by Sandra Scott
“Ha!” she said.
As far as Andra was concerned, Jayson’s declaration of love sounded more like an accusation than an affirmation, yet she believed she had to take partial blame. She knew she was wrong the moment she mentioned the Grecian femme fatale, but she was unable to stop the hated woman’s name from sliding off her tongue anyway.
Tearing up, she reached over to his side and flipped aside the cover, exposing the rumpled sheets underneath. “So, if you honestly love me, you’ll come back to bed.”
Jayson’s eyes bounced between the empty mattress and her expectant face. “You know I love you. I don’t need to get back in bed to prove it.”
A thick, hurtful fog filled her head. Enraged, she reached over, snatched his pillow, and aimed for his head. He easily ducked the feather-filled projectile, which landed with a soft thud somewhere on the floor behind him.
“No, you don’t love me—I can see clearly now!” Frustrated the pillow had missed its target, she proceeded to pound both fists into the mattress on either side of her body. “Ever since we stepped into your family’s house, you’ve been distancing yourself from me, finding all kinds of excuses for keeping away from me. You wouldn’t even sit next to me at dinner! Am I not good enough for you anymore?”
Jayson remained mute, as if her question were too stupid to answer. His prolonged silence turned her angry expression into a spiteful smirk: “Or do you need your brother Stefano, to answer the question for you?”
Impatiently, Jayson’s eyes returned to the clock.
Now ashamed, Andra tried to squash her anger since she knew she was acting like a spoiled brat. Still, she wasn’t ready to admit that to him. However, Jayson’s next words all but confirmed he too believed she was acting like one.
“Why don’t you grow up?” he asked. He shook his head in astonishment. “You’re twenty-six years old and supposed to be a doctor!”
At his mentioning her age, she bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m too young for you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Look at the way you’re acting!”
His confirmation concerning her immature, bratty behavior further mortified her. Panicked at his leaving without resolving their argument, she tried to salvage what was left of their morning by attempting a coquettish attitude.
She only managed to convey the demeanor of a frightened child. “Please. Don’t leave me alone.”
He studied her for a moment, allowing his face to soften at her plea. “Hey, where’s the highly intelligent, independent, sexy woman I married?” he asked. Through watery unshed tears, Andra watched him round the bed to sit beside her. “Baby, there’s no reason to be afraid—is there?”
Is there?
As if to soothe her fears, he massaged one breast, forcing Andra to recline against her pillow. She closed her eyes against his stimulating touch; however, the apprehension she experienced remained.
“I know, but just stay with me,” she murmured, arching her back as he took the massaged flesh into his mouth, his lips forming a powerful suction cup over it.
Moaning softly at the sensation, she found herself exhaling in frustration when he withdrew, his recently busy hands now pulling the sheet firmly over her heaving mounds.
Opening her eyes, she witnessed her husband rise, his lips slightly compressed. An inward shiver pierced her at Jayson’s accusing stare, which circumspectly replaced his previous lustful gleam.
“Andra, I have to go.”
Once again, Jayson’s agitation caused him to comb his fingers through his tousled hair, and with the repeated gesture, Andra knew he was frustrated with her.
“I’m not leaving you—I’m just meeting with my brother.” He paused to stare at her. “Can you at least let me do that, please?”
It was their first fight, and of course, inside its cyclonic center sat Stefano.
Shutting her eyes, Andra turned away from him to press her burning face into the pillow. She relished the coolness of the soft material against her skin, for she needed something to chill her gathering hot tears.
She sensed Jayson standing over her, his motionlessness conveying unspoken words of appeasement. Yet the silence between them filled the seconds—until she felt the atmosphere shift upon his pivot.
Jayson’s footsteps hardly made a sound as he made his way to their private bathroom.
When its door closed, the quiet click placed an emotional divide between them that was vastly thicker than the wooden panel itself. Andra let out an unconscious breath to allow her feminine pride to kick in, powerful in its attempt to prevent her sobs from escaping. She buried her face deeper into her pillow.
