth into it as she sat back to enjoy what France was so famous for.

‘I’ll take the mille-feuille ,’ Leandros said, and did so.

They consumed their indulgences companionably. But then they did everything companionably. And so much more than merely companionably...

As if the last six years had never been. As if this truly were our honeymoon—the one we should have had together.

Shadows flickered in his eyes.

But she hadn’t wanted that—hadn’t wanted a honeymoon with him.

So why now? This time with me?

He could not think it was for the reason he’d first put to her. Not any longer. How could it be? She’d refused to let him buy any more clothes for her. Refused, even more tellingly, when he’d stopped outside a jeweller’s and invited her to tell him what she liked best in the display.

‘But I want to get you something—a souvenir from Paris,’ he’d said.

She’d only shaken her head, then taken his hand to continue their walk.

They were doing a lot of walking, seeing all the sights, and he was delighting in showing them to her—from the Eiffel Tower to the Pantheon, from Napoleon’s tomb to the Arc de Triomphe. They’d wandered through the Tuileries gardens and along the Champs-Elysées, strolled through the Latin Quarter, stopping for coffee at the cafés made famous by the French philosophes and intellectuals and artists, sampling the rich bounty of Paris’s art galleries... There was so much to see...impossible to do it all in just one visit.

He’d said as much over dinner one evening, at the restaurant he’d taken her to—one of the most renowned in Paris, to which she’d worn another of the evening gowns he’d chosen for her in a rich vermilion. It had taken his breath away when she’d emerged from her bedroom in all her splendour. The bedroom that was now really only her dressing room...serving no other purpose.

Because each night—each blissful night—she was his...completely his. Ardent and passionate, her desire matching his. Night after night.

‘There is still so much to see,’ he’d said to her that night across the candlelit table. ‘Too much for a single visit.’

Had it been the candlelight flickering on her face that had made it look shadowed? She hadn’t answered him, only smiled and praised the wine, lifted her glass.

He’d lifted his, and tilted it to her. ‘To our next visit,’ he had said.

Yet even as he’d said the words he’d wondered if he should. Wondered again now, as they emptied the box of patisserie between them.

This time with her—could it last? Should it last?

I wanted to bring her here to free myself of her.

Perhaps he should remember that...

He closed the empty box. The delights inside, those sweet indulgences, were all gone. Consumed.

Eliana was getting to her feet, dusting the crumbs off her.

‘My fingers are all sticky. I need to rinse them in the pond.’

His were as well, and he followed her, depositing the empty box in a bin, its purpose served. The water in the pond was cool as he dabbled his fingers, shaking them dry.

‘You used to pick the nuts off the baklava—’

Eliana’s reminder plucked at him. That time with her back then had been as sweet as this time now. But it had passed. This time would pass too.

Maybe I should just be content with what we have now and then let it go .

Just as he must let go the poisoned past between them, he must let Eliana go...slip out of his life.

He must move on from her.

But not quite yet.

He smiled as he looked down at her, perched on the stone edge of the pond, rinsing her fingers.

‘How do you fancy seeing if we can hire a model yacht to race?’ he invited.

Her answering laugh, and her smiling eyes meeting his, confirmed his thoughts.

No, not yet.