‘But you’re reluctant.’
She said nothing, taking another sip of her drink.
‘Why?’ His own drink was forgotten as interest grabbed onto him. ‘Did someone hurt you? Did someone—’
‘No.’ The word was sharp. ‘No, nothing like that. I just...’ She stopped again. ‘I haven’t felt this way before. About anyone.’
The admission was hesitant and for a second he didn’t understand it. ‘You mean...desire?’
Slowly, she nodded. ‘I haven’t met anyone I wanted before. Not like this.’ There was a brilliant flash of gold as she glanced at him. ‘Not like...you.’
He didn’t know why that hit him the way it did, like a short, sharp punch to the chest. Maybe it was because no one had ever said that to him before. Oh, women wanted him. Women went out of their way to make that very clear. But none of them had ever told him they’d never wanted anyone else but him.
It was only physical desire, he knew that. It didn’t mean anything. And yet he felt as if it did all the same. Because for the first time in his entire life, someone wanted him. Not his money, not his power, not his reputation. Not even his skill in bed.
She hadn’t known about any of those things when she’d seen him by the lake, and yet she’d wanted him.
You. Not Ulysses.
It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t have anything to do with Ulysses.
But it did matter. It mattered a lot.
‘That frightens you?’ he asked, watching her.
‘No. It...it means that...’ Her fingers around her glass were clenched, her other hand gripping the material of her dress. The restless energy to her seemed to increase, and he’d crossed the space between them before he could think better of it, taking the glass from her suddenly shaking hand and putting it down, then holding both her hands in his and instinctively squeezing gently to calm her.
Her gaze dropped, but she didn’t pull away or stiffen up. She just looked at her hands in his and slowly her agitation began to ebb away.
‘I’m difficult, Achilles,’ she said in a low voice at last, her gaze still on their linked hands. ‘I have a very bad temper as you probably saw last week, and I don’t lose it very often, but when I do I can...hurt people.’ The flush to her cheeks had become more intense, but this time he knew it wasn’t hunger. It was shame. ‘When I’m pushed or challenged, it gets worse, and it seems you have that unfortunate effect on me.’ She looked up at him suddenly, a raw honesty in her eyes. ‘I’ll certainly try not to be difficult after we’re married, but when I’m around you...well, I can’t guarantee anything.’
He had not expected such candour. Hadn’t expected his own reaction to it either, and it was clear from the look on her face that it had cost her.
But he couldn’t imagine her hurting anyone. Yes, she was fiery and yes, she’d lifted a hand to him, but he had provoked her. And the electricity between them surely hadn’t helped. She didn’t seem a woman liable to flying off the handle, though, not when she’d seemed very cool around him—when he wasn’t provoking her, of course.
What had happened to make her think it was an issue? And why did she call herself difficult? She hadn’t seemed difficult to him. A woman of deep passions, perhaps, but not difficult.
He wanted to ask her questions, find out why she thought these things about herself, but he didn’t want to make her distressed or agitated more than she already was. Perhaps there would be some time later, when they were on honeymoon.
You don’t need to know. Why would you want to?
Achilles shoved that thought away. ‘Diana, I handle extremely difficult people every day. One fiery, passionate goddess is nothing.’
She frowned, even as the remaining tension in her seemed to die away. ‘I’m not a goddess.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’ He gave her fingers another squeeze then let them go. ‘Now, let’s discuss something less problematic for a change. What are your thoughts on wedding gowns?’
CHAPTER SIX
OVER THE COURSE of the next week, as arrangements for the wedding began in earnest, Willow wondered from time to time if her confession in Achilles’ office had been a mistake. She’d never been so honest with another person before—she’d never had any kind of personal discussion with anyone before—and part of her had been very reluctant to confess to anything.
But she could tell that he wasn’t going to let her reluctance go when it came to a physical relationship. He was too observant to lie to and too experienced for made-up excuses. He knew she wanted him, she’d as good as told him, and so of course her clear agitation about the thought of sex was going to make him curious.
She couldn’t bear for him to assume things, either, or think that the issue was him when it wasn’t. Or rather, it was him, but not for the reasons he thought.
So truth had seemed to be the best option.
She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d told him about her terrible temper—some offhanded, casual comment perhaps. A shrug. Or maybe even distaste, because he didn’t seem a man given to overly emotional displays himself.
What she hadn’t expected at all was for him to put his wine down and come over to her and take her suddenly shaking hands in his. And she hadn’t realised how agitated she’d been until that moment.
His hold had been warm and firm, feeling strangely like an anchor keeping her in place, and his attention had been wholly on her as she’d told him, his gaze direct yet without judgement. And it hadn’t felt as hard to confess such a terrible weakness as she’d first thought.