However, she couldn’t stop her hand from trembling when she pulled the sheets over her head.
13
Emerging from her latest nightmare, Andra shot straight up, gasping for air.
Throwing aside the claustrophobic sheets, she quickly scanned the unfamiliar room. Upon closer examination, she took in antique framed pictures featuring generations of Greeks hanging proudly against clean whitewashed walls. For a moment, she actually believed she was in a simpler time past, when big Greek families gathered together, laughing, talking, and eating with people synonymous in ancestry, color, and ethnicity.
A bell-like tone came from the nightstand next to the bed, alerting her of a text message. The distinct sound forced an abrupt return from an imagined homogenous past when everyone was similar to the unsettling diversity of the present.
She sat still, listening. No light or sound came from the slightly ajar bathroom door; the bedroom conveyed an atmosphere of abandonment. She realized she must’ve fallen asleep while Jayson performed his morning ablutions; then, in order to keep his meeting with his brother, he had quietly slipped from the room so as not to wake her.
Coward, she thought begrudgingly. Her mind produced an image of Jayson stealing from the room on mute stockinged tiptoes, his shoes gripped tightly in each hand. A second later, she banished the image, realizing that if her imagined scenario were true, she had to assume equal share of the blame in creating it.
Her cell dinged again. Reaching over, she snatched it off the stand, knowing even before she read the message exactly who had texted.
“Hey, U up? R U okay? I’ve texted you a million times. What R U doing?”
A million times? Andra smirked in irritation. More like six.
Somehow, Racine managed to pick the wrong moment to contact her. Glancing at her nightstand, she read the face on the silver-rimmed clock. Its wide hands revealed the time to be 10:07 a.m. Mentally, she performed a quick calculation, figuring it had to be around 3:00 a.m. in her sister’s neck of the woods.
What is that girl doing up that time of the morning?
Sighing irritably, she allowed her fingers to fly across the cell phone’s small keyboard: “Doing fine. On my way to shower. Text U later. Go to sleep!”
Sighing heavily over the lie she’d just transmitted—no, she wasn’t doing fine, and no, she wasn’t going to text Racine later—Andra rose from the bed and made her way to the bathroom to take care of business.
After flushing the stool, she pulled on a shower cap and stepped into the antique white bathtub, pulling the white-and-blue shower curtain shut. Sighing with weary pleasure, she allowed hot water to run over her tense muscles. Inevitably, she lost all track of time until the water ran cold.
After turning off the knobs, she pushed aside the shower curtain, stepped from the tub, and wrapped herself in a clean, fluffy towel.
Somewhat energized—yet not enough to leave her bathroom’s sanctuary—Andra headed for the sink and its oval mirror. Tugging free her shower cap, she vigorously shook her head to remove any excess water from her hair.
Preoccupied, she used her towel to scrunch the ends dry.
She contemplated a self-imposed exile. Her purse contained a bag of
airline nuts and one granola bar, and with the unlimited supply of bathroom tap water, she could barricade herself inside the bedroom for the remainder of the day.
Andra made a “Yuck” face at her reflection. She knew if she carried out her plan of isolation, she’d undeniably walk the rocky road of cowardice.
Despite that unsettling thought, her anxiety blossomed at the thought of venturing out beyond the bedroom and possibly running into Jayson, whose face might display residue of his disappointment concerning her earlier childish behavior, or, even worse, crossing paths with a stone-faced Stefano.
As her brain summoned up his likeness, a fear she’d never known swept through her. “No.” She shook her head, forcing away his image. “Go away, you.”
She pulled out a large-bristled hairbrush and maneuvered it through a major kink as she pondered her newfound timidity. She’d never been a scaredy-cat when it came to most situations before marrying Jayson, so why was she afraid to face life’s challenges now?
