Modern Romance December 2016 Books 1-4. Кейт ХьюитЧитать онлайн книгу.
reading or sketching or simply lazing on the beach, and then had a Greek lesson with Ava. The afternoons were with Sofia, either inside doing crafts or playing games, or outside walking, swimming and exploring some of the island.
She and Sofia managed to communicate through miming and bits of broken English and Greek, improvement showing on both sides with every passing day.
And with each day Talia saw Sofia becoming more confident and comfortable, although whenever Angelos came into the conversation a cloud passed over her face, and shadows came into her eyes. Talia started trying to keep her employer out of the conversation, even as her heart ached for Sofia and the lack of a loving parent in her life.
Several times she tried to find out more information about her grandfather’s book, but when she asked Maria if Angelos liked poetry, she received an utterly blank look.
‘Poetry? No.’
‘He seems an educated man,’ Talia tried. ‘He has so many books upstairs... I thought he might enjoy a bit of poetry.’
‘Are we talking about the same Kyrie Mena?’ Maria asked with raised eyebrows. ‘The man I know does not like poetry. He certainly doesn’t read it.’ Her gaze narrowed as she glanced at Talia. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Talia answered with a weak smile, guilt flashing through her. In the ten days since she’d arrived on Kallos she’d grown close to both Maria and Sofia, and Ava as well. She hated the thought that she was deceiving anyone, but she didn’t know how to admit the truth without hurting everyone involved, and potentially enraging her boss.
Although she tried not to talk to Sofia about Angelos, Talia spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about him. How long had he been a widower? Had he loved his wife very much? Sometimes she would pause in the dining room and gaze up at the portrait of Xanthe Mena, with her heavy-lidded look and small, secretive smile, and wonder what she’d been like, and how she’d captured the heart of her husband.
Not that she was concerned about Angelos Mena’s heart, Talia told herself. She was just curious. It was only natural.
Ten days into her time on Kallos her grandfather wrote her an email, asking about the book. Talia read the few lines with a growing sense of guilt, because she knew that she’d only made a few half-hearted attempts to find out any information.
When Angelos returned, she decided, she’d ask him about the book flat out. She’d try, at least.
Quickly she typed an email back to Giovanni.
Dear Nonno,
I am doing my best. I hope to have news soon. But please don’t worry about me. I am having a good time and I hope you are keeping well.
Love, Talia.
For a second she pictured him in the conservatory where they’d shared so many meals, and a wave of homesickness washed over her. He’d become so frail in the last few months, his once robust and commanding figure diminished by age and illness. She hated the thought that she was missing time with him, precious days and weeks she’d never have again.
Which made her more determined than ever to find his book.
She was just pressing Send when she heard a distant whirring. She left her laptop open on her bed and hurried to the window, where she saw a helicopter touch down on the helipad. Her heart seemed to leap in her throat as the hatch opened and a familiar figure stepped out before striding down the path to the house.
Angelos Mena was home.
HE HADN’T MEANT to come back. Angelos Mena headed down the garden path, half inclined to turn around and climb back into the helicopter. He hadn’t been intending to return to Kallos for another two weeks at least.
But he’d found himself thinking about returning almost since the moment he’d left. He wanted to make sure Talia Di Sione was indeed a suitable nanny, and even though Maria had assured him in several emails that she was, Angelos needed to see for himself. His daughter’s welfare was paramount.
At least that was why he told himself he was back so soon. He just didn’t completely believe it.
Now he stepped into the quiet of the villa, breathed in the scents of bougainvillea and heliotrope from outside. Maria hurried towards him.
‘Kyrie Mena! I was not expecting you. You didn’t send word you were coming.’
‘It was a last-minute decision,’ Angelos said as he shed his suit jacket. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you.’
‘Not at all,’ Maria clucked, bustling around him as she always did. ‘I will make up your bedroom. And as for dinner...?’
Angelos hesitated. He normally didn’t stay on Kallos for many meals, and those he took were by his desk, working. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked. Maria shook her head.
‘No, not yet. We were just going to have something simple in the kitchen...’
‘Then I will join you for dinner.’ Maria looked flummoxed; Angelos never joined them in the kitchen.
‘Very good, sir,’ she murmured, and he turned away, towards the solitude of his study.
He worked until he heard Sofia and Talia come downstairs; he listened to their chatter, a pidgin mixture of English and Greek, punctuated by much laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his daughter sound so excited, so happy.
The realisation felt like a fist clenching his heart.
Finally when he could hear Maria putting the meal on the table he rose from his desk and went into the kitchen. The moment he stepped into the doorway the room fell silent, and three heads swivelled expectantly towards him.
‘Kalispera,’ Angelos greeted them, his voice terser than he would have liked. ‘You are all well?’
‘Very well,’ Maria answered when no one else seemed inclined to say anything. Angelos sat down at the table and after a brief pause Talia and Sofia joined him there.
‘Hello, Papa,’ Sofia whispered, and Angelos smiled at her. She ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her scarred cheek. Everything inside him tightened in regret and dismay, and he looked away to compose himself. His interactions with Sofia were always like this.
As he put his napkin in his lap he could feel Talia watching him, and when he looked up he saw how she was gazing at him in what almost seemed like disapproval, her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed.
He raised his eyebrows in silent enquiry, and flushing, she looked away.
She looked good, he noticed. The last week had left her tanned, the freckles across her nose coming out in bold relief. Her hair had golden streaks, and she seemed more relaxed than she had a week ago, even if she seemed determined to give him a death stare all dinner long.
The meal was awful. The food was as delicious as always, but the conversation was stilted and awkward, punctuated by long, taut silences. Whenever Angelos asked Sofia a question she stammered or mumbled an answer, and then hung her head.
Talia didn’t speak at all, but Angelos could feel the censure and even the animosity rolling off her in waves and when the plates were cleared Angelos decided he had had enough of it. He excused himself before dessert was served, claiming he needed to work.
Back in his study he paced the room before he reached for the bottle of ouzo he kept in a drinks cabinet and poured himself a small measure. Then he cursed and slammed the glass back onto the desk. Alcohol was not the answer.
He went to his laptop, but he’d finished writing his notes on the last consultancy and he’d done nearly all the prep work on his next client. He had an unprecedented five days to spend at his leisure, and the truth was he didn’t know what to do with it. At least when he