She’d thought he might ask her whom she’d hurt in the past with her anger, and she hadn’t wanted to tell him about her father, about the last precious photo of her mother that she’d torn up because she’d been so furious. Or about how her normally shut-down father had looked at her as if she’d stabbed him, and then clutched at his head and collapsed in front of her.
He’d nearly died that night. The doctors had told her that his stroke could have happened at any time, but she knew it was because of her. Because she’d ripped up the last photo he had of his beloved wife in a fury. Because she’d hurt him and had wanted to hurt him.
Luckily, though, Achilles hadn’t asked her and so she at least hadn’t had to confess that crime to him, and she’d been more than happy to move on to discussing gowns and other less fraught subjects.
He hadn’t pursued the topic, clearly busy with wedding arrangements. He’d made various gracious invitations for her to join in with the decision-making process, which she just as graciously declined.
She didn’t want to be involved in it. The whole thing was a pointless performance, though part of her was curious as to whom exactly he was performing for. She certainly didn’t believe he’d suddenly decided on a formal engagement, complete with ring, plus a wedding and honeymoon, just for some photos.
No, it was about something more than that, but she tried to put it out of her mind. The very last thing she wanted was to become curious about her notorious playboy husband-to-be.
He did have her try on numerous wedding dresses before finally approving some white silk and tulle concoction, accented with gilt thread, that Willow told herself she didn’t care about. Yet at the same time, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she was conscious of a strange ache somewhere deep inside her.
She’d never thought a husband and children would be for her, and yet here she was, about to commit herself to both. That it wasn’t real, she knew. But that didn’t change the small ache inside her, the tug of longing for something...more.
But that was dangerous, so she ignored it.
In between wedding-dress fittings and investigating degree programmes at various universities, she found herself casually looking up Achilles on the internet, despite telling herself that she really didn’t need to know anything about him.
Apparently thoug
h, some part of her was desperate for information, hungrily combing through search results for anything interesting.
There were lots of news reports of how he’d left home at sixteen with nothing and then made a lot of money in investment and venture capital. How he’d cut a swathe through the female population of Europe and then the States, apparently not caring one iota about his family or his reputation.
His father had publicly repudiated him from all accounts, not that it made any difference to Achilles; he was famously reported for saying, when asked about his father, ‘Who?’ That of course piqued Willow’s curiosity. The two had not got on, it was clear, and naturally she wanted to know why.
So she’d focused her research deeper, on Andrew Templeton and his lovely Greek wife, Katerina. They’d apparently had a perfect marriage and been deeply in love, and not long after their wedding they’d had a son they named Ulysses. There were lots of pictures of the happy family, the lovely wife, the handsome Duke and their adorable little boy.
And then she came across a news item that made her gut lurch.
Ulysses had contracted meningitis when he was fifteen and had died very quickly. The Duke and his Duchess had been devastated. And then a year after their first son’s death, they’d had another child. Achilles.
Willow found that puzzling for reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint, the first son’s death and then Achilles’ birth so soon afterwards. Almost as if the Duke and Duchess had tried to replace the son they’d lost. Clearly whatever healing they’d attempted hadn’t worked, because five years after Achilles’ birth, his mother had divorced the Duke and returned to Athens, leaving her son behind, and had died a few years later.
It was obvious that neither the Duke nor the Duchess had got over the death of their first son, and it made her wonder what kind of childhood Achilles had had with that kind of shadow hanging over his head.
And then she thought about the wedding he was planning, the engagement with the family heirloom on her finger, the honeymoon in his mother’s country...
It’s definitely not for you.
The ache inside her, the one she told herself she didn’t feel, deepened, though it shouldn’t. Because she knew he wasn’t marrying her for her. That it was all for whatever point he was trying to prove—and he was trying to prove a point, that was obvious. Though to whom, she didn’t know.
Whatever, she needed not to feel the ache. Becoming emotionally invested was dangerous for her, and if she’d learned anything by now it was that.
She had to keep her distance. Shut herself off. Lock herself down.
And your wedding night? The honeymoon he wants from you?
She remembered back in his office how his presence had made her feel restless and wound up, and then not long after that how his touch had calmed her. There had been something still in him that had then stilled her, and she’d found it...restful.
It was strange that he could be both calming and arousing, but maybe that would help come their wedding night. Because the more she thought about it, the more she wanted it. Perhaps it would even help. It could be like a safety valve, helping her let off steam in the same way being in the woods had helped her let off steam as a child.
The day of the wedding arrived all too soon.
Willow found her little bedroom in the cottage full of make-up artists and stylists, people poking and prodding her until she finally emerged in the beautiful tulle and silk wedding gown, her face immaculate, her hair braided in a crown around her head and threaded through with flowers, a shimmering veil in gilt lace thrown over the top.
She barely had a moment to look at the stranger in the mirror before she was whisked downstairs and into the black limo that would take her from the cottage to the little church in Thornhaven village.