Was it that in the past, she’d viewed her trials not as stumbling blocks of doom but as challenges to overcome? And if that used to be the case, why did she now believe being with Jayson was a battle she could never win?
She knew why.
The solution wasn’t as simple as overcoming her own issues and problems. Her situation with Jayson came with outside influences from strangers and family alike. It was their prejudices, judgments, and scrutiny she couldn’t control—they plagued her as the true adversaries.
She lowered her hairbrush as hot tears gathered. Through a watery haze, she studied her image in the mirror. Are you sure? Are you sure about this?
She heard a soft, muffled sound. The noise filtered in through the closed door, as if someone had quietly entered the bedroom. Lowering the hairbrush to the sink’s edge, Andra listened intently, her heart pounding.
“Jay?” she called out. At the answering silence, she spoke louder. “Baby, is that you?”
When no response came, her heart rate slowed.
She understood the villa, although elegantly grand, had been passed down from one generation to the next, and like most aged structures, it tended to settle at times. Unlike Jayson, who had fallen asleep soon after they made love last night, she’d been unable to succumb to a quick slumber. Her mind had refused to switch off due to the dinner debacle, and she’d tossed and turned into the wee morning hours. During that sleepless time, she’d struggled to become familiar with the consistent creaking of the structure as it whispered long into daybreak.
Andra let out a sigh, knowing that was one more thing she had to deal with.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror secured to the bathroom door. Facing it directly, she cocked her head to study the curvy image. Looking kinda good, my friend.
At twenty-six, she believed she was in the best shape of her life; she was young, sexy, and full of fire, especially when cocooned inside her husband’s embrace. She leaned forward to whisper at the mirror. “Jay’s lucky to have you.”
Deliberating on that declaration, Andra rolled her eyes at the reflection.
No, she was lucky to have him.
Without warning, Stefano’s stern expression faded in from somewhere inside the mirror, his steely eyes roaming her body with a disapproving scowl. She gasped. Embarrassed, she turned away from the unsettling illusion and threw on her bathrobe.
Shaken, Andra loosely tied the terrycloth belt at her waist. For the life of her, she didn’t understand why he’d come to mind just then.
Then again, she knew why.
Jayson’s older brother was never far from her thoughts; for reasons stranger than she could comprehend, she experienced a tiny thread of unexplainable, illogical attraction for the scornful man. His cold attitude toward her repelled her, yet also drew her to his dark side.
Mouth open, she shook her head. Did she imagine herself to be a heroine in a Jane Austen book, in which she played a plucky Elizabeth Bennet to Stefano’s brooding Mr. Darcy? Maybe she had landed in an Emily Brontё novel in which she played a dark-skinned Catherine drawn to Stefano’s white-bred, emotionally cruel Heathcliff.
Andra jerked her head hard. Was she going stark raving mad?
Pushing aside thoughts that precariously balanced on a scale of insanity, she opened the bathroom door and entered the bedroom.
Straightaway, a subtle movement caught her peripheral attention. She swung in its direction only to choke back a frightened cry. With a shaking hand, she pulled her bathrobe’s collar tighter against her throat.
Stefano was in her room.
14
Jayson poked his head inside Stefano’s office and glanced around.
Upon realizing it was empty, he exhaled his relief. Although he was scheduled to meet with Stefano after breakfast, he was a little thankful he couldn’t locate his big brother just the same. Jayson knew one major issue he needed to address with Stefano was his unspoken dislike for Andra, yet at the same time, he didn’t want to deal with the subject at all.
Denial was a state of refuge most men chose to reside in; he wasn’t ashamed to admit (at least to himself) he didn’t have a problem visiting it from time to time, especially when it came to the subject of his marriage.
He pondered briefly his anger aboard the airplane coming over; he’d been ready to fight with the flight attendant who banged on the restroom door, believing she’d unfairly persecuted him and Andra because they were an interracial couple.
