Blackmailed by Diamonds, Bound by Marriage
Auteur·e
Sarah Morgan
Lectures
19,0K
Chapitres
11
HarlequinCHAPTER ONE
THE UNMISTAKABLE SOUND of footsteps echoed around the ancient stone stairs that led to the basement of the museum.
Angie Littlewood glanced up from the notes she was making, distracted by the unexpected disturbance. Upstairs the museum was heaving with visitors but down here in the bowels of the old listed building there was an almost reverential silence, a silence created by thick stone walls and the academic purpose of the researchers and scientists who worked behind the scenes.
Angie felt a flicker of surprise as she saw Helen Knightly appear in the doorway. As Museum Curator, Helen was usually fully occupied upstairs with the public at this time of day and Angie’s surprise turned to consternation as she saw the distressed expression on her colleague’s face.
‘Are you all right, Helen? Is something the matter?’
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, dear.’ Helen’s face was slightly paler than usual and Angie’s heart took an uncomfortable dive as her mind raced ahead, anticipating the problem.
Obviously it was something to do with her mother. Gaynor Littlewood had been so traumatized by the events of the last six months that Angie was sometimes afraid to leave her alone in the house.
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s someone upstairs asking to see you.’
With an inward sigh, Angie carefully replaced the piece of ancient pottery she’d been examining and rose to her feet, still holding her pen. ‘If it’s my mother again, then I apologise,’ she said huskily, adjusting her glasses and her white coat as she walked towards the curator. ‘She’s found the last six months very hard and I do keep explaining that she can’t just turn up here unannounced—’
‘It’s not your mother.’ The curator gave a nervous cough, a gesture that did nothing to ease Angie’s growing feeling of unease.
If it wasn’t her mother then it had to be a funding issue. Research posts were always precarious and money was always in short supply. She felt a sudden stab of panic. How would they manage without the money from her job? Angie opened her mouth to prompt the other woman but the heavy tread of male footsteps on the stairs distracted her.
She glanced towards the door as a man strolled into the room without waiting for either invitation or introduction.
For a brief moment Angie stared at him, her attention caught by the strength and perfection of his coldly handsome face. He resembled one of the legendary Greek gods, she thought, her mind wandering as she studied the perfect bone structure, the masculine jaw and the hard, athletic physique. All the Greek myths she’d ever read rushed through her head and for an extremely unsettling moment she imagined him stripped to the waist, bronzed muscles glistening with the sweat of physical exertion as he did battle with the Minotaur or some other threatening creature while some hapless female lay in chains on the floor waiting to be rescued.
‘Dr Littlewood? Angie!’ Helen’s tone was sharp enough to disturb Angie’s vision and she gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that sponsors didn’t expect archaeologists to be dreamy. And this man was obviously someone extremely important. He had an unmistakable air of command and authority and her eyes slid to the two men who had planted themselves in the doorway behind him. Their manner was respectful and watchful, and added to her feeling that the man was hugely influential; he was probably considering making an extremely large donation to the museum. Although she would rather be left in peace to do her research, she was only too aware that posts such as hers existed only because certain organisations or individuals were financially generous. Clearly Helen Knightly was expecting her to fly the flag and make a good impression so she pushed down her natural shyness, ignored her deep-rooted belief that men as glamorous and sophisticated as this one never looked twice at women like her, and stepped forward.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t beautiful or elegant, she told herself firmly. She’d graduated top of her year from Oxford University. She spoke five languages fluently, including Latin and Greek, and her academic record was excellent. If he was interested in funding a position at the museum, then those were the qualities that would interest him.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ Still holding the pen, Angie stretched out a hand and heard Helen make a distressed sound.
‘Angie, this isn’t—I mean, I should probably introduce you,’ she began, but the man stepped forward and took the hand that Angie had extended.
‘You are Miss Littlewood?’ The voice was strong and faintly accented. The grip of his strong bronzed fingers matched the power of his physique. Which god did he most closely resemble? Apollo? Ares? Angie felt her mind drift again until she heard Helen’s voice in the background.
‘This is Nikos Kyriacou, Angie, the President of Kyriacou Investments.’
A Greek name? Given the comparisons she’d been making, Angie almost smiled and then Helen’s words and the urgent emphasis of her tone finally registered.
