The World's Most Notorious Greek (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jackie Ashenden

  Her breath caught at his nearness and the way he was looking at her, as if he wanted to ignite her right there in the chair.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said, his voice low and fierce. ‘What are you afraid of, Willow?’

  She stared up him, her heart beating hard, caught fast as she always was when he revealed the hunger at the heart of him. And it was that hunger she saw in his eyes and his expression. Hunger for her and the raw edge of desperation.

  He wanted her to agree, that was what he wanted. And he wanted it desperately.

  He’d given her so much over the past week. Shown her what her passion could be like when she wasn’t fighting it, when she could be herself and not worry about being demanding or loud or difficult. And she couldn’t deny that she very much wanted more of that for herself. She also wanted to give something to him in return.

  So what did it matter if she felt a little uncertain and doubtful about continuing what they had on Heiros in England? There hadn’t been anything bad about it. No, it had been the opposite. So there was no reason to let those doubts stop her, and there was no reason to be afraid. And after all, it had been a long time since she’d felt as happy as she was when she was with him.

  She didn’t have to give it up, not yet.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yes, you were. I could see it in your eyes.’

  ‘I was shocked. That’s all.’ She lifted a hand and touched the side of his face gently, his skin warm against her fingertips. ‘And yes, I want that too.’

  Blue fire leapt in his eyes. ‘There will be no medical assistance when it comes to conceiving our child.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘There won’t.’

  You want him so very much. It could become a problem.

  It could. But she wouldn’t let it. She might want him, but it was only sex. And sure, her experience with sex might be severely limited, but she knew her own mind. She knew her heart. And it wasn’t involved. So where would be the harm?

  ‘We will conceive our son naturally,’ he insisted, as if she’d argued with him. ‘You will be in my bed every night.’

  There had been times on their honeymoon where he would get oddly intense and demanding like this. It was usually in bed, while they were having sex, and sometimes it felt as if he wanted something from her. Something she didn’t understand and didn’t know how to give. When that happened, she would open her arms and hold him, give herself up to him, and that would seem to satisfy him in the moment.

  But she had the sense that it wasn’t quite what he wanted.

  His skin was warm beneath her fingertips and she let them trail along the curve of his finely carved mouth. ‘I will,’ she agreed.

  ‘Do not fight me on this.’ His gaze burned. ‘I will have what I want.’

  ‘I’m not fighting you, Achilles. I want what you want.’

  Finally his gaze flickered, the intense blue glow in his eyes easing. He turned his head, his lips brushing against her palm. ‘Good.’

  She thought he might lean down and kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead, he pushed himself away from her and strode down the length of the jet, taking out his phone and starting into a string of phone calls, pacing as he talked.

  He was agitated, that was clear, which was unusual. She was the one who usually paced, not him. Was it going home that was getting to him? The honeymoon ending? What?

  She wanted to ask him, but he remained on the phone for the rest of the flight.

  They landed in London in the early evening and Willow thought they might stay the night in his city penthouse before returning to Yorkshire in the morning. But it soon became plain that wasn’t the plan as he ushered them both into a waiting helicopter for another flight north.

  It was raining and gloomy when they finally arrived at Thornhaven, but clearly Achilles’ staff had spent a productive week airing out the house and freshening it up in preparation for their arrival.

  She wanted some time to explore the manor, or maybe even a half-hour to recover from the journey, but Achilles ushered her straight up the sweeping staircase from the entrance and to the master suite.

  It faced the rolling back gardens, the fountains and the woods, though long curtains in dark blue velvet had been drawn over the windows. A massive four-poster bed stood opposite the windows, freshly made up in white linens with a thick, dark blue velvet quilt thrown over the top.

  A fire burned in the fireplace, giving the room a warm glow.

  It wasn’t Heiros, but it was cosy and welcoming, especially with the late-evening snack that had been prepared and was sitting on the coffee table before the fire, a couple of armchairs standing in front of it.

  Achilles didn’t seem to be interested in the snack, though.

  His agitation hadn’t eased since they’d arrived back in the country. If anything it seemed to have got worse.

  As a staff member put down the last of their luggage, he paced back and forth in front of the windows, his hands in his pockets, a taut expression on his face.

  She recognised that expression. She was tired and it was late, and yet still it made her breath catch.

  As the staff member closed the door after him, sure enough, Achilles turned from the windows and came straight for her.

  She was standing beside the bed and made no move to evade him as his hands settled on her hips and he drew her hard against his body. There was a strange, feral light in his eyes. Something was wrong.

  She didn’t want to make his agitation worse, so she didn’t push him away, merely leaning into the hard, muscled heat of his torso instead, resting her hands on his chest. ‘What do you need?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘You.’ The word was rough and hard. ‘Now.’

