Whether due to a shift in his gaze or some peculiar sixth sense, Cyril seemed to realize he’d won. He turned and gestured for Kristos to precede him.
Still, maybe holding on a bit too desperately to his one fleeting last view at freedom, Kristos glanced to the ocean, and searched for the bright flash of red against all that crashing blue.
He froze. “Where is she?”
“Where is who?” Cyril’s voice was testy, but he looked out to the water as well. “There’s no one out there.”
“There was.” Beside him, Dimitri was looking too. “The American swam well, it appeared. She looked to be in no danger.”
“Well, she sure as hell wasn’t wearing scuba gear.” Kristos took a few steps toward the water’s edge, when suddenly his focus was rewarded. A white-skinned body burst up out of the water as if she’d held her breath long enough to explore the bottom of the sea. She whirled around toward shore, clearly getting her bearings—only she chose the absolute worst time to do so. One of the famed Garronia cross waves swelled against her, causing her to turn, then turn again in alarm. She hadn’t been prepared for the undertow, no matter what she’d said. Now, caught where she was, she couldn’t easily strike out toward land, which left only open water as an option until the currents eased and she could once more head toward shore. Given the panicked fluttering of her legs and arms as she took again to the sea, that wasn’t going to be an ideal situation for her for long.
“Send one of your men. You’ll be spotted instantly, and we don’t need the distraction.” Cyril was long used to tourists running afoul of the waters of Garronia, and he wasn’t going to let this one die either. But, given his sharp glance to the villas surrounding the beach, he also had a healthy understanding of the paparazzi that trolled the area, looking for anything that might earn a quick euro. Kristos suspected his own picture had probably been snapped a half-dozen times already, but he’d been dealing with photographers long enough that he’d stopped giving a shit years ago.
Besides, it was only going to get worse, not better, if Cyril had his way…which it looked like he would. Kristos was demanded in the palace, so to the palace he would go.
“I’ll get her—” Dimitri started up.
“No!” Kristos said, snapping the word. He could feel the press of royal obligation weighing down on him, but he refused to let it take hold quite yet. The pretty American woman wasn’t in danger so far, no; but that didn’t mean she was safe. “She’s my responsibility,” he said, causing Cyril to stare at him, patent shock on his face. “I’ll get her.”
“Your what? Kristos!” But the advisor’s words were lost behind him as Kristos dashed forward and entered the waters that he knew and loved as much as he loved every rock and tree of his country. He had explored Garronia’s crescent of the Aegean in every season and in almost every weather condition. He knew exactly when the woman would begin to flag, and he would be there for her.
And if it helped him put off reality for that much longer, then so much the better.
He dived deep into the rolling sea.
Chapter 2
This was starting to seriously suck.
Em struck out again with more force, hitting the water at an angle, gratified that she seemed to be making some headway, though all too aware of how far she was being drawn out into the deeper water with every surge of the strange current. She wasn’t scared, not really. There were boats emblazoned with the Garronia coat of arms that patrolled the far edge of the bay, specifically to ensure no swimmers strayed far enough into open water to be struck by larger craft, or, God forbid, get dragged by the currents out to sea.
Still, she wasn’t really in the mood to be plucked out of the water in some sort of fishing net. For one thing, she’d never live it down. For another, she was grateful enough for her own friends taking care of her. She didn’t need anyone else to join that particular refrain.
Nevertheless, it was becoming painfully clear that she also wasn’t in anywhere near as good a shape as Nicki was. And though she’d always loved swimming, her college intramural swim team suddenly seemed like a lot longer ago than a year. It didn’t help that she’d devoted most of the past several months to standing over beds and pushing people in wheelchairs, not to her butterfly stroke.
She seemed to recall that the beachfront curved around to a sandy point to the right of the white stucco and red-tiled villas. Perhaps if she could reach that area, there’d be shallower waters and less current.
If I make it that far. Her arms felt like leaden weights as she slogged through the water slowly—too slowly, her brain was beginning to chime. And her failsafe might not be so fail proof either. Was she even far enough to catch the attention of the patrolling boats? Should she stop swimming now and tread water, waving as much as she could to catch someone’s eye?
The thought of waving anything sent a surge of dread through her. Why was she so tired?
Maybe she should try to head closer to shore.
Em plunged forward, focusing on her strokes, but she gradually became aware that the problem rested less with her technique than with the continually shifting current. Undertow, Hot Navy Guy had said. But there was more than an undertow going on here.
She knew how to swim against a current. It wasn’t fun, but it was manageable. As she’d noticed when she’d first set out, however, this current seemed to have two thrusts, one directly at her and one that cut across her body, immediately taking her every effort and spinning her off course, so that she wasn’t taking one stroke forward to make up for two back, but two back and one to the side.
It had seemed charming a few minutes ago, but now it was getting downright obnoxious. She was getting spun around, unsure of her destination, and the unfamiliar strain was dragging on more than her muscles. How am I going to get to shore?