Nikos Kyriacou.
The name hung in the air like a deep, dark threat and then reality exploded in Angie’s head and she snatched her hand away from his and took an involuntary step backwards, the shock so great that the pen she was holding clattered to the floor.
She’d never heard of Kyriacou Investments but she’d heard of Nikos Kyriacou. For the last six months his name had been on her mother’s lips as she’d sobbed herself to sleep each night.
Clearly aware of the sudden escalation of tension in the room, Helen cleared her throat again and gestured towards the door. ‘Perhaps we should all—’
‘Leave us.’ His dark, brooding gaze fixed on Angie. Nikos Kyriacou issued the command without a flicker of hesitation or the faintest concession towards manners or protocol. ‘I want to talk to Miss Littlewood alone.’
‘But—’
‘It’s fine, Helen.’ Angie spoke the words with difficulty. It was far from fine. Already she could feel her knees shaking. She didn’t want to be left on her own with this man. The fact that he was rude came as no surprise. She’d already deduced that he was a man devoid of human decency—a man with no morals or ethics. Now she knew which Greek god he most closely resembled. Ares, she thought to herself. The god of war. Cold and handsome but bringing death and destruction.
Her slim shoulders straightened as she braced herself for conflict. This wasn’t the time to be pathetic. She owed it to her family to stand up to him. The problem was, she hated conflict. Hadn’t her sister continually mocked her because Angie always chose the peaceful route? The only argument that interested her was an academic one. All she really wanted was to be left in peace with her research.
But that wasn’t an option.
Staring at him now, she decided that he was every bit as cold and intimidating as his reputation suggested and suddenly all she wanted to do was run. But then she remembered her sister as a child, so blonde and perfect, always smiling. And she remembered her mother’s limp, sobbing form—remembered all the things she’d resolved to say to Nikos Kyriacou if she ever met him face to face.
Why should she be afraid of being alone with him? What could he do to her family that he hadn’t already done?
His dark, disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face as he waited for the echo of Helen’s footsteps to recede.
He had nerve, she had to give him that. To be able to look her in the eye and not appear to feel even the slightest shred of remorse.
Only when he was sure that Helen Knightly had moved out of earshot did he speak. ‘First, I wish to offer my condolences on the death of your sister.’
His directness shocked her almost as much as the hypocrisy of his statement. The words might have meant more had they been spoken with the slightest softening of the voice but his tone was hard. The coldness injected into that statement somehow turned sympathy to insult.
She inhaled sharply and pain lanced through her body. ‘Your condolences?’ Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak the words. ‘Next time you’re offering your condolences, at least try and look as though you mean it. In the circumstances, your sympathy is rather out of place, don’t you think? In fact, I think you have a complete nerve coming here and offering “condolences” after what you did!’ It was the first time she’d ever spoken to anyone in such a way and she reached out a hand and held on to the table, needing the support.
A frown touched his proud, handsome face, as if he were unaccustomed to being questioned or criticised. ‘Your sister’s death at my villa was extremely unfortunate, but—’
‘Extremely unfortunate?’ She, who never raised her voice, who always preferred logic and reasoned argument to mindless aggression, raised it now. A vision of her sister flew into her mind. The sister she’d never be able to hug and laugh with again. ‘Unfortunate? Is that how you justify it to yourself, Mr Kyriacou? Is that how you appease your conscience? How you manage to sleep at night…’
Something dangerous flared in those dark eyes. ‘I have no trouble sleeping at night.’
She was suddenly aware of her pounding heartbeat and the dampness of her palms. An instinctive urge of violent aggression swarmed through her and she must have betrayed that urge in some way because the two men in the doorway suddenly stepped forward, ready to intervene.
Angie realised that she’d actually forgotten their presence. ‘Who are they?’
‘My security team.’ Nikos Kyriacou dismissed them with an impatient gesture and they melted into the background, leaving Angie alone with the one man in the world she would have preferred never to meet in person.
‘I can understand why a man like you would need a security team if you treat everyone the way you treated my sister! Clearly you have no conscience!’ She placed both hands on her desk. It was that or punch him hard. ‘My sister died in a fall from your balcony and you’re standing there telling me that your conscience is clear?’
