by Jane Porter
“You should be proud of your exceptional abilities and talent, not ashamed,” he said.
“Do you think my father should have hired me?”
“I do.”
Her gaze found his again, her expression somber. “Would you hire me?”
Damen straightened, feeling sucker punched. What a question. How could he answer that without becoming a villain, like her father? “I’ve hired a number of women for management positions. There is also a woman on my board.”
“Out of what? Twelve?”
He didn’t answer since they both knew the answer. Kassiani didn’t pull punches, did she? Damen was beginning to understand why Kristopher preferred not to deal with his youngest. “The Greek shipping business is dominated by men, and in general, it isn’t very receptive to women in key positions.”
Kassiani sipped her champagne thoughtfully. Her silence felt like a condemnation and Damen didn’t enjoy feeling judged.
“I didn’t say I agreed with the attitude,” he added somewhat defensively, and then felt angry about being made to feel defensive. “Men just want to get things done without all the emotional baggage women bring to the table.”
She shot him a look of surprise that quickly morphed into one of disappointment and Damen gripped his flute so hard he was certain it would shatter.
“I had no idea you were one of those,” she said calmly with just a hint of censure. “For some reason I thought you were more...progressive.”
“Business is business,” he said curtly. “I don’t spend long hours at the office because I enjoy sitting at my desk. I’m there to get things done.”
“And women don’t get things done at the office?”
“You’re twisting this, you know. You are deliberately twisting my words. But to answer your last question, this is exactly what I don’t want in my office. I don’t want to spar with a woman over real or perceived slights. I want to execute contracts. I want financial growth. I want to develop markets. What I don’t want is to be challenged on my domain. It’s not conducive to company morale—”
“Or yours,” she interjected softly.
He broke off, frustrated, and rather furious, because this entire conversation had flipped. A couple of minutes ago they were having a really good and open conversation and now it was antagonistic. Why? What had happened?
And before he could answer that question, he had a sudden insight into why Kristopher had chosen to leave Kassiani at home, behind.
It wasn’t because she was dumpy and dull. It wasn’t because she was the proverbial Ugly Duckling. It was because Kristopher didn’t know how to manage his youngest daughter. Kassiani was too smart for him, and probably talked circles around him, and Kristopher—not the brightest of men—couldn’t cope. The only way he knew how to handle her was by shaming her.
Marginalizing her.
Making her feel small and less than.
Damen didn’t agree with Kristopher’s behavior, but he felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for the older man. Kristopher knew exactly what to do with Elexis and Barnabas—indulge them, give them money and toys. But Kassiani couldn’t be bought off so easily. She was young, smart and fierce, honest and real.
“You know, kitten,” he said quietly, “if you want to be part of the game, you have to play the game.”
“Is there a game, then?”
Damen flashed back to Adras, and the horrors of being a young male trapped in a situation beyond his control, forced to do and say things that still made him physically ill. He knew then, at fourteen and fifteen, he’d never forgive himself, and he hadn’t, even though twenty-two years had passed. “If you feel like you’re always on the losing side, I’d say there is a game in play.”
“And if I’m tired of losing?”
“Then figure out the game.”
* * *
Dinner was strained that evening and Kassiani knew she was to blame—not because she was wrong, but because she couldn’t remain silent on issues. Growing up, she’d never been able to accept the status quo, and she realized early on that what was acceptable in one family wasn’t going to be acceptable in hers. Her family was old-world. Traditional. And if her feminist opinions weren’t welcome at home in San Francisco, she should know they’d be a problem here in Greece.
Back in her bedroom, she kicked herself for not being able to hold her tongue. It had changed their evening. Damen had been in a good mood when he had joined her on the deck and had champagne delivered, and then she had to ruin the lovely champagne toast by being too pointed, and too direct, creating conflict, which was so typical of her.
Kass didn’t know why she couldn’t stop when she was ahead. If only she could harness the frustration she felt at not being given more opportunity.
The narrowness of her life wore on her.
The lack of challenges made her feel somewhat desperate and crazy.
She read half a dozen international newspapers a day, and tried to stay busy by digging in deeper into current events, researching current topics in world economics, international politics and international law. She subscribed to various university magazines, wanting to know what was happening in the academic world, as well as the corporate world. But all the research in the world did little to alleviate her sense of isolation.
But Kass didn’t feel isolated when Damen claimed her, and made love to her. Kass didn’t feel like a failure when he responded to her in bed. She wasn’t a radical feminist. She didn’t think of herself as a rabble-rouser. But Kass had always struggled with remaining silent when confronted by injustices. Women really were capable of so much.
And she, personally, was capable of so much more.
Maybe her need to be heard and seen...to contribute...was based on the fact that she didn’t feel valuable as a decorative object. How could she? She wasn’t very decorative. She added little value in terms of physical beauty. The only time she truly felt attractive was when she was using her brain.
Or using her body to seduce Damen.
