Modern Romance December 2016 Books 1-4. Кейт Хьюит

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       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      ANGELOS REMAINED WHERE he stood, the echo of Talia’s slamming the door reverberating through the room.

      Was she right? Could Sofia possibly think that he was ashamed of her? In his letter he’d taken pains to tell her how proud he was of her, how beautiful he thought her. But maybe letters weren’t enough. Maybe the way he acted when he was with her spoke louder than his cowardly written words. Because the truth was, looking at his daughter hurt him, because it reminded him of his own failures. But the possibility that it was hurting her was agony. Torture. He’d spent the last seven years trying to atone for his sins, working hard to keep Sofia feeling safe and protected. The idea that he’d failed utterly in his goal possessed the power to fell him. What if he, in his ineptitude and fear, had made things worse?

      And Talia had had the courage to confront him about it, knowing he would be angry, that he would drive her away, just as he had done. She really was brave.

      Sighing, Angelos sank into his chair. First he needed to talk to Sofia. He could deal with Talia later.

      * * *

      When Angelos came in that evening before bed to talk to Sofia, his expression serious, Talia’s heart lifted even as her insides quailed with trepidation. She quietly excused herself and when she returned an hour later, having heard Angelos’s slow, heavy tread down the stairs, Sofia had already fallen asleep.

      Leaning close, Talia had been able to see the tracks of tears on the girl’s face and she’d bitten her lip, wondering how the conversation between father and daughter had gone. Angelos had made it abundantly clear that it was not her place to ask.

      She went back to her bedroom and watched the moon rise above the sea, trying to enjoy the moment for what it was. In two weeks she’d leave Kallos, leave Angelos and Sofia behind for ever. But she hoped the things she’d experienced here, the lessons she’d learned, would equip her to face her own future with more courage.

      And what about Giovanni’s book? Sighing, Talia sat on her bed, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on top. She hated admitting her failure to her grandfather, but what else could she do? At this point she doubted Angelos even had the book. He’d certainly expressed no interest in poetry.

      But then she hadn’t tried very hard at all. The least her grandfather deserved was for her to make a proper attempt. And she didn’t really have anything left to lose when it came to her relationship, or lack of it, with Angelos.

      Before she left, Talia promised herself, she’d ask him straight out. At least then she could go back to Giovanni with a clear conscience and a conviction that she’d done the best she could.

      She only wished she felt that way about her relationship with Angelos and Sofia. What if she’d made things worse, by telling Angelos her fears about Sofia’s feelings? What if too much honesty had damaged their fragile father-daughter relationship?

      Restless now, she rose from the bed and went downstairs, intending to take a walk on the beach to clear her head. The light filtering under Angelos’s study door made her pause on the bottom stair, wondering if she dared go in and ask him how his conversation with Sofia had gone.

      The thought of facing his stony-faced fury a second time made her falter, and after another second’s hesitation she continued on to the front door. She’d just put a hand on the latch when she heard a sound coming from Angelos’s study—something between a moan and a sob—and then the shattering of glass.

      Her breath catching in her throat, her heart beating hard, Talia turned back to his study. She could not ignore those sounds of grief and despair, yet she also cringed at the thought of Angelos’s rage. Hesitantly she tapped on the door and when there was no answer, she turned the handle and pushed the door open with her fingertips.

      Angelos sat sprawled in a chair by the fireplace, shattered glass sprinkling the hearth and the strong anise smell of ouzo permeating the air.

      ‘Angelos...’

      He glanced up at her, his hair rumpled, the buttons of his shirt half undone, his gaze bleary. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re afraid of,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had so much as a sip.’

      ‘I suppose that accounts for the smell and the broken glass,’ Talia said as she closed the door.

      Angelos glanced indifferently at the shards of glass surrounding him. ‘I suppose it does.’

      ‘No point in cutting yourself,’ Talia said, and bent to pick up the larger pieces. She swept them into her hand and then looked around for the bin.

      ‘Beneath the desk.’ Angelos’s eyes were closed, his face a ravaged mask of pain. ‘Thank you.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