Fine lines of tension appeared around his hard, sculpted mouth. ‘There was a full police investigation and a post mortem. The verdict was accidental death.’ His flat, factual statement held not a trace of emotion and her anger rose to dangerous levels. She’d had no idea that she was capable of feeling such undiluted fury. It was because she hadn’t been given the chance to express her feelings, she told herself. She’d been so busy caring for her mother. It was only at night when she was given the chance to stop and think and then her head was crowded with thoughts of her sister. Her little sister. The person she’d loved most in the world.
Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘Accidental death. Of course. What else?’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘You’re a very important person, are you not, Mr Kyriacou?’
His powerful body stilled. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, Miss Littlewood, but I should warn you to be careful.’
There was something in his tone that made her shiver although she didn’t understand exactly what because he still hadn’t raised his voice or displayed anything other than the utmost control.
She remembered reading a business article that had described Nikos Kyriacou as cold, ruthless and intimidating and suddenly she could understand why a journalist might have come to that conclusion. His unsmiling, icy calm was in direct contrast to her boiling emotions.
Normally she would also have described herself as calm but she was fast discovering that grief did funny things to a person. She was discovering parts of her personality that she hadn’t been aware existed—basic urges that had never before revealed themselves—like the desire to wipe that superior expression from his indecently handsome face.
‘It’s Dr Littlewood.’ She lifted her chin and corrected him in the tone she reserved for the most arrogant students that she lectured at the university. ‘And you don’t frighten me.’
‘Doctor, of course. Dr Angelina Littlewood. And the purpose of my visit is not to scare you.’ He gave a faint smile that implied that if he’d wanted to frighten her it would have been an easy task. She curled her fingers into her palms.
‘I don’t use the name Angelina.’ In her opinion it was a ridiculous name. A name suited to an entirely different sort of woman—a beautiful, glamorous woman, not a studious, plain archaeologist. ‘I prefer to be called Angie, as you would be aware if you knew the first thing about me.’
His hard gaze didn’t shift from her face. ‘I know a great deal about you. You have a diploma in classical archaeology, a PhD in Mediterranean archaeology and you specialise in the art and pottery of the classical Greeks. Quite an impressive academic record for someone as young as you. Tell me, Dr Littlewood—’ his gentle emphasis on her title was impossible to ignore ‘—do you often find it necessary to hide behind your qualifications?’
Still recovering from the shock of discovering that he knew so much about her, Angie tightened her grip on the desk. ‘Only when I believe I’m being patronised.’
‘Is that what you think?’ He studied her closely, his eyes sweeping the white coat, the glasses and the fiery hair tortured into a neat coil at the back of her head. ‘You’re nothing like your sister, are you?’
Intentionally or not, he had used the weapon designed to create the most serious wound.
She turned away then, unwilling to reveal the agony that his words caused. She knew she was nothing like Tiffany—had long ago accepted that they were entirely different in virtually every way. But those differences hadn’t affected the bond they’d shared. Even as Tiffany had moved from caring child to wayward, moody teenager, Angie had still loved her deeply. Knowing that they had little in common had done nothing to ease the pain of her sister’s death. If anything it made it slightly worse because Angie felt a continuous gnawing guilt that she hadn’t tried harder to influence her younger sister. To persuade her to modify her behaviour. And that guilt wasn’t helped by her mother’s constant obsession with ‘what if’s. What if Angie hadn’t been so disapproving of Tiffany’s desire for fun? What if Angie hadn’t been so boring and obsessed with work? What if she’d flown out to Greece and kept Tiffany company? What if she’d been with her sister the night of the accident?
Tortured by those recurring thoughts, Angie raised a hand and rubbed at her brow, trying to relieve the ache. She was almost beginning to believe that she’d played a part in Tiffany’s death—by allowing her sister to continue down the path of self-destruction. By not trying to keep her away from men like Nikos Kyriacou.
‘Did you read the report?’ Cold and relentless, his voice continued to torment her and she turned, understanding the full meaning of his question without needing elaboration.
‘If you’re asking me whether I knew she was drunk, then the answer is yes,’ she said quietly, noting the flash of surprise in his eyes. ‘What? Did you think I didn’t know? Or did you think I’d deny that knowledge?’
