Читать книгу Mediterranean Mavericks: Greeks - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 67

‘SO, HOW ARE you feeling, my clever and very beautiful wife?’

Keeley lifted her gaze from the tiny black head which was cradled against her breast, to find the bright blue eyes of her husband trained on her.

How was she feeling? Tough question. How could words possibly convey the million sentiments which had rushed through her during a long labour, and which had ended just an hour ago with the birth of their son? Joy, contentment and disbelief were all there, that was for sure—along with a savage determination that she would love and protect their new baby with every fibre of her being. Baby Timon. Timon Pavlos Kavakos. She smiled as she traced a feather-light fingertip over his perfect, olive-skinned cheek.

‘I feel like the luckiest woman in the world,’ she said simply.

Ariston nodded. He didn’t want to contradict her at such a time, but if luck was being handed out—then surely he was its biggest recipient? Watching Keeley go through labour had been something which had taught him the true meaning of powerlessness and silently he had cursed that he was unable to bear or share her pain with her. Yet hadn’t it been yet another demonstration of his wife’s formidable strength—to watch her cope so beautifully with each increasing contraction? A wife who was planning to join him in the family business, just as soon as the time was right. He remembered her reaction when he’d first put the idea to her and his tender smile in response to her disbelieving joy. But why wouldn’t he want his capable and very able wife working beside him, with hours which would suit her and their son? Why wouldn’t he want to enjoy her company as much as possible, especially since her command of Greek was getting better by the day?

But she’d told him that these days she studied his language with a passion born from wanting to fit in and not because she was terrified of being left out. Because she was determined to speak the same language as their child. And because family was more important than anything else. A fact which had been drummed home by the sudden death of her mother, a death which in truth had filled Keeley with a sad kind of gratitude, because Vivienne Turner was at peace at last. And it had focussed their minds on the things which mattered. They had decided to make their home on Lasia—on that exquisite paradise of a place, with its green mountains and sapphire sea and skies which were endlessly blue.

Ariston thought how beautiful she looked lying there, still a little pale and exhausted after her long labour, her blonde hair lying damply against her cheeks as she smiled up at him trustingly. ‘Would you like to hold your son now?’ she whispered.

A lump instantly constricted his throat. It was what he’d been waiting for. In fact, it felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. A little gingerly at first, Ariston took the sleeping bundle from her, and as he bent to kiss the baby’s jet-black hair a fierce wave of love rushed over him. He was used to holding babies because he used to hold Pavlos most of the time—but this felt different. Very different. This child was his flesh. And Keeley’s. Timon. The pounding of his heart was almost deafening and the lump in his throat was making speech difficult, but somehow he got the words out as he looked into the tear-filled eyes of his wife.

‘Efkaristo,’ he said softly.

‘Thanks for what?’ she questioned shakily as he put his free arm tightly around her shoulders and drew her close.

‘For my son, for your love—and for giving me a life beyond my wildest dreams. How about that for starters, koukla mou?’

She was trying to blink them away but the tears of joy just kept rolling down her cheeks and Ariston smiled as he kissed each one away, while their son slept contentedly in his arms.