“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Ballas. What’s in the papers this morning?”
The old woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought Mr. Vasilakis would have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Mrs. Ballas,” she said, trying to hold her temper, but the panic rising in her throat was making that more difficult by the second. What could be so bad that Luca would want to take her away? “Please just tell me what is going on.”
Mrs. Ballas frowned, but she nodded. “Not right, you not knowing. Mrs. Lasko showed me this morning. There are pictures today. All over. Of…well…you and Mr. Vasilakis…” Her face flamed red and Constance’s stomach dropped.
Either some enterprising photographer had managed to get a picture of them in their bedroom or…or there had been one at Luca’s supposedly secret bungalow. The one no one knew about where they would be perfectly safe and private, and free to make love on the private beach and on the private porch bed.
She’d been such a colossal fool. He had to have set it up. No one could have followed him with his crazy antics and backtracking on that motorcycle. Oh God. What if they’d gotten pictures of them on the motorcycle in front of the bungalow? Why would he do that? He had more than enough images of them together. Why set her up like that? Let the vultures take pictures of their most intimate moments just to prove that their relationship was real? What a joke! Even she’d started to believe it. No wonder he wanted to whisk her away on a yacht where she wouldn’t see any newspapers or magazines, where internet connections would be spotty and she’d be too busy basking in the lap of luxury to pay attention to what was going on in the outside world.
His distance that morning made sense now. He’d finally gotten what he wanted, undeniable proof that they had a full relationship in every way. His father had questioned it and now he could see for himself.
She swallowed hard against the tears that choked her. She wouldn’t cry over him. He wasn’t worth her tears. “Mrs. Ballas,” she said, glad when her voice came out steady and calm. “Please get the girls ready to leave. We’ll be going back to our own home. I’d like to leave as soon as you can manage.”
Mrs. Ballas nodded, thankfully not questioning their sudden change of plans. “They were already packed for the trip. I’ll have them gather the rest of their belongings.”
“Thank you. Please get everything loaded into the van. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
The old woman patted her kindly on the arm. “You deserve better, my dear.”
Constance had no response for that so she merely nodded.
Did she deserve better? She’d gone into this crazy relationship knowing full well what it was. She’d slept with him of her own free will. He hadn’t coerced her into it, unless you counted being inhumanely sexy as coercion. He’d never told her he loved her. Perhaps she’d read too much into all the lingering glances, soft kisses, and sweet, tender lovemaking. Maybe all it boiled down to was a man who was really good in bed and a woman who was too lonely and desperate to realize good sex was all it was.
He had no right to splash intimate images of them all over the world. She covered her face, tears burning her eyes at the sudden realization her father would see those photos. The Reverend Mother would see. Would they take the children from her? Yes, the world thought she and Luca were engaged, but they weren’t yet married. There were some things even someone as tolerant as the Reverend Mother couldn’t overlook.
How could he do this to her? Why?
Chapter Eighteen
Luca paced in his office, more furious than he’d ever been in his life. Anger burned its way through him, making his blood boil. The only thing keeping him from smashing his fist into every wall of the house was the desire to get the hell out of town as quickly as possible. He had no time for a trip to the hospital for broken bones.
He would sue every publication that had run the pictures. The damn paparazzi had been invasive before, but this took it to a level of depravity even he hadn’t anticipated. They should have been safe at his bungalow. No one knew where it was. Yes, he’d originally planned for photographers to shoot them that night, but not there, and he’d called it off.
He pinned his gaze back on Joe, who for the first time in the ten years they’d worked together actually looked flustered.
“I told you to call off all other photo ops.”
“I did, sir. Before we’d even left the beach. All scheduled sessions were canceled. Even had that not been the case, I don’t see how they could have known where you’d be. The photographers had been told you’d be at the Mykonos Grand last night, and as I suspected, quite a few of them showed up anyway. I don’t know how they’d have known where to find you. Perhaps you were followed?”