‘Since you evidently hold me responsible for the accident despite the fact that the report completely absolved my family of blame or responsibility, I thought the facts might have escaped you.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘The facts are that Tiffany was young, Mr Kyriacou. She celebrated her eighteenth birthday just two months before she started working in one of your hotels. Most eighteen-year-olds have been drunk at some point or another; it’s part of the passage into adulthood.’
‘Have you, Dr Littlewood?’
She frowned. ‘I fail to see the relevance of that question.’
‘Really?’ He gave a faint smile, so maddeningly calm and detached that she wondered for a moment if he was a lawyer by training. He seemed to be trying to trap her into saying something that would absolve him of responsibility.
‘If you’re suggesting that Tiffany’s slightly inebriated state in any way exonerates you of blame then I’m afraid I don’t see it that way. I find your complete indifference nothing short of insulting given the circumstances. You were the reason she drank that night! It was all your fault!’
Why had she always avoided confrontation in the past? It was actually remarkably liberating being able to say exactly what she thought.
Apparently unmoved by her accusations, Nikos raised a dark eyebrow in sardonic appraisal. ‘You think I held the bottle to her lips?’
‘I think you might as well have done. In normal circumstances you and my sister would never have crossed paths but unfortunately fate threw you together.’
‘Fate?’ The heavy sarcasm in his voice goaded her still further. She didn’t know what he was implying but it was clearly something derogatory.
‘My sister was a waitress! She had a two-year contract with your hotel! Her only role at jet-set parties was pouring champagne into the glasses of people like you!’ Her voice echoed round the stone walls of the museum and she took a deep breath and forced herself to lower her voice. There had already been more than enough gossip surrounding her family. She didn’t need more. ‘Tiffany was young and starry eyed and you took advantage of that. You were totally out of her league, Mr Kyriacou, and you should have recognised that even if she didn’t. You should have stuck to models and actresses and other women who understand the rules of the games you choose to play. But you just couldn’t resist my sister, could you?’ Her voice rang with contempt. ‘You took advantage of her innocence and broke her heart.’
There was a long, tense silence. A silence during which he studied her face with a disturbing degree of concentration. ‘It is not my wish to defame your sister’s character,’ he breathed, ‘but clearly we have a significantly different interpretation of events and also of your sister’s personality.’
‘Of course we have! How else would you be able to live comfortably with your conscience? You’ve clearly managed to persuade yourself that you were totally without blame. But the truth is that Tiffany had never even had a proper boyfriend until she went to Greece and yet you—’ She broke off, hot colour flooding her cheeks and he tilted his proud, handsome head in question.
‘—and yet I?’ His prompt was lethally soft. ‘Please don’t hold back on my account, Dr Littlewood. Please enlighten me as to my behaviour towards your innocent sister. I confess I’m fascinated by your alternative view on the world. Clearly you’ve spent a significant proportion of your life closeted in the depths of museums and universities.’
Why, she wondered in silent amazement, did women find him so attractive? Was it the air of danger? The sense of menace? It was like confronting a tiger with sheathed claws, knowing that it would take little for him to display his deadly power.
True, he was extraordinarily handsome but he had an icy, remote quality that made her shiver.
Angie thought of all the things that her mother had said about Nikos Kyriacou. Thought of the file of pictures she’d kept on the man. The fact that her mother had been proud of her sister’s new romantic attachment had filled Angie with horror and frustration.
‘The man is at least fifteen years older than her,’ she’d pointed out, but her mother had merely shrugged dismissively.
‘He’s loaded, Angie, not to mention influential. Whatever happens now, she’s made. Being with him will give her access to circles that she never would have had a chance of entering if she hadn’t been on his arm. They say he has billions—that he’s absolutely brilliant at business. So clever. He’s dated supermodels and actresses, but never for more than a few weeks at a time because apparently he has no intention of ever marrying. And yet he’s been seeing our Tiffany for at least six weeks! It’s obviously serious. Can you believe that?’
She’d had great trouble believing it. ‘Why would a man like Nikos Kyriacou be interested in Tiffany?’ If he were truly as clever as rumour suggested, then Tiffany, whose conversational skills didn’t extend beyond fashion and hairstyles, would surely have bored him in minutes. She’d loved her sister, but love hadn’t blinded her to the truth.
