A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum. Helen Bianchin
hand out at the evening’s close.
A kindly protestation not to go over the top fell on deaf ears, for Anouk had merely smiled, patted her daughter’s hand, bestowed a fleeting kiss to one cheek, and assured it was just an informal gathering of friends.
Given her mother’s penchant for entertaining, and the many formal social events Anouk had hosted in Sydney over the years, Chantelle conceded with musing humour that tonight’s soirée fell into informal by comparison.
Samuel’s delighted enchantment with everything was sufficient reward for the requisite part she was expected to play.
Consequently she selected a stunning black evening trouser suit, draped a long red silk wrap across her shoulders, added minimum jewellery, and went with subtle make-up before leading Samuel downstairs.
Jean-Paul greeted guests in the main foyer, directed them through to the terrace, whereupon Anouk ensured they mixed and mingled seamlessly while hired staff offered liquid refreshment and proffered trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Anouk was a charming hostess, and Chantelle joined her mother as they moved effortlessly from one guest to another, pausing while Anouk exchanged a few words, a smile as she introduced her daughter and grandson.
Everyone seemed pleasant, and Chantelle silently commended her parents’ circle of friends.
Samuel was in his element, and determined to illustrate his good manners as he formally offered his hand at each introduction.
He was a hit, she acknowledged with maternal bemusement, exuding the charm of a child twice his age.
Just like his father.
Where did that come from? A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.
Not a day went by when she wasn’t reminded of the man who’d fathered him.
Chantelle was aware of her mother’s voice as she effected yet another introduction, and she summoned a smile as she greeted the guest.
‘Andreas recently moved to the Coast,’ Anouk explained. ‘And purchased a mansion in a neighbouring Sovereign Islands boulevard.’
There was something about the man’s stance, the way he held his head that drew her attention.
‘Your parents very kindly included me in this evening’s festivities,’ he informed in a voice that held a faint accent that was difficult to place.
Andreas…The name was of Greek origin.
‘We have something in common,’ he offered. ‘My son is also visiting for Christmas. He’s in the car finishing a call on his cellphone.’
She envisioned with some scepticism a high-powered entrepreneur digitally available twenty-four by seven, negotiating and closing deals worldwide.
‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy his visit,’ Chantelle conceded politely, aware of a momentary intentness evident as the man’s attention focused on her son.
Was it her imagination, or did she glimpse conjecture before it was quickly masked?
Then the moment was gone as Anouk steered her towards a young couple who spent several minutes enthusing about their recent trip to Paris.
Chantelle enjoyed their praise of a city she adored, and they lingered together awhile.
‘If you’ll excuse us?’ Anouk inclined with a warm smile. ‘Another guest has arrived.’
The last, surely? Chantelle mused as she followed her mother’s line of vision to a tall, broad-framed man whose stance portrayed an animalistic sense of power.
Even from a distance he managed to exude a physical magnetism most men would covet.
The set of his shoulders beneath their superb tailoring held a certain familiarity, and she fought against the rising sense of panic, tempering it with rationale.
How many times had she caught sight of a male figure whose stature bore a close resemblance to that of Samuel’s father, only to discover his facial features were those of a stranger?
As it would prove on this occasion, she mentally assured as she saw Andreas move towards him.
Father and son. Had to be, she registered as the two men greeted each other with familial ease.
Seconds later they both turned at Anouk’s approach, and Chantelle froze, locked into speechless immobility in recognition of a man she’d hoped never to see again in this lifetime.
Dimitri Cristopoulis.
What was he doing here? Here, specifically in her parents’ home?
Dimitri’s family resided in New York…didn’t they?
He’d never said, and she hadn’t asked. She choked back a hollow laugh. Had she even given it a thought?
In seeming slow motion Chantelle witnessed the introduction process, aware of Dimitri’s calculating gaze as it encompassed first her, then her son, before settling with ruthless intensity on her own.
‘Chantelle.’
The sound of his voice sent shivers scudding the length of her spine. How could so much be conveyed in a single word?
No. The silent scream rose and died in her throat at what she glimpsed in those dark eyes before it was masked.
With mounting consternation she watched as he sank down onto his haunches and extended his hand to her son.
‘Samuel.’
The similarity between man and child was indisputable. Her son, but undeniably his.
Everything faded to the periphery of her vision, and she was conscious only of Dimitri and Samuel. Her hand closed over her son’s shoulder in a protective, reassuring gesture.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Samuel offered with childlike politeness.
Dear heaven, this was the culmination of her worst nightmare. Instinct screamed for her to scoop Samuel into her arms…and run as fast and as far away as she could.
Except Dimitri would follow. She could sense it, knew it in the depths of her soul. This time there would be no escape…no place she could hide where he wouldn’t find her.
Chantelle was dimly aware of her mother’s voice, although the words failed to register.
Did anyone guess she was a total mess? Every nerve in her body seemed to shred and sever, changing her into a trembling wreck.
Dimitri rose to his full height, and she caught sight of the veiled anger apparent in those dark eyes an instant before he masked it.
There were questions…several, she sensed he would demand answers to. Yet the most telling one was startlingly obvious.
Fear closed like an icy fist around her heart. He couldn’t take Samuel away from her…could he?
Was it her imagination, or did the air fizz with tension? For a wild moment she felt if she so much as moved a muscle, she’d be struck down by its invisible force.
‘Maman, may I be excused?’ A small voice penetrated the immediate silence, and brought Chantelle’s undivided attention.
‘Naturellement, petit.’ She offered a polite smile, then she turned and led Samuel towards the staircase.
A reprieve. One she badly needed. It would allow her time to recoup her severely shaken composure, and prepare for whatever the evening held in store.
For the next hour she could legitimately use Samuel as a shield. But the time would come when she’d have to face Dimitri alone. What then?
She felt the slight tug of Samuel’s hand and realised she retained too tight a hold on it. A self-derisory sound choked in her throat at such carelessness, and she lifted him into her arms, then buried her lips against the sweet curve of his neck.
‘Maman,