recoiling a little bit at his tone. Angelos felt no sympathy. Why had the woman come here? She had no CV, no experience, no chance whatsoever. Surely she should have realised that.
‘Perhaps you should ask your daughter if I wasted her time,’ she said quietly, and then Angelos stilled.
* * *
Talia watched Angelos Mena’s pupils flare, his mouth tighten. Animosity and impatience rolled off the man in waves, along with something else. Something disturbing...a power like a magnetic force, making her realise how dangerous this man could be. And yet she didn’t feel remotely threatened, despite all the challenges she’d faced today, leaving her emotionally raw and physically exhausted.
Angelos folded his arms, the fabric of his suit stretching across impressive biceps. If he didn’t look so utterly forbidding, Talia would have considered Angelos Mena a handsome man. Actually, she would have considered him a stunning, sexy and potently virile man. His tall, powerful body was encased in that very expensive-looking suit, and the silver and gold links of a designer wristwatch glinted from one powerful wrist. Crisp dark hair cut very short framed a chiselled face with straight slashes of eyebrows and deep brown eyes that had been glowering at her like banked coals for the entirety of this unfortunate interview.
Not that she’d been expecting to be interviewed. She’d been waiting outside Angelos Mena’s office for four hours, hoping for a chance to meet him and ask him about Il Libro d’Amore. It had taken her several weeks of painstaking research to track down the precious book to the man standing in front of her, and she still wasn’t positive he had it in his possession. The Internet had taken her only so far, and when she’d called Mena Consultancy several times she’d been unable to reach the man himself. She’d left a few vague messages with his PA, wanting to explain what she was looking for in an actual conversation, but judging by Angelos Mena’s attitude now, she didn’t think he’d received any of them. Her name clearly hadn’t rung any bells, and it had only taken ten seconds in the man’s presence to realise that a simple conversation probably wouldn’t get her very far.
But was she really going to try to be hired as Angelos Mena’s daughter’s nanny?
‘I’ll go get her,’ he said in a clipped voice, and as he strode out of the room Talia sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Her knees were shaking and her head throbbed. Getting this far had taken all of her physical and mental resources. Nine hours in a plane, sweating and shaking the whole time, and then wandering through the crowded streets of Athens, flinching every time someone so much as jostled her shoulder, fighting back the memories she never let herself think about, the ones that could bring bile to her throat and send her heart rate crashing in panic.
It had been utterly exhausting. And yet... Talia rose from the chair and went to the huge window that overlooked the city. In the distance she could see the crumbling ruins of the ancient Acropolis underneath a hard blue sky, and the sight was powerful enough to make her feel a flicker of awe, a lick of excitement. For a second she could remember how it had felt to be eighteen years old and full of hope and vigour, the whole world stretched out in front of her, shimmering with promise, everything an enticing adventure...
‘Miss Di Sione?’
Talia whirled around, flushing guiltily at the look of disapproval on Angelos Mena’s face. Should she not have looked out the window? Goodness but the man was tightly wired.
‘This is Sofia.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Talia stepped towards the slight girl who blinked owlishly from behind her glasses. Her dark, curly hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face; most of her right cheek was covered in the puckered red flesh of a scar. While waiting outside Talia had noticed how the girl would let her hair fall in front of her face to hide it, and her heart had twisted with sympathy. She knew what it was like to have scars. It just happened that hers were invisible.
‘Hello, Sofia,’ she said now, smiling, and just as before the girl bent her head forward so her hair slid in front of her face. Angelos frowned.
No, actually, he glowered. Talia quelled at the scowl on his face, and she could only wonder what his daughter felt. She’d watched Sofia covertly as she’d waited to see Angelos; she’d seen how the girl’s gaze followed each woman into the office, and then how her shoulders had slumped when each woman had come out again, usually looking annoyed or embarrassed or both. A couple of times Sofia had been ushered in, and Talia had watched how her slight body had trembled and she’d gripped her hands together, her knuckles showing bony and white, as she’d stepped into that inner sanctum.
After about an hour of waiting, Talia had tried to befriend her. She’d shown her the pad of paper and pack of coloured pencils she always kept in her bag, and for fun she’d done a quick sketch of one of the women who had been waiting, exaggerating her face so she was a caricature, but still recognisable. When Sofia had recognised the woman with her beaky nose and protuberant eyes, hands like claws planted on bony hips, she’d let out a little giggle, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and panicked.
Talia had grinned at her, reassuring and conspiratorial, and slowly Sofia had relaxed, dropping her hand and then pushing the pad of paper towards Talia, silently inviting her to draw another sketch. And so she had.
They’d whiled away a pleasant hour with Talia doing sketches of as many of the women as she could remember before she’d handed the pencils to Sofia and encouraged her to draw something.
Sofia had sketched a sunset, a stretch of golden sand and a wash of blue water.
‘Lovely,’ Talia had murmured.
‘Spiti,’ she’d said, and when Talia had looked blank, she’d translated hesitantly, ‘Home.’
‘Sofia?’ Angelos said now, his tone sharpening. He rested a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, gentle yet heavy, and spoke in Greek to her.
Sofia looked up, smiling shyly. ‘Yassou.’
Angelos spoke again in Greek and then glanced pointedly at Talia. ‘I am telling my daughter that you do not know Greek.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Talia replied lightly. ‘She already knows. We’ve been miming for most of the afternoon, but we’ve managed to get along. And Sofia knows more English than you think, Mr Mena.’
‘Kyrie Mena,’ he corrected, and she nodded, only just keeping from rolling her eyes.
‘Kyrie,’ she agreed, and she didn’t need Angelos Mena’s wince to know she’d butchered the pronunciation.
Angelos spoke again in Greek to Sofia, and his daughter said something back in reply. Although Talia didn’t know what either of them was saying, she could feel both Angelos’s disapproval and Sofia’s anxiety. She stood there, trying to smile even as exhaustion crashed over her again.
What was she doing here, really? She’d come all this way to find her grandfather’s precious book, not interview for a nanny position. If she had any sense she’d stop this farce before it went any further, and explain to Angelos Mena the real reason why she’d come.
And then, no doubt, have him boot her out the door, and any chance to recover Giovanni’s book would be gone for ever.
Angelos was talking to Sofia again in Greek and Talia could feel her vision blur as the headache that had been skirting the fringes of her mind threatened to take over. The room felt hot, the air stale, and her legs were starting to tremble again.
‘Do you mind...’ she murmured, and sank into the chair, dropping her head into her hands as she took several deep breaths.
Angelos broke off his conversation with his daughter to enquire sharply, ‘Miss Di Sione? Are you all right?’
Talia took another deep breath as her vision started to swim.
‘Miss Di Sione?’
‘Talia,’ she corrected him. ‘And no, actually, I think I’m going to faint.’