The Divided Child (5 page)

           
"But
if that’s the case,” I said, “why isn't Michael with his real mother now that
his father is dead?"

           
Spiro
made a gesture with his hands.
 
"She is dead also.
 
She
was killed several years ago in an airplane crash."

           
"Oh,
no!
 
Poor Michael."

           
Spiro
shook his head.
 
"To the
contrary, the boy is very, very rich.
 
William Redfield was an extremely wealthy man."

           
"I
meant it's sad that both Michael's parents are dead."

           
He
shrugged.
 
"There are worse
things."

           
I
bit my lip.
 
"Spiro, I'm
tired.
 
I'd like to be alone
now."

           
"Of
course."
 
He flashed me a
smile, his large white teeth bared in a blinding grin.
 
"I am going."
 
He raised my hand and kissed it, his
lips lingering on my fingers.
 
"
Kalispera
, Christine.”
 
He crossed to the door and opened it, but with one hand on
the knob, he turned.
 
"About
Geoffrey --"

           
"Yes?"
I replied warily.
 

           
"I
think Demetra may be correct in one thing.
 
He may try to use you and the accident today to assist his
cause."

           
"Why
does he want custody?" I asked.

           
"The
money, of course.
 
When William
Redfield died, he left most of his estate to his son to be held in trust until
the boy’s eighteenth birthday."

           
"But
if the money's held in trust, what good does it do Geoffrey?"

           
"To
be the guardian of such a wealthy boy can provide one with a very comfortable
living."

           
"But
not
that
comfortable, surely!"

           
Spiro’s
mouth quirked.
 
"Comfortable
enough.
 
My brother-in-law's estate
is valued at over thirty million pounds."
 

           
My
breath caught at the size of the fortune.
 
Poor Michael.

           
Spiro
said, "You probably will not feel like going to a restaurant this
evening?"

           
Distractedly
I said, "No, I don't think so."

           
"Then
I will bring dinner here."

           
"That's
very thoughtful of you, but --" I paused, my tired brain fumbling for an
excuse.

           
Spiro
shook his head, dismissing my hesitation with a chiding grin.
 
“I cannot let you starve," he said
as he disappeared out the door.
 
With a sigh, I pulled off Demetra’s tight dress and decided I'd worry
about her brother's return later.
 
I was too tired to think.
 
I
threw on a T-shirt and shorts and crawled into bed.
 
I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
The
room had grown dark from the dwindling sunlight.
 
Sad, pale shadows flickered across the floor, and it seemed
as if the ceiling had retreated higher.

           
I
found myself staring up at the ceiling.
 
It wasn't a particularly interesting ceiling, as ceilings go, but it had
one highly unusual feature.
 
It was
swaying.
 
Back and forth, back and
forth.
 
The swaying became more
violent, and soon the ceiling was creaking, buckling from the strain.
 
Any moment, I realized, it would break
free and crash down on me.

           
I
tried to move, to get off the bed and escape, but my frozen limbs refused to
budge.
 
The ceiling split away,
broke open, and began to fall.
 
As
it smashed into me, I screamed . . . .

           
I
woke, trembling, and it took me a moment to differentiate the pounding at the
door from the pounding of my heart.
 
I slid weakly off the bed and crossed to open it.
 
When I turned the key, I had to jump
out of the way as the door burst open and Geoffrey Redfield rushed into the
room.
 
He came to a halt and spun
around, his gaze settling on me grimly.
 
"Are you all right?"

           
"I
almost had my nose flattened by the door," I replied, "but other than
that I'm fine."

           
"What
made you cry out like that?
 
I
thought you were being murdered."

           
"I
had a bad dream, that's all."
 
I turned my back on him and retreated to the armchair.
 
I needed to sit down.

           
"A
bad dream?" he exclaimed.
 
"You expect me to believe that?"

           
"I
don't expect you to believe anything.
 
What are you doing here, anyway?
 
I don't recall inviting you."

           
I
was gratified to see him look uncomfortable.
 
"I came to apologize," he said stiffly.

           
"Apologize?"

           
"For
my behavior this morning.
 
I may have
jumped to some hasty conclusions."

           
"I'd
say so."

           
"I
had my reasons,” he insisted.

           
"Really?"

           
His
gaze met mine straight on.
 
"I'd like to explain them to you, if you’d care to listen."

           
"All
right," I said faintly.
 
The
look in those intent emerald eyes was having a now familiar effect on my
stomach.
 
I motioned toward a chair
by the window.
 
“Take a seat.”

           
He
closed the door.
 
Instead of
sitting down, however, he crossed to where I was sitting and removed something
from the pocket of his crisp white Oxford shirt.
 
"Here," he said in a low voice that sounded oddly
abashed.
 
I looked down at what he
was holding out to me.
 