The church was historic, Norman age, and packed with people. The press waited outside, cameras at the ready as Willow got out of the limo. They called her name as she went up the old church’s steps, shouting questions at her as she went, but by that stage Achilles’ PA, Jane, was there, helping her with her gown and flowers, whispering in her ear to just ignore them.
She tried, but it was all very strange. The whole situation was strange. Dressed in white and ready to marry a man she didn’t love in front of a big crowd of people she didn’t know, and all because she needed the money and her father taken care of.
A business arrangement, Achilles had assured her. Yet it didn’t feel like a business arrangement any more. Not when there was a gown and an engagement ring, and a church. Not when there was a honeymoon.
All the trappings of love without the emotion.
A bit like your life, isn’t it?
Willow clutched her bouquet, waiting for the music to start for her walk down the aisle. Conscious that the place at her side was empty. Because the place at her side, where her father should have been, was always empty.
He hadn’t wanted to walk down the aisle with her because he wasn’t physically steady enough, and he’d said it wasn’t real anyway so it didn’t matter that he wasn’t there. He’d gone to Europe, to get the treatment paid for by the Duke.
He’s never been a real father to you anyway. All the trappings without the emotion.
A lump rose in her throat. She’d loved her father, but he hadn’t loved her. He’d never said it to her, hadn’t ever demonstrated it to her. She’d been the baby he hadn’t wanted, the child that had ruined his career. A lasting reminder of what his beloved wife had wanted and didn’t survive long enough to have.
He’d done his duty by her, given her a roof over her head and food on the table, ensured she had a decent education, and as soon as the Duke’s money had arrived he’d left.
Perhaps he was right, though. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was fine that this was all for show and that none of it was for her.
Nothing ever had been, after all.
Well, not quite nothing.
There was one thing that was for her and he waited for her by the altar, exquisitely dressed in a morning suit of dove grey. The man who might not love her, but did want her, and certainly enough to demand a wedding night from her.
That gave her some courage as she walked towards him, as did the look in his midnight eyes, full of a strangely intense satisfaction and fierce possessiveness that she didn’t quite understand.
It might have been the look of a man desperately in love who was finally marrying the woman of his dreams. Except she knew that wasn’t true, that he didn’t dream about her. That all of this was simply a show that he was putting on, and she was merely part of it.
But then there was no time to think too deeply as the ceremony began, so she pushed it aside, concentrating instead on remembering the lines she had to say. And then before she knew it, Achilles’ ring was on her finger and her veil was being pushed aside as he bent slightly to kiss her.
People were smiling and clapping as she walked out of the church on her new husband’s arm, photographers clamouring, confetti in the air. She smiled reflexively at no one in particular as Achilles walked with her down the church steps to the long black limo that waited for them at the side of the road.
And then she was in the car, the door slamming shut behind them like the vault of a crypt, and she was finally alone with Achilles.
She turned to look at him, but the moment he’d got in the car he’d pulled out his phone and was now talking to someone in liquid Greek.
Her husband.
She looked down at her hands clasped on the white silk of her gown, the yellow diamond sparkling, the heavy gold band of her wedding ring a perfect complement.
You’re married.
Yes, she was. But it didn’t mean anything. All that it meant was that now...
You get your wedding night.
Her breath caught, everything tightening inside her. She could still feel the warmth of his mo
uth as she’d leaned in to kiss him that day of their engagement, that ring heavy on her finger. Unable to stop herself. Drawn inexorably to him by the heat in his eyes and the hunger that she couldn’t escape.
He’d been so still as her mouth had brushed over his and she’d wanted very much to make him move, to get him to reach for her, perhaps pull her down onto the carpet of his office and show her everything a man could do to a woman to give her pleasure.
But he hadn’t.
As soon as she’d lifted her mouth from his, he’d risen to his feet and moved away as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t shaken him as completely as he’d shaken her.
Perhaps tonight she’d rectify that.
Are you sure that’s wise?
Well, maybe not. But then, she’d told him that she was difficult. He’d been warned. And he hadn’t looked all that perturbed about it, either, telling her he dealt with difficult people every day, which was probably true, given his business dealings.
But were they more difficult than her? Had any of them nearly killed their father?
Achilles abruptly disconnected the call and pocketed his phone, turning his head and meeting her stare. And a familiar heat washed through her at the intense look in his blue gaze.
Yes, this was for her. He was for her.
The thought made a cold, hard knot in the centre of her chest loosen slightly.
‘Don’t worry, Diana.’ His tone was lazy, at odds with the look in his eyes, and he reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and brushing a kiss over the back of it. ‘I’m not going to ravage you now, though believe me, I’m very tempted. I have other plans.’
She shivered at the light touch and at the heat curling through her. ‘I assume a reception?’
‘Oh, there’s a reception, certainly. Except we will not be attending. We will be elsewhere.’
‘I see. And where will we be?’
The World's Most Notorious Greek (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 9