Suddenly all the weight of the past year pressed down on her. Her parents’ horrific crash had come out of nowhere, seeming like a nightmare from which she could never, ever wake up. She’d dropped out of grad school to come home. She was an only child, after all, and her parents had no family close, certainly no family who could take care of such intimate and often harrowing details as personal care for both broken bodies and minds.
Her father should have bounced back more quickly, but he hadn’t, and her mother’s progress seemed to come in completely unpredictable fits and starts. So Em had quietly told her grad advisors that she wouldn’t be able to continue her studies for the foreseeable future. They’d said all the right things and had been so gracious. They’d extended her scholarship offer for a full year, in fact.
Dear Ms. Andrews… Decision needed…
But who was she kidding? She’d not played seriously in over a year, and every time she tried her original audition piece, she flamed out. She might not be able to cut it at Northwestern anymore. Even if she could by some miracle still make the grade, the likelihood of her joining a major orchestra had been slim anyway.
And if she lost the people who’d given her music in the first place, what did any of that matter?
Even this trip had seemed like a bad idea, despite Lauren doing all the work up front—arranging the live-in care for her parents, refusing to accept any money. She’d come in with guns blazing the way she always did, offering to whisk Em away on a whirlwind European girls trip, and before Em could protest, her mother had seemed to come to life in front of her. She’d turned her soft, quiet eyes on Em and had whispered that she should go. That they would be okay, that she needed to “enjoy being young.”
At those words, her father had closed his hands over her mom’s shoulders and had just held her, his face racked with guilt. Her mom had patted his hands the way she always did, exonerating him of his role in their shared tragedy moment by moment, day by day, even if she didn’t realize she was doing it.
Her parents, such a loving and tight unit in health, were like two stars who’d moved too close together in infirmity, the strength of their gravitational pull sucking Em
into their constantly shifting cycles of grief and pain and love.
The accident had taken so much from both of them. How could Em not do everything in her power to help them get well?
I can. I probably will.
What little energy she did have was quickly seeping out of her. She redoubled her efforts, cresting the water’s edge only to see another wave strike at her from the wrong direction. Enough with the freaking current already!
Suddenly, an entirely different force struck her broadside, causing her mouth to open in shock and seawater to fill it as panic swamped her. Then strong arms were around her hips, lifting her high, past the cresting waves. Still, too much water had gone down her lungs and she coughed and spluttered, her chest seared with pain.
“I’ve got you! I’ve got you.” The thickly accented voice rolled over her with sharp command. Beyond recognizing it as belonging to the man she’d spoken to on the beach, Em accepted it on an almost visceral level as the voice of authority. Of safety. “You’re closer to the beach than you think. I need you to let me do the work without interfering. You hold on. Don’t fight me.”
The pressure in her lungs was almost unbearable now. “Can’t—can’t—”
“I’m turning you. I said, don’t fight me.” The man’s hands pivoted her in the water, and without warning, she felt a strong smack between her shoulder blades. As she coughed and gagged, seawater sluiced from her mouth, making everything burn. Then she sucked in another great lungful of air, only to begin coughing again.
“Come on, spit it out. You’re strong,” his voice rang out again. “You can do this.”
No sooner had she drawn in another rasping pull of air than the man shifted her against his body, and she felt the strength of him surround her, keeping her buoyant as he changed direction. The way he hooked her, with his powerful arm crossed over her chest and his hand gripping her high on her waist, she was almost in a back float, but her waterlogged brain couldn’t compute how he could move his own body while hauling hers along.
Em tried desperately not to cough, not to slow him down in any way, but it took her only a second to realize she didn’t need to worry too much about that. The guy practically exploded through the water, carrying her like she was a pool toy. More quickly than she ever expected, she felt her flapping feet connecting with sand as he hauled her upright, his arm around her waist. He lifted her more than actually helped her walk as she stumbled out of the surf and up onto dry land. Her eyes swam, and she felt dizzy, then the coughing started again as he got her to her knees, helping her retch the last of the water free from her lungs.
Just as she caught her breath, warm hands were wiping away the water from her eyes. She realized too late she was staring at a chest, a chest that might as well be naked, given that the soaked shirt stretching across highlighted pecs and abs that practically rippled with muscle. Oxygen seemed to lodge in her throat again, and her entire body spasmed, which earned her a startled curse and another flat-handed smack on her back.
“You’re safe, koukla mou, I’ve got you—”
“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Em tried to wave off her rescuer’s ministrations, but he turned her to face him, his beautiful golden eyes now directly in front of her. Eyes that stared at her with worry that showed he had no idea of her true source of distress.
Can he seriously be this gorgeous?
“You are breathing well, yes, but you are not fine. What is wrong?”
“Nothing—nothing is wrong. Thank you. I can walk.” Still, she didn’t try to stand, and he made no move to let her. And the shaking only got worse. She knew it would get worse. The shock, the surprise, the exhaustion, and the weight of everything she was trying to escape out there in the water seemed to all let go at once, and her body seized again despite her best efforts to control it.
When the man looked up and shouted something she didn’t understand, yet another wave of mortification crashed through her. Oh God, we’ve drawn a crowd. Why hadn’t she realized there were people around them? Of course there would be people. It was a public beach. With people on it.