It was a
crumpled piece of blue paper carefully smoothed out and folded closed.
 
Realizing what it was, I grabbed it
from him.

           
“I
took it from your purse,” he said, in tight, clipped syllables.
 
“I was looking for the key to your
hotel -- to know where to find you -- and I saw that.
 
I thought it might be important but didn't have time to read
it before you woke."

           
"But
I suppose you've read it now."

           
"Yes.”
 
He paused.
 
“I’m sorry."

           
I
was too embarrassed to speak.
 
I
smoothed the paper with my hand, staring at it on my lap.

           
"Perhaps
you'd like me to leave?" he asked.

           
I
looked up.
 
"No,” I said, my
mood grim.
 
“You promised me an
explanation, and I still want it."
 
I gestured to the chair by the window again, and this time he went to it
and sat down.

           
"Where
would you like me to begin?"

           
I
stared at his face: the straight nose, the well-shaped mouth, the grave, green
eyes so like Michael's.
 
It was a
strong face, an attractive face.
 
Too bad it belonged to a man who saw his nephew as nothing but a meal
ticket.

           
"Why
do you want custody of Michael?" I asked.

           
The
question seemed to catch him by surprise.
 
The taut arc of his jaw tightened to fierce angles.
 
"Does it matter?"

           
"I
think it does.
 
Michael is a very
wealthy boy."

           
His
green eyes darkened.
 
"You
think I'm after his money?"

           
"I
don't know."

           
"Affording
me the benefit of the doubt?"

           
"Trying
to decide how low you'd stoop," I corrected.

           
His
mouth tightened to a white-lipped line, then his gaze went to the letter on my
lap and his anger seemed to drain away.
 
"I suppose I deserve that,” he said.
 
I waited for him to say more, to protest his innocence, to
tell me he wanted custody of Michael because he cared for the boy and wanted to
make sure he was happy and loved.
 
I waited, but in vain.
 
He
turned and looked out the window.
 
"How much have you told Demetra?"

           
"About
your little visit?
 
Nothing."

           
He
turned back and flashed me a searching look.
 
"Thank you."

           
I
shook my head.
 
"No need to
thank me.
 
Your sister-in-law's
just as suspicious of me as you are.
 
I didn't want to get caught in the middle any more than I already was,
that’s all."

           
"I
see."

           
Silence
stretched uncomfortably between us.
 
Finally I asked, "Why did you think someone had paid me to follow
Michael?"

           
He
hesitated for a moment, then said, "Challenging Demetra's custody is
extremely difficult while Michael is here in Greece.
 
If he were in England, it would be a different matter."

           
"So
that's why Michael went off without a word,” I said.
 
“He went to the Old Fort to meet you."

           
He
nodded.
 
"I wanted an
opportunity to speak with him, to make sure he was being treated decently.
 
At the villa, I'm never allowed to see
him alone."

           
"With
good reason, it sounds like."

           
"No,
you're wrong.
 
I simply wanted to
speak with him.
 
As it turned out,
I never got the chance."
 
He
looked down at his hands, which were steepled together in his lap.
 
Unwillingly, I found my gaze following
his.

           
He
had nice hands, with long, tapering fingers and well-shaped wrists.
 
The cuffs of his shirt were folded
back.
 
His tanned forearms were
covered with soft, golden hairs that curled down to the band of his watch.
  
Fighting a sudden desire to brush
my fingers along those silky hairs, I focused on the watch instead.
  
It was a simple but
expensive-looking timepiece, and it suddenly reminded me of Michael’s boyish
one.
 
“Of course!” I
exclaimed.
 
“Ten o’clock!
 
That's why he wanted to get rid of
me.
 
That's when you were supposed
to meet him, wasn’t it?"

           
He
was watching me now -- intently.
 
“You really didn’t know, did you?" he said softly, a smile
beginning to play at the edges of his lips.
 
“Yes."

           
It
irked me that just when I thought I’d come up with something to put him on the
defensive, he acted as if I were the one who had passed some test.
 
"So why didn't you show up?"
I demanded.

           
"I
was late.
 
I arrived just in time
to see you and Michael climbing into a taxi together.
 
The taxi pulled away as I ran up, and by the time I'd
managed to hail another, you'd disappeared.
 
I thought it likely you’d head back to the villa, so I
followed you there.
 
The rest you
know."

           
"Hardly.
 
Why were you late?"

           
His
expression turned grim.
 
"As I
was leaving my hotel, a woman rang up saying Michael had been in an accident
and was in hospital.
 
I was too
shaken to think clearly and didn't stop to wonder how someone could have known
to contact
me
.
 
I think I
assumed Michael had given them my name and hotel.
 
However, when I arrived at the hospital no one knew anything
about Michael or the message, and I began to suspect a trick.
 
I rushed to the Old Fort, only to find
Michael driving away with you."