Her mother had bristled at the question. ‘Tiffany is extremely pretty,’ she’d said defensively, ‘and a traditional Greek male values beauty in a woman, not brains. I don’t expect you to understand because your idea of a good night is having your nose stuck in some big fat book with long words in a foreign language, but when a man comes home from a hard day making millions he’s hoping for something a little more stimulating than conversation. Not that you’d know anything about that.’
Angie had given a murmur of derision, wondering why it was that brilliant men turned into idiots when confronted by a pretty face. She’d seen it with her father. Clearly Nikos Kyriacou suffered from the same lack of restraint when it came to women. Her mother was right. It was something that she didn’t understand and never would.
Looking at him now, there was no doubt in her mind where the responsibility for her sister’s death lay. ‘Tiffany was very innocent. At the very worst she was perhaps a little foolish.’
‘You think so?’
She thought she detected a dangerous flash of fire in his dark eyes but it vanished in an instant and he appeared as controlled as ever. Unlike her. She felt the last strands of control slipping from her grasp. Telling herself that it was impossible to appeal to the conscience of a man who clearly didn’t possess one, Angie launched a powerful defence of her sister.
‘You’re supposed to be a sophisticated man of the world. I can’t believe you couldn’t see what was beneath the blonde hair and make-up. I can’t believe you didn’t know the truth about her.’
‘I knew all about her,’ he said flatly, a tiny muscle flickering in his lean cheek, ‘but I’m starting to wonder whether you did.’
‘I know my sister always dressed and acted in a way that suggested that she was far older than she actually was. But she was a child. She didn’t play by your rules and you must have known that! You should never have made false promises.’
He inhaled sharply and his eyes narrowed. ‘What promises am I supposed to have made?’
Angie shook her head, unable to believe that even he had the gall to deny what he’d done. ‘You vowed to marry her and we both know that would never have happened. It’s well documented that marriage never appears on your agenda.’
There was a long, tense silence. ‘What makes you think I promised to marry her?’
‘Because she told me! I’m sure you were hoping that she’d kept your proposal a secret. How very inconvenient for you that she didn’t!’ Her hands shaking, Angie reached for her bag and rummaged inside for her mobile phone. ‘She sent me a text two weeks before she died. Two weeks before she fell from your balcony, Mr Kyriacou.’
He was unnaturally still. ‘Show me.’
She scrolled down through the texts and stopped when she reached ‘Tiffy’. The name brought a lump to her throat. ‘It says: “N going to marry me. So happy!” She was alive when she sent that text—’ She thrust the phone into his hand and swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to cry. ‘She was in love with you and she was happy. The next text was sent the night she fell. Read it, why don’t you?’
‘“Just discovered truth about N. Hate him.”’ He read the words aloud, staring at the phone in his hand, his tension visible. ‘So it was true then. She did expect marriage,’ he breathed and Angie gave a humourless laugh.
‘And why would that come as a shock to you? Because she should have known better than to believe you when you promised to marry her? Tiff was a young girl and like all young girls her head was full of romance and happy endings. You ought to remember that next time you contemplate having some fun with a teenage girl. She was no match for a man like you and you broke her heart! Presumably that was why she was drunk that night. She’d discovered the sort of man you really are!’
Something dangerous flared in his eyes. ‘You know nothing about the sort of man I am, Dr Littlewood.’
‘I know that my sister shouldn’t have been anywhere near you! Every time I open a newspaper you’re with another woman.’ A beautiful, glamorous woman. ‘It’s obvious that you see the female sex as entertainment and nothing more.’
The tension in his powerful frame increased significantly. ‘And you always believe what you read in newspapers?’
‘Not all the detail, of course not. I’m not stupid. But the stories have to come from somewhere.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Which brings us back to the question of what a man like you was doing with a girl like Tiffany.’
‘I’m sure you’ll tell me, given that you know so much about me from such a reliable source.’ There was a biting edge to his tone that made her stiffen.
‘Don’t play games with me and don’t ever joke about my sister’s death!’
‘Believe me, I don’t consider anything about your sister to be funny, least of all her death.’ There was something about his excessive stillness that made her increasingly uneasy and suddenly the fight drained out of her and she just wanted him to leave.
