The Giannakis Bride(32)

"Hmm." He eyed her gloomily. "Are you going to make a habit of always being right?"

"Only when it can't be avoided," she said, snuggling deeper into the curve of his arm. "Which'll probably be most of the time."

She felt the laughter rumble deep in his chest. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Just that I love you, I always have, and that will never change."                       
       
           



       

"That's all I ask," he murmured against her hair, and took her to bed to seal their bargain.

The passion consumed them, as it always had, but in its wake came a new  serenity, a sense of absolute certainty that while trouble and sorrow  might touch their tomorrow, their love would do more than survive. It  would emerge triumphant.

She was where she belonged. At his side.





Epilogue





A cold February rain dripped from the palm trees, but inside the villa  walls, fires chased away the chill of the winter afternoon, and the  scent of gardenias filled the rooms with summer.

In her bedroom Brianna fixed the coronet of rosebuds more securely in  Poppy's hair, which had grown back thicker and more lustrous than ever  after her chemotherapy. "You look adorable, my angel."

Poppy twirled before the mirror, sending the skirt of her pale-pink  flower girl's dress flaring around her ankles. "I'm not an angel, I'm a  princess."

Brianna exchanged a smiling glance with Hermione. "She's a miracle."

"One of many lately," Hermione replied fondly, "and I give thanks for  them every day. You've done more than fill my son's life with love and  happiness, Brianna. You've given me back my family. I never thought to  see the day that Mihalis would stand up as best man for Dimitrios at his  wedding." She dabbed at her eyes and gave a little laugh. "Dear me, I  promised myself I wouldn't cry today, and look at me. I'm not even  waiting for the ceremony to begin before I get started."

"Don't," Brianna begged. "You'll get me going, too, and we've shed enough tears in the past eight months to last us a lifetime."

Even on this, the happiest day of her life so far, the specter of those  dark days after the transplant still haunted her. She still sometimes  woke up in the middle of the night, terrified and soaked in sweat, tears  streaming down her face, caught again in the nightmare of agony of  watching Poppy suffer the nausea, the fever, the pain and debilitating  weakness that were part and parcel of the cure.

She'd never forget the suspense of waiting for signs that the new bone  marrow had migrated and was beginning to produce normal blood cells. For  weeks on end, every time the phone rang, she and Dimitrios would  freeze, fearing the worst.

The emotional highs and lows, the unending stress, had almost killed  them. Yet it had made them stronger, too. "If we can survive this," he'd  often said, "we can survive anything."

But whoever first said God never closed a door without first opening a  window, had it right. One day she'd looked up from her post with  Dimitrios beside Poppy's hospital crib, and seen Mihalis standing with  Hermione on the other side of the observation window, his chin quivering  and tears rolling down his face. Dimitrios had been a rock until then,  but at that, he'd buried his face in his hands and his whole body had  shaken with great, heaving sobs.

Heavens, yes. They'd all cried enough tears to fill a lake. They didn't need more today.

Fortunately, Carter knocked on the door just then, timing his arrival to  prevent a complete emotional meltdown. "You're running late, ladies,  and the groom's growing impatient."

"We're ready," Hermione said, letting him in. "Come along, Poppy, my  darling. We'll go ahead and give Mommy Brianna a moment to collect  herself."

Alone with Carter, Brianna managed a smile. "Thank you for being here, Carter."

"Try keeping me away! You're a picture, you know that? And I'm a damn  fool to be giving away the best client I ever had. I hope that Greek god  you're so crazy about realizes how lucky he is."

"We're both lucky," she said tremulously. "And you're a lot more than  just my former agent, Carter. You've been my best friend for more years  than I care to count, and I don't know how I'll ever repay you for all  you've done for me."

"I do," he said, kissing her cheek. "Be happy. That's payment enough for me."

"You've got the rings?"

"Right here." His father patted his pocket, then cleared his throat and  stepped closer. "Just wanted to say … well, I'm here and you're here  and … well, that young woman upstairs, she's all right. You're both all  right, and I'm … well, I'm here. If you need me. Which you probably  don't."                       
       
           



       

"I need you, Dad," he said. "I always have."

"Huh. Well, it took some doing. You're a stubborn cuss when you put your  mind to it, just like me, but-Stop sweating. You're making me nervous."

Dimitrios buried a grin.

A murmur from the sixty friends and associates filling the hall had him  looking up. His mother was coming down the stairs, holding his daughter  by the hand, and suddenly he was so choked with emotion he could hardly  swallow. The pale, listless little waif he'd worried about and fretted  over for so long had turned into a sweetly rounded sprite whose cheeks  were as pink as the rosebuds in her hair.

"Cut it out," his father muttered brokenly. "The men in this family don't cry in public."

Behind him, all the people who'd helped him come to this day-Erika and  Alexio, Noelle and everyone else who'd given his daughter back her life,  friends he hadn't known he had until he needed them and they were there  for him-every last one rose from their ribbon-festooned chairs as the  harpist tucked in the lee of the curving staircase segued from Debussy's  "Claire de Lune," to Wagner's "Bridal Chorus."

And suddenly, there she was, his bride, his Brianna, descending the  stairs with the innate grace she brought to everything she did, her hand  resting lightly on Carter's arm, her ivory silk gown billowing around  her, her lovely face shadowed by a gossamer veil.

He'd been wrong to think she'd lose her looks with age. Wrong to believe  she'd have nothing left. Hers was a beauty carved from love, from  compassion and deep generosity of spirit. It would cloak her features  with softness, illuminate her from within, when she was old and gray and  youth was but a memory. She would always be a beauty. His beauty, his  life.

She was closer now, covering the last few meters that separated her from  him, carving a graceful path through the rose petals Poppy was flinging  enthusiastically before her.

He squared his shoulders and held out his hand. Her fingers closed  around his, warm and firm and sure. His father was crying; his mother,  too. But Brianna was radiant, her smile for him alone.

He was home at last.