  It was coming home, wasn’t it? Being here, in this house. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she could feel it in the tightness of his muscles and in the hard strength of his grip on her hips. He was so tense.

  It wasn’t the right time to ask, but she didn’t like that tension in him. It made her think that he was in pain, and she didn’t like that thought either.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  He bared his teeth in what she thought was supposed to be a smile. ‘Nothing. Why would you think anything is wrong?’

  ‘You’re very tense and restless. You have been ever since we left Greece.’

  His fingers firmed on her hips. ‘Well, once you take your clothes off, I won’t be tense any more.’

  Willow debated giving in, letting him work out whatever was bothering him in the privacy and comfort of that big four-poster bed. But some part of her balked. It wanted to know what the matter was, because this man was different to the quiet, thoughtful man he’d been back on Heiros and it troubled her.

  If he was in pain, she wanted to help him. Wasn’t that what a wife did for her husband? She helped him when he was in pain and vice versa.

  Except you’re not a real wife.

  No, that was wrong. She was a real wife. And she’d agreed that their lives wouldn’t be separated. They may not be in love, but if they were going to be sleeping in the same bed and being intimate physically then that didn’t mean she couldn’t help him out emotionally when that was needed.

  ‘Achilles,’ she said quietly, looking up into his face, ‘what is it?’

  She was very warm and he could smell wild flowers—her scent. And her eyes were as golden bright as the flames in the hearth. There was a crease between her fair brows: she was worried. She was worried about him.

  He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that he was fine. More than fine. And he’d show her how fine he was, right now in fact, in that bed behind her, the bed where he’d probably been conceived.

  But he wasn’t fine and he knew it.

  The difficulty had started back in Greec
e, as they’d got on the plane from Athens. Or no, maybe it had started before then, when he’d heard her fears about herself, and he’d told her that she was perfect the way she was. Then he had proved that to her, several times, before lying back on that sun lounger with her in his arms, his hands buried in her hair, realising that he couldn’t give this up after the honeymoon was done. And not just couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  He wanted her in his bed every night. To be able to talk to her whenever he wanted. Argue with her if they were both so inclined. Read books together. Walk in the woods together. Share meals and ideas, and passions.

  He’d never had that before with anyone and he couldn’t see why he couldn’t have it with her. Just until their child was conceived.

  The desire for it felt so strong that he hadn’t been able to sit still the way he normally would, couldn’t put it from his mind to come back to later the way he would with anything else. Couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter to him, either.

  And perhaps that was why he was so agitated about it. That it mattered to him. That he wanted her to say yes and couldn’t bear the thought of her refusing.

  That was a problem, when he wasn’t supposed to care.

  He didn’t know when it had happened, when she’d crept beneath his guard and got inside him. Got him interested in her opinions, her thoughts, and her feelings. And he was interested, that was clear. They mattered to him and they shouldn’t.

  The whole situation had been exacerbated by coming back to Thornhaven, and the wash of memories that poured in on him every time he stepped over the threshold.

  Memories of the sitting room where his mother had walked out without a backward glance, leaving his father standing there white-faced and grief-stricken. And he, standing by the door like the afterthought he’d always been. She hadn’t even looked at him; she’d walked right by him as though he weren’t even there.

  Of the dark hallways he’d used to wander at night, feeling as if he were the ghost and his brother were real. Because there were pictures everywhere of Ulysses and none of him. Ulysses was the only one even worth mentioning, while his father barely had a word to say to him.

  Of the room down the end of the other wing, a small room, that was his, because Ulysses’ room had been a shrine and no one was allowed to go inside but his father. And how he had used to sit at his desk, throwing himself into his studies, because that was where he was real. That was where Ulysses couldn’t touch him, because Ulysses had been better at sports and physical pursuits, not school work.

  There were days when his own existence had felt precarious, as if if he didn’t do something to ground himself in reality then he’d fade like smoke, like a dream his parents had once had. He could feel that sense of fading tugging at him even now. As if the house itself didn’t believe he was real, that it wanted him just to disappear.

  The replacement son. The spare.

  The one who should have died.

  He hated this place.

  So why bother holding on to it? Why come back here at all? Why bother with all of this marriage nonsense for your inheritance in the first place?

  Because he couldn’t let it go. If he did, his father would win. His father had wanted him to disappear, to have not been born, and he couldn’t have that. He would take his inheritance and he would make it his.

  He would force the spirits of this place to acknowledge his existence once and for all.

  ‘Achilles,’ Willow murmured and gave a little hiss of pain.

  And he realised he was standing there, holding on to her tightly. Too tightly.

  Theos, he’d hurt her. What was wrong with him? Why was he letting this house get to him? All of that had happened years ago and he’d made his mark now. He’d forced the entire world to acknowledge his existence and they had. He’d become more than his brother would ever be, richer, more famous, more powerful, more notorious...