Yet as bold as he was with strangers, he couldn’t seem to stand up to Stefano, despite knowing that was exactly what he was doing.
Jayson moved farther into the room, heading straight for Stefano’s massive desk. As he stood over it, his eyes scanned the paperwork, folders, and different office supplies scattered on top. Angrily, he exhaled. All he wanted to do was discuss the family business with Stefano—and how he didn’t want any part in it.
At once, Andra’s naked body surfaced inside Jayson’s brain, forcing him to lose his train of thought. Lifting his head, he stared with unseeing eyes beyond the big picture window only to experience his crotch tighten in pleasurable discomfort. He not only lusted after his intriguing wife but also loved her deeply—more than he’d ever thought he could love any woman.
Replaying their argument, he raked one hand through his hair. How could he convince not only Stefano but also Andra of that irrevocable truth?
He jumped and then closed his eyes when a pair of feminine arms circled his waist. His crotch tightened further upon feeling the sensation of supple breasts pressed intimately against his back.
Jayson’s finger blindly blazed a path along one silky arm. “Ah,” he said, his face breaking into a devilish grin, “I was just this minute thinking about you, gorgeous.”
“And I you,” a feminine voice said. “Stefano told me I would find you here.”
Jayson’s eyes popped open as he quickly disentangled himself from Sly’s embrace. Pivoting, he immediately stepped away from her, yet to his dismay, she matched his retreat with a steady advancement.
“Come on, Sly! What do you think you’re doing?”
Her answer was a coquettish smile. He frowned, grunting impatiently as his backside came in contact with Stefano’s desk. Sly took the opportunity to hem him in, moving closer still. Throwing a glance at the open door, he placed restrictive hands on either side of her waist.
“Someone might see us,” he said. “Stop it, Sly—this isn’t funny.”
She laughed. Unbuttoning her top buttons, she gave Jayson a glimpse of her firm, perky breasts. “No, it’s not funny.” She giggled, the delighted sound contrary to her words. “This is very serious.”
His darting eyes revisiting the empty doorway, Jayson cleared his throat. Sly was more than a few years younger than he, yet why did he feel like a clumsy schoolboy being propositioned by an older, more worldly
woman?
“Sly,” he said, attempting to straighten her out with a patient older-brother voice, “get real. You know I’m married to Andra.”
“Yes, yet still, you’re as nervous as a cat around me,” she said. Her smile deepened as her spiderlike fingers crawled up his arms, stopping at his ears. Playfully, she tugged both lobes. “And I’ve always been fond of cats, you know.”
Not wanting to drop his restraining hold, Jayson jerked his ears out of her reach. “I thought dogs were your specialty,” he quipped.
Her laugh was light and breezy yet somehow deep and seductive. “Yes.” She smiled, her eyes roaming Jayson’s face. “Those too.”
Despite his effort to the contrary, Sly wiggled past his hands to press against his body. Her resulting sigh slipped out in breathless contentment.
“Sly, why are you doing—”
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve looked up to you,” she said saucily, interrupting. Her hands slid around Jayson’s neck, where her fingers locked together. “I’ve wanted you since you first stepped off the airplane.”
Pelvis to pelvis, Sly rubbed against him only to pull back, her eyes lowering to his crotch. Her full, glossy lips produced a pout. “But evidently, you do not want me in such a way.”
“Of course I don’t want you. I’m in love with my wife.” Jayson reached behind his neck and unclasped her hands, jerking them to her sides. “Besides, from what I remember, you’ve always had a crush on Stefano, not me.”
Sly grinned. Shrugging in defeat, she turned on her heel and strolled to a nearby settee. Gracefully lowering herself in it, she waited until Jayson reciprocated with Stefano’s chair. Her dainty hands smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on her skirt. “So, my friend, you’ve got me,” she confessed. “I’ve been in love with Stefano as far back as I can remember. I still am.”
Jayson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “So,” he said, pointing in a circle to include him and her, “what’s this all about?”
