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‘Look around you,’ Zoe invited. ‘Does this look like the home of a Greek billionaire’s family?’
He did it. He actually dared to stand there in her cluttered kitchen and look around at the pine cupboard doors and cheap lino flooring and the two mugs sitting on the draining board waiting to be washed. And the pure silk of his suiting slithered expensively against his long body as he moved.
.....
Zoe didn’t know and right at this precise moment she did not care. He had not turned up. He’d stayed hidden away in his ivory tower while the press had crawled all over the funeral like feeding locusts.
Which brought her nicely to the final list of people she’d been forced to deal with these last three awful weeks—the cockroaches out there who’d crawled out of the woodwork the same day the sensational story had broken. The ones that had come banging on her door to offer her big money for exclusive rights to her story, and the ones that still camped outside her home just waiting for her to step out of the door so they could pounce. Were they out there because they cared about her and Toby’s tragic loss? No. They were there because Theo Kanellis was a recluse who hid himself away on his private island somewhere in the middle of the Aegean, and protected his privacy so well that this story was like a juicy, ripe peach they couldn’t resist gobbling up—even if the juice was messy and the centre held a nasty, crawling worm.
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