Page 34 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

His face hardened. The woman he had once loved might have walked into a celibate marriage, but that didn’t exonerate her for her decision. She had still married Damian for his money.

Rejecting me because she thought I would be poor and she couldn’t face poverty.

It was that that had shown her true nature. Her true character. That was all he must remember about her.

And yet...

Even with the Makris wealth to give her a luxury lifestyle she can hardly have been happy in that marriage. Having a father-in-law holding her at fault for his lack of grandchildren when all along it was his son who had borne the responsibility for it.

Had Damian let her take the blame? Shoulder his father’s ire and disappointment?

So that after Damian’s death old Jonas had thrown her out of the family, cut her off with nothing?

He frowned again. And if she hadn’t been cut off like that...

Would she be here with me now?

The question forced its way into his head—demanding an answer. An answer he did not want to give. To face.

An answer he did not have.

Last night she tried to come to me like some sacrificial victim, making me feel bad about what I was demanding of her. Yet tonight...

He gazed blindly at the closed door of the en suite bathroom.

Tonight she was a different woman...

He felt emotion buckle through him, confusion and conflict. He turned away, busying himself straightening the bedclothes, tidying the pillows. His eyes went again to the slight telltale stain on the sheet. He should strip the bed.

Instead, he only pulled the quilt over it, smoothing it flat. They would sleep on that. And under the one in her bedroom, which he’d fetch now.

He halted. Would she want to spend the rest of the night with him? His expression changed again with his changing thoughts. He wanted her with him. It was why he had brought her to Paris. Not for her to sleep alone, away from him. Not any longer.

Not now.

He strode out, walked into her bedroom, lifted the quilt up and then, as well, scooping up her nightdress. It was only a cheap garment, with a popular chain store label in it, but if she’d feel more comfortable wearing it tonight—well, that was understandable.

He glanced around. What else might she need?

He saw a tube of face cream on the bedside table, and picked that up too. Plus there was whatever was in the vanity in his own bathroom.

He returned to his own bedroom, laid her quilt over his, draped her nightgown over the pillow on her side, placed the face cream on her bedside table.

Another thought struck him. Hot milk—that might be comforting too, after her bath.

He went out again, heading into the kitchen. He made fresh coffee for himself, heated milk for her, sweetening it with honey, adding some delicate almond biscuits to the tray, carrying it all back with him.

He could hear the bathwater emptying, and he knocked gently on the en suite door, having picked up her nightdress.

‘If you open up, I’ll pass you your nightgown,’ he said.

She did so—just a crack—and he handed it to her, hearing her thank him in a low voice. When she emerged, his eyes went to her. She looked pale still, but better somehow. Her hair hung down her back, a little damp from the bath, curling around her face. She looked younger.

Like I remember her.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Better—thank you. The bath was a good idea.’

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