Stephanie was finding everything an effort. Her brain still worked perfectly, but her body felt heavy, sluggish. As if she were ill, but without any of the usual symptoms. She recalled the term heartsick, and now appreciated what it meant. Her heart was sick. Not broken. That was too extreme, and more than a touch overdramatic.
Fate, with a little nudge from her, had brought Giancarlo back into her life, and while he’d hinted that at some time in the future they might be together on a more permanent basis, for the time being all he could offer were stolen moments.
But it wouldn’t be quite that simple. Regardless of the quiet culture of acceptance in some circles—that positions of authority and a more lax attitude to sex and morals went hand-in-hand—she knew it would never apply to her.
If the media ever found out that the mistress of a senior charity executive owned a flourishing escort agency, it would put a halt to his career at the very least.
In a way it was all her fault. The choices she’d made, the woman she’d become. How different it would have been had she relented when he’d pressed her to join him in charity work! They would have been together when she had arrived in the camp. They might have been married by that time and later had children of their own.
But she knew it would never have worked. Even at university she’d been more than willing to indulge in the hedonistic world of wealth and pleasure. The idea of Africa, of poverty and disease held about as much appeal then as it did now.
Stephanie heaved a long sigh.
It was not the fairy tale ending she dared to imagine, but it was all she could hope for. Oh, the irony. He’d been so infatuated with her when they were younger, to the point it almost drove her mad. She’d used him, toyed with him, and then trampled on his emotions without a thought.
Now she was the one with little more than a glimmer of hope.