Page 44 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

Her one-word answer was quietly spoken, but there was in it something that made Leandros know she had spoken only the truth.

‘No, I don’t regret marrying Damian. It was my choice to do so—and it would be my choice again.’

Leandros felt a heaviness inside him at her answer. He pursued it to its conclusion—the conclusion he already knew...had known for six long years. Now stated again.

‘Because if you’d married me you’d have faced poverty—and you couldn’t face that.’

‘No.’

Again, the one-word answer gave tacit agreement to what he had said, and was quietly spoken, but it was neither hesitant, nor holding regret.

‘I could not have faced the consequences of marrying you. And so for that reason, whatever kind of marriage I had with Damian, I cannot—do not—regret it.’

Her expression changed.

‘It’s the only truthful answer I can give. I’m... I’m sorry I can’t give you any other. And I’m sorry that I hurt you...that I killed the love you felt for me.’ She took a breath. ‘And I am glad, for your sake, that you no longer feel anything for me—’

She broke off, looked away, out of the window, over the rooftops of Paris.

There had been a bleakness in her voice just then that had been absent from the quiet, unhesitant way she’d told him she did not regret her marriage to Damian. But it was her last words that echoed inside Leandros’s head. They were true—of course they were true. How could they be anything other than true?

And yet—

Are they still true? Do I feel nothing for her?

The question hung in his consciousness, wanting an answer—an answer he could not give.

For a moment he stood still, eyes resting on her averted face, on her fingers curved around the stem of the champagne flute she was holding. Then slowly, so very slowly, his hand reached out to touch the curve of her wrist...so lightly...so fleetingly.

‘Things change, Eliana,’ he said softly. ‘They’ve changed already between us. They could change again.’

He let his hand fall away. He was conscious of the beat of his own heart. The silence between them. She did not turn back, so he could not see her face, but he saw her fingertips around the stem of her glass tighten. And her free hand moved to fold over the place where he had touched her so briefly—so gently.

Was she sheltering herself against his touch? Or sheltering the touch itself? How could he tell? How could he know?

How can I know anything about her, about what she feels? And why should I care?

He did not know that either. Knew only that somehow, now, he did care.

His own words to her echoed.

‘Things change, Eliana. They’ve changed already between us. They could change again.’

Could they? Could they change again?

And do I want them to?

That was another unanswered question. So many unanswered questions...

So much confusion and complexity—how can I make sense of it all?

The sound of the doorbell was intrusive in the silence that had fallen between them. Was it welcome? Or the opposite? Whichever it was, he turned back into the room, pulling open the door to admit the butler and his minions.

The arrival of dinner needed to be attended to, and maybe he was glad of it. That exchange with Eliana had been too intense, going too deep into past and present. He needed respite from it—and maybe so did she.

She seemed glad to take her place at the table in their dining room while a resplendent meal was presented to them.

Leandros had specifically selected a menu that would enable their entrée—boeuf bourguignon—to be kept warm in chafing dishes, with chilled tarte au citron for dessert, so that he could dismiss the staff...not have them hover.

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