She smiled weakly, ruefully. At least she still had her sense of humor. It wasn’t appreciated in her family but Kassiani had always been grateful she could laugh at herself. Far better than always crying over one’s faults and failings.
The door to the master bedroom opened. Kass jerked her head up, and her heart fluttered as Damen stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
Suddenly the tears she’d been holding back fell and she reached up to swipe them away, one after the other before he could see.
“Why the tears?” he asked, standing at the foot of the bed.
So she hadn’t successfully hid them. She sat taller and swiftly swiped away another, scrubbing at her cheeks to make sure they were now dry. “I didn’t think you were going to come tonight. I thought I’d chased you away.”
“So you don’t believe what you were saying?”
“No, I do.”
“Then don’t apologize. Your problem is that you’re smarter than everyone else.”
She sniffed and swiped away a last tear. “Not smarter than you.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You are certainly book smarter. To be fair, I probably have you beat when it comes to street smarts.”
She settled her nightgown over her knees, and exhaled slowly, trying very hard to bridge whom she was with what a wife was supposed to be. It was a tricky balancing act. “All right, so I don’t apologize for having opinions, but I am sorry if I upset you at dinner. Trying to be a good wife is more complicated than I imagined.”
“Why shouldn’t you speak freely? I do.”
She exhaled in a painful rush, her cheeks heating. “We both know the answer to that.”
“Because men can, and women can’t?”
“You’ve told me that my value lies in me being a supportive wife, not a critical, oppositional one.”
<
br /> “I actually don’t think I ever told you that,” he said mildly.
“A traditional Greek wife—”
“Isn’t what I asked for. It’s what you said I needed, because apparently I need a meek, submissive wife.” He arched a black brow. “Now, there are things I would enjoy from a submissive wife, but it would probably not be what you’re thinking.”
Or would it? She silently countered, as unbidden images came to mind, images of her kneeling before him, worshipping his body, drawing his thick shaft into her mouth, sucking, licking, making him groan and slide a hand into her hair, his fingers wrapping around the strands, holding her head so that he could take his pleasure.
Kassiani exhaled again, her body hot, her senses stirred. Flustered, she pushed back a heavy wave of hair from her face, feeling overly warm, and more than a little claustrophobic, because suddenly the atmosphere felt charged, the air heavy, crackling with awareness, and desire.
She could tell that Damen felt the tension, too, as the look he gave her was blatantly sexual, as was his slow, possessive perusal, his gaze resting on the jut of her breasts and then lower to the swell of her hips and then finally to the hem of her nightgown where it clung to her thigh.
“Let me see you,” he said slowly, arms folding over his chest.
“What do you want to see?”
“Everything.”
“Then let me see you.”
“What do you want to see?”
“Everything.”
He laughed softly and gave his dark head a shake. “You are a fearless negotiator. I admire that.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Now let’s see how good you are at asking for something. What do you want, Petra Kassiani? What would be your pleasure?”
She hesitated, thinking. “Something new. Something we haven’t done. But something I would like,” she added quickly, fighting her blush.
“Oh, that’s easy, then. I haven’t even taken you from behind yet. I think you’ll like that position very much.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS RIGHT. She did like that position very, very much.
She was still trying to catch her breath after the most intense orgasm of her life, and Damen was stretched out next to her, his hand lightly running over her back, caressing from her back to her butt, and then up again.
Part of her was so relaxed but another part of her was already being stirred.
“Tell me something about your boyhood,” she murmured, trying to distract herself. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“None. I was an only child.”
“Why?”
“There were complications during my birth. My mother was lucky she and I both survived the pregnancy.”
“That’s scary.”
“I am sure if we lived someplace else, and had easier access to doctors, it might have been less dangerous.”
“You were poor.”
“Very.”
She curled closer to him, her arm wrapping around his waist. “And yet you have so much now.”
“I made a vow when I was fifteen that I would never be poor again, and it’s driven every decision I’ve made since then.”
“What did your father do?”
“He worked in an olive orchard. My mother did, too. They earned so little that they couldn’t afford child care for me, so from the very beginning I went to work with them, first strapped to my mother’s back as an infant, and then later I ran about, trying to help. I didn’t actually get paid until the year I turned ten. That was a big deal for me, and my family. It wasn’t much compared to what my father earned, but it helped.”
She pressed her hand to his chest, just above his heart. They’d had such different backgrounds, such different lives, and yet here they were together. “When did you find time to go to school?”
“I went seasonally. When I wasn’t needed in the groves or the olive press.”
“It doesn’t sound like you had a lot of formal education, then.”
“I attended off and on until I was fourteen—” He broke off, jaw hardening, brow darkening. “And that was the end of my boyhood. I never went back to school, and within eighteen months, I left our island, Adras, for good.”
“Where did you go?”
“Athens. I got a job in the dockyards and worked hard, and here I am.”
“How does a relatively uneducated boy become...you?”
