Page 50 of The Billionaire's Demand

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.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ELIANA’S PHONE WAS buzzing softly but insistently, waking her up. It was morning, but early still. As she groped for it the call went to voicemail—but the number was still displayed.

Immediately, she slid out of bed. Leandros was still asleep, and she was grateful. She hurried from the room, wanting the privacy of her own bedroom so she could hear the voicemail. But after she did, she set the phone down, sank down on the unused bed, consternation in her face.

Then, her breathing shallow and agitated, she got to her feet.

She needed to go—right now.

Leave Paris.

Leave Leandros.

Leave this brief happiness that had come so unexpectedly, had been so unlooked-for—which she had always known could only be brief and soon must end.

And now it had.

Leandros sat in his airline seat, his hands clenched over the armrests. His face was tight, expressionless. But behind the mask of his face a storm was taking place.

She had gone. Walked out on him. No explanation. No justification. No attempt at an excuse. Nothing.

Except a scrawled note.

Leandros, I have to get back to Thessaloniki.

The words stabbed in his head as the plane flew on above the clouds, heading south. Stabbed him—and mocked him. Just as the past had mocked him, was still mocking him now. It was happening again. She was walking out on him, walking away. Just as she had done before.

But this time—

Why? Why is she doing it again now? Six years ago she left me to marry money—but what is there for her in leaving me now? There is nothing for her in Thessaloniki—just the scraps from Jonas Makris’s begrudging table!

He closed his eyes, his grip on the armrests of his seat tightening so that his knuckles were white with it. The rest of her words stabbed at him.

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