  Forcing away the agitation took every ounce of strength he had, but he managed it, dropping his hands from her and stepping back.

  ‘I’m sorry, chriso mou,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  But she was still frowning, still looking at him with some concern. ‘What did you say?’

  And he realised he’d spoken the whole thing in Greek. Another slip.

  Perhaps it would be better if he slept alone tonight. He didn’t want to disturb her and he certainly didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want her asking questions, either, because talking about Ulysses, conjuring up his brother’s shade, was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

  So he gritted his teeth, forced himself to smile, to relax as if nothing at all was wrong. ‘A slip of the tongue. I was apologising for hurting you.’

  She shook her head as if that was negligible. ‘You didn’t really hurt me. It’s okay. But you looked upset.’ Her gaze searched his face, sympathy glowing there, as if she knew exactly what he was feeling and why. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  It made him feel even more exposed than he already was, that look. And he didn’t want to explain, because this agitation, this desperation was inexplicable. Even the things he could explain, such as Ulysses, he didn’t want to.

  He didn’t want to have this discussion at all.

  He was tired, that was the problem. They should have spent the night in London, but he’d wanted to get here. He’d thought being here with her would make a difference and yet it hadn’t. Perhaps it would tomorrow. He was no fit company for anyone tonight, though.

  ‘I’m not upset.’ He knew he sounded cold, but there was no helping it. ‘It might be better if I leave you to sleep alone tonight.’ He made himself let her go and turn away, moving over to the door.

  ‘Is it this house?’

  Her voice was soft yet the question struck him like a blow, pinning him to the spot, his hand still on the door handle. His heartbeat echoed in his head, a loud pulse of sound. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, even thought he’d heard the question perfectly well.

  There was a long pause and he heard her soft exhalation. ‘I know about your brother, Achilles. This house must have...some bad memories for you.’

  Electricity crackled the length of his body, his knuckles white where they gripped the door handle.

  ‘How do you know about my brother?’ His voice sounded strange in his head.

  She met his gaze squarely. ‘I did what you told me to do. Some research.’

  Of course she would have done some research. The information was there on the internet for anyone to see. The reports of the loving marriage of the Duke of Audley and his beautiful Greek wife. The joy when they had their first child—a son. And then the tragedy of that son’s death. The single report about Achilles’ birth and then nothing but silence. No one spoke about him healing the hole that Ulysses’ death had left in that family. No one spoke about him bringing love back into his parents’ lives.

  No one spoke about him at all.

  Because you don’t exist. You never did.

  His hand was cold where it gripped the door handle, his knuckles bone white, and he had to force himself to let it go. He should leave, get out while he had a chance, and yet he didn’t.

  He turned around instead.

  Willow stood next to the bed, that terrible sympathetic expression still on her lovely, vivid face. Concern glittered in those beautiful golden eyes, as if she cared about how he felt.

  He didn’t understand why she would. After all, no one else had. And he didn’t understand why she wanted to ask him about his past, either. About his brother.

  Sullen anger burned inside him, a healing fire.

  ‘Did you, now?’ His voice had turned to ice and he made no attempt to adjust it. She had to learn that the subject of Ulysses was out of bounds. ‘Then you’ll know that the only reason my parents had me was to replace their dead son. He was the heir, I was the spar
e. And you might also know that it didn’t work. That the disappointment when I turned out to be nothing like my brother essentially meant that I was a living reminder of the fact that he was dead.’

  Emotions flickered over Willow’s expressive face: sympathy, concern and even a touch of anger. And then she was coming across the space that separated them, and he found he’d taken a step back as if to put some distance between them, the door behind him preventing him from moving any further.

  She stopped in front of him, that sympathetic gaze stripping him bare. Seeing his pain. Seeing his anguish. Seeing the lost, lonely boy he’d once been, desperate for love and attention, yet who’d been ignored so completely he’d started to question his own existence.

  His heartbeat was drumming in his head, and when she reached out to him he flinched. But she only took his hand and held it gently, the warmth of her touch grounding him, keeping the edges of him solid.

  ‘Come,’ she said quietly, and tightened her grip, taking a step towards the fire.

  He didn’t know why he let her lead him from the door and over to the armchair by the fire. Why he let her push him gently down into the chair. Why he let her open the bottle of wine that was sitting on the coffee table and pour a couple of glasses. Why he let her put one in his hand and wrap his fingers around the stem of the wine glass. Why he damn well let her put some food on a plate and put it on the table beside his chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He couldn’t make himself move.

  ‘Looking after you,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  Then she grabbed her own glass, set it down on the floor beside his chair, then knelt at his feet. She put her hands on his knees, leaned forward and rested her chin on them, the sensation of the soft warmth of her body against his legs grounding him even further. She looked at him steadily and the fading feeling dissipated. He had the oddest sense that she made him real, somehow.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said quietly.