“Relentless ambition.” He smiled grimly. “And the desire for revenge.”
She pushed up on her elbow to get a better look at his face. “Revenge? Why?”
“When you are poor, you are dependent on others.” His jaw flexed. “There is a terrible imbalance of power.”
She frowned. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing I discuss. It’s just...fuel. Anger and desperation are remarkable motivators.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he answered carelessly, his voice hardening. He sat up and kissed her forehead. “And now I just like working hard. Work gives me a reason to wake up every day. It gives satisfaction at the end of the day.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “I’m actually hungry. Are you?”
“Hasn’t your chef gone to bed?”
“No one sleeps if I want something,” he said so matter-of-factly that she smiled.
And then he smiled, too, as if amused by his own arrogance. “All I want is a snack,” he added, “and half the fun of a snack is going through the refrigerator and pantry to see what you can find.”
The kitchen was surprisingly large with an enormous center island dominating the middle of the room. The backsplash, refrigerators, stove, ovens, even the four portholes above the prep area, all gleamed silver, while the cabinets were a rich espresso and the counters a creamy ivory marble shot with veins of pale caramel.
It was a beautiful space, and welcoming. Kassiani ran her hand over one of the lovely marble work surfaces. “This is a gorgeous kitchen. I wouldn’t mind cooking in here. The kitchen on our family yacht isn’t half as nice. For one, there are no windows or portholes, and for another, it’s a rather hideous vanilla-and-stainless mix, and not pretty stainless like this, but restaurant grade and very commercial looking. This is like something you’d see in a stunning house.”
“My chef is picky. He wouldn’t come on board if he didn’t have the right appliances and utensils and work space.”
“You must like your chef quite a bit, then. My father fired staff right and left. He had no qualms replacing them.”
“Most of my staff have been with me for a while now. There are a few new faces on this sailing, but the majority have been on my payroll for years. I’m happier surrounded by familiar staff, people I know I can count on.”
Kassiani was surprised. She’d gotten the impression that Damen wasn’t attached to anyone, or anything. “Do you spend that much time on your yacht to keep everyone fully employed, then?”
“Half of the crew only work here on the yacht, while the other half work for me in another capacity. My chef here is also my chef in Athens. I just steal him from the house and bring him on board. Some of the housekeeping staff are also from Athens. Three of the hands work on my Adras estate, while others are from my Sounio villa.”
“So are those your main homes?” she asked as he opened the refrigerator and began pulling out cheese after cheese, as well as a plastic container filled with washed fruit. “Athens, Sounio and Adras?”
He moved to a cabinet and found plates and silverware. “I have an apartment in London, but I haven’t been in years. Too busy working to travel.” Damen deftly arranged place settings in front of them before going to the tall narrow pantry and retrieving a set of pottery jars she suspected were filled with olives.
The jars of olives joined the cheese and fruit. Damen lifted the lid on one jar a
nd, using a tiny wooden fork, reached in to pluck out a tiny, dark green olive. He held the olive to her mouth in an offering, and she took it, licking her lower lip to capture the droplet of olive oil. “Delicious,” she said.
“Some people call these Cretan olives, but we also grow them on Adras.”
He reached into another jar, and stabbed a small light green olive. “These are nafplion. One of my favorites. The texture is firm and a little crunchy, and the flavor is even better. Slightly nutty, slightly smoky. These are a true table olive and perfect with a sprinkle of lemon juice and bit of dill.”
She plucked the offered olive from the wooden fork and popped it into her mouth. He was right. It was a little bit crunchy and deliciously salty and somewhat nutty. “That is amazing,” she said.
“There is nothing better than olives and bread. Now we just need bread.” He turned around, his gaze narrowing as it swept the kitchen. Everything was so tidy. There was no food out anywhere on the counters. “Chef used to have a bread box where he kept the loaves, and the leftovers, but I don’t see it.”
“I’ll have a look,” she offered.
And as she moved past him to search the pantry, he caught her by the neck, his hand wrapping around her nape, and drew her to him.
Kassiani felt a jolt of electricity as his head dropped and his lips covered hers. She felt another sharp surge of sensation as his mouth moved across hers. He was hungry and he parted her lips, claiming her mouth, making her weak in the knees.
She always responded to him, and desire washed through her, hot and needy, her body softening against him, her arms reaching up to wrap his neck and bring him even closer. Damen held her firmly and she relished the feel of his hard, warm, muscular body pressed to hers as well as the seductive promise of his shaft urgent against her belly.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for this heat and desire. This physical need matched her emotional need, creating a vast yearning for more. Being in Damen’s arms made her feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time, and she wanted to be completely herself, and completely real. Was this love? Or was this lust? She didn’t know. She wished she knew. She wished she’d had more experience because what she felt with Damen was incredible and consuming and she couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way with anyone else. It was as if he had been made for her. His body was extraordinary, and the way he used his body was extraordinary. She loved his scent, his skin and the very shape of him.