“I’m so sorry, I’m fine,” she managed, though she could barely understand her own words, she was shaking so much. “If you’d let me get up—I just need to walk around. I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.” The man’s words were harsh with the crack of command, but Em was beyond responding to any more orders. “I am calling for my men, koukla mou. You are frozen.” And with another curse, he pulled her into his lap, surrounding her with his heat.
His men? Was he in charge of that little group of navy guys?
“Why are you so cold?” he continued, and though her brain seemed to be on the verge of shutting down, Em knew he thought she was going into shock. “It is a warm and sunny day. We have only sunny days here in Garronia, didn’t you know that? It is a kingdom of sunshine and joy.”
He was talking to her like she was a child, and Em closed her eyes in humiliation. Seriously, this was not happening.
“I just—I get the shakes sometimes. It’s okay, I—get cold, it’s—” Now did not seem to be the best time to talk about poor blood circulation, but Em couldn’t help her rat-a-tatting teeth as the man’s rough arms encircled her, his thick biceps and corded forearms covering her chest and waist. He dropped a soft kiss on the crown of her head, as natural as if they’d been dating for years, and murmured something else to her.
Wait, what? Had he seriously just kissed her?
Warmth snaked through her now, all right, but that was mostly because a man was actually holding her. She hadn’t had that happen in so long that she’d practically forgotten what it felt like to have someone pressing against her, skin to skin, chest to back, lips to ear, surrounding her so completely that she had neither time nor breath to think about anything else, anyone else, anywhere else…
Whoa, there, girl. Dial it down a notch.
Only now the man who was making such insane, impossible images dance through her head was speaking again, his voice rich with Mediterranean sun and spices and, God, his arms around her felt amazing. “You get cold, yes, I can see that,” he murmured into her ear, his breath fanning through her wet hair. Despite herself, Em shivered again, and he held her yet closer. As her heart pounded thunderously, his next words were soothing, gentle, and once again in a language she couldn’t understand. He was trying to help calm her down—not rile her up. Settle down! She implored her newly reawakened libido, which was beginning to thrum with anticipation at a real, live man holding her real, live body in his real, live arms…
Her newly reawakened libido was apparently not to be deterred.
“The water is treacherous,” Sexy Navy Adonis said. “I tried to warn you, but I did not do a good job. For that, I am sorry.”
He kissed her hair again, and Em gave up thinking any more rational thoughts. Instead, she closed her eyes, wishing the world away while she stored up all these memories for the next however many years it would be until she could feel a man’s body against hers again. “I didn’t—you didn’t—”
“Shh. All is well.” He rocked her into him and she became aware of other parts of his body too. His broad, flat chest, his knotted abs—and even lower, as his groin snugged up against the drenched backside of her suit.
Em’s eyes popped open, though the man couldn’t see her. Nevertheless, while she might be the one trembling, she wasn’t the only one affected by their tight embrace.
Oh my God.
“What can I say, koukla mou?” Hot Rescue Guy’s thickly accented English whispered against her ear. “I am but a man.”
And when she turned to apologize, his mouth was right there, his lips soft and warmed by the sun, his expression open and sure. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to lift her face that little bit as well and touch her lips to his.
Sunshine. That was the first coherent thought that raced through Em’s mind. Her rescuer tasted like sunshine and salt and sand, l
ike blue skies and possibilities. Something shifted in her that made her trembling stop for a second, her heart lurching with surprise into completely unfamiliar territory. What—how?
Oblivious to her confusion, her gorgeous Greek god kissed her back, hard and firm, but only for a moment. Then he lifted his head, his rich laughter rolling forth as someone pounded up the beach.
Kristos held the American a little closer than he needed to as Dimitri reached them. Of course Dimitri would be first on the scene, and carrying the lightweight blanket that was part of the specialized kit they were testing that morning. The blanket was intended to guard against hypothermia for weather much colder than this day had any hope of being, but Kristos was not about to argue. For whatever reason, the small American woman had reacted completely out of proportion to her time in the water.
As he’d come up to her, he realized that she’d actually been swimming strongly enough, making adjustments in the water to combat the current, though he didn’t doubt she was tiring. But once he’d gotten her to dry land, she’d seemed to become somehow more exhausted, as if the gorgeous blue-green seas had drawn more out of her than she’d been willing to give. Even now, her full-body reaction was concerning him. Despite the heat he was willing back to her body, not all her trembling was due to her female awareness of him—though enough was, certainly. More than enough was.
Still, the part that wasn’t chilled him to the bone. Was the American suffering from shock? Was she sick?
He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t deny an intense desire to understand more. To take this woman into his care in a way that he had never been tempted to by the parade of lovely, long-legged beauties who’d been drawn to him despite his surly attitude and battle-worn body. His own countrywomen were the most gorgeous in the world, of course—but Garronia drew worthy competitors for that status from every nation on the globe, and he’d always had his pick. Never once, however, had he felt protective about his conquests. Never once had he wanted more than the pleasure of a stolen kiss or a passionate, sun-soaked interlude before duty called again.
Courted: Gowns & Crowns, Book 1 Page 2