She sank on to her chair and rubbed her hands over the fabric of her plain, practical navy trousers. ‘Please go.’ Her voice was husky and she removed her glasses and looked up at him. ‘I don’t know why you came here, but I want you to leave now. And I want you to promise not to go anywhere near my mother.’
That cold gaze rested on her face and a faint frown touched his dark, sculpted brows. ‘Why do you wear glasses?’
‘I’m sorry?’ The irrelevance of the question threw her and she blinked in astonishment as she stared up at him. She noticed for the first time that his lashes were very thick and very dark and softened the otherwise hard lines of his handsome face. ‘I need them for very close work, for seeing detail, but I don’t understand why you—’
‘You should wear contact lenses. It won’t compensate for your unfortunate personality but it would at least soften your appearance and make you appear more feminine.’
She gave a gasp of outrage, just mortified by the personal nature of his less than flattering comment. She shouldn’t care, she reminded herself. All her life her mother had been making similar comments about her appearance. Angie, wear a dress. Angie, have a haircut. Angie, wear make-up. She didn’t seem to understand that dressing up wouldn’t make a difference. Her eldest daughter was plain. She’d been born plain and she’d die plain. And it didn’t matter to her. All that mattered at the moment was that she’d lost her little sister.
Feeling emotions that she didn’t entirely understand, she immediately fumbled for her glasses and slipped them back on to her nose. ‘I’m not interested in your opinion on anything, Mr Kyriacou.’ Her voice trembled as much as her fingers. ‘The only thing that interests me is the reason for your visit. Clearly you didn’t come to apologise, so why did you come? Or do you take pleasure in viewing other people’s distress? Are you one of those people who slow down on the motorway to view an accident on the opposite carriageway?’
There was a long silence while he studied her, a silence during which she grew more and more uncomfortable. Why was he looking at her like that? Was he ever going to speak?
Finally he drew breath and something in the depths of his dark eyes made her stomach flip with nerves. Instinctively she sensed that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.
‘Why did you come here?’ Her voice cracked slightly and his mouth hardened.
‘Have you ever heard of the Brandizi diamond?’
His question was so unexpected that she frowned. ‘Why would I?’
He gave a faint smile and waved a hand around the room she worked in, gestured to the various artefacts that surrounded her. ‘Because you’re interested in history and legend, Dr Littlewood, and the Brandizi diamond is surrounded by both.’
‘As you’ve already pointed out, my speciality is Greek art and pottery of the classical era. I know very little about jewellery.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘I fail to understand the relevance of this conversation.’
‘The Brandizi diamond is one of the most valuable stones ever documented. It is a flawless pink diamond. The exact date of the piece is unknown, but it is believed to have been commissioned by an Indian prince as a gift for his first wife as a symbol of eternal love. Apparently he believed in such things.’ His faint smile of derision revealed his thoughts on that topic. ‘Great superstition surrounds the diamond.’
Even though she would have walked on broken glass sooner than admit it, something in his cool, cultured tones had caught her imagination. Angie’s eyes slid to the fragments of pottery that lay on her desk. ‘Myth and legend are always closely aligned with ancient artefacts. Much can be learned about people’s beliefs by studying the art of the time.’
‘The stone came into the possession of my family several generations ago. It has traditionally been passed down to the eldest son to offer as a gift to the woman of his heart. It is of incalculable value in both monetary and emotional terms.’
Her own heart started to beat faster and she felt the rush of excitement that she always felt when discussing the past. But then she reminded herself that Nikos Kyriacou wasn’t another academic and she couldn’t afford the luxury of conversation with this man, however stimulating the subject.
‘I fail to see what any of this has to do with my sister.’
He looked at her for a long moment and then strolled over to a cabinet and examined one of the pots on display, leaving Angie to stare at his glossy dark hair and broad shoulders with increasing frustration.
She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘What does this diamond have to do with my sister?’
‘Everything.’ He turned then, a muscle flickering in his hard jaw, his eyes glinting Mediterranean-dark. ‘Your sister was wearing the Brandizi diamond on the night she fell from my balcony, Dr Littlewood. I suspect that it was amongst her belongings when they were returned to you. And now I want it back.’
