by Annie West
His dark eyes were unreadable, gleaming with an inner fire. His face was harsh, his jaw set like stone. It was a face Sophie didn’t have the energy to deal with right now.
She sagged, her knees loosening, as the water slowly brought her body back to weary, tingling life. Her head fell forward, drooping under the weight of water and of growing consciousness.
This grim-faced stranger thought she needed sobering up, she realised with a fleeting twist of dark amusement. Maybe he thought she’d come close to overdosing. Why else would they both be in the shower in their underwear?
At another time, in another life, she might have thought this scene humorous or embarrassing. Or even provocative. She in white lace bra and panties. The Greek god with the inscrutable eyes and the magnificent body clad in nothing but black briefs.
But not today.
Today was Saturday, she realised, her mind clearing completely as the searing pain of remembrance tore through her chest. No wonder she felt like hell. Yesterday had been the worst day of her life.
‘I’m all right now,’ she mumbled. ‘You can get out.’
Silence.
‘I said I’m all right.’ She lifted her head and met his stare. If it weren’t for the blast of warm water sluicing down she would have shivered at the icy chill of his unwavering gaze.
‘You don’t look it,’ he said brutally. ‘You look like you need medical attention. I’ll take you to the hospital and they can—’
‘What? Pump my stomach?’ She blinked at him through the water and wet hair plastering her face. Outrage warred with exhaustion, holding her motionless but for the tremor in her legs. ‘Look, I took a couple of sleeping tablets and obviously they didn’t agree with me. That’s all.’
‘How many exactly?’
‘Two,’ she said. ‘Maybe three, I wasn’t really concentrating. But not enough to OD, since that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘And what else did you take with the pills?’ His voice was sharp, accusing.
‘Nothing. I don’t do drugs.’ Sophie shrugged against his hold and this time he released her. But he didn’t move away, just stood there, arms akimbo, blocking the exit. He looked solid, strong, all taut muscle and unyielding bone. His expression was even harder. It made her shudder.
She swayed without him to prop her up. She could still feel the imprint of his large hands on her upper arms and guessed she’d have bruises there later.
She counted to ten, then, when she managed to dredge up some strength, she turned and twisted the taps closed.
In the sudden silence she could hear his breathing. And the thunder of her own pulse in her ears.
‘I didn’t have anything else,’ she repeated. ‘No drugs, no alcohol. This is just a reaction to the pills.’
And to the unrelenting stress of the past weeks.
Slowly she turned back to face him. He looked about as understanding as Ares, god of war, with his flinty gaze and his wide, battle-ready stance.
‘I’m sorry you were worried,’ she said as she pulled her hair back from her face and looked past his shoulder at the steamy mirror. Anything to avoid staring at the vast expanse of taut masculine skin that scented the damp air with its hot, musky aroma. ‘I appreciate your help, really. But I’m OK.’ Or as OK as she was likely to be for a long, long time.
For a moment she thought he didn’t believe her. Those penetrating eyes surveyed her slowly, clinically and comprehensively. If she’d been capable of feeling embarrassment she’d have shrivelled under that look.
But right now she was strangely detached, felt little except the welling ache deep inside.
At last he nodded tersely and stepped out of the shower. Immediately she sagged, relief slackening her exhausted muscles. He crossed to the cupboard and dragged out a couple of clean towels.
Dumbly Sophie watched him, her brain processing the series of images. The arrogant jut of his uncompromising jaw. His broad shoulders and sleek back: all gleaming-wet, toned muscle. The taut curve of his backside in briefs that clung now like a second skin. Heavy, powerful thighs.
She shivered and dragged in an unsteady breath.
He turned, scooped up his gear and thrust a towel at her. ‘I’ll get changed in another room.’ His deep voice was devoid of emotion.
Was there anything soft about this man?
She watched him stride out the door. No, she decided. He was all adamantine hardness. From the steely strength of his body to his brooding face and cold eyes.
Sure, he had enough humanity to help her when he thought she needed it. Had gone to great lengths, in fact. But not because of kindness, or fellow feeling, she knew instinctively. He’d simply believed it necessary. He’d done what he thought had to be done—kept her conscious before calling medical aid.
She trembled, still holding the towel against her chest. The tremor grew to a shudder and, despite her flushed skin and the steamy fug of the bathroom, that bone-deep chill invaded her body once more.
Sophie stumbled out of the shower cubicle, wrapped the towel around her body and another round her hair, and escaped to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, dressed in old jeans and a comfortable, loose shirt, she went in search of the stranger who’d invaded her house.
Costas stood in the kitchen, sipping strong black coffee. Something to restore normality after his encounter with the girl who looked so much like Fotini.
At first the similarity had been stunning. Even now it was remarkable, despite the obvious differences. This girl was slightly built, more slender. Her face was less round and her cheekbones more pronounced.
He stared blindly into the back yard and swallowed another mouthful of searing liquid. He barely registered the heat. Instead he concentrated on the images that played alternately in his mind. First the sight of her opening the door, so like Fotini that he’d simply gawped in shock.
And second, the picture of her slumped in his hands. Water streaming down, accentuating her seductive curves. His mouth dried as he remembered the narrowness of her waist, the sensuous flare of her hips. Her lacy bra and briefs had been saturated. They had left nothing to his imagination, not the upward tilt of her breasts nor the invitation of her nipples, revealed by the delicate fabric. Nor the evocative shadow of feminine secrecy between her legs.
He’d held her in his hands and immediately he’d wanted her, desired her with a raw, aching hunger that told him he’d been far too long without a woman. Just the feel of her supple, smooth skin against his and he’d known an overwhelming compulsion to have her naked beneath him.
He’d stood there, oblivious to the drenching spray, and wished the circumstances completely different, just for an hour, or two. For long enough to lose himself in the sweet temptation of her. To forget his responsibilities and worries in the mindless bliss he knew he could find in her siren’s body.
Costas sipped the scalding coffee and tried to ignore the heavy tension in his lower body. His mission was too urgent. No matter how delicious the enticement, he wouldn’t be distracted from his purpose.
The sound of a shuffling footstep made him spin round. She stood in the doorway, apparently steady now on her own two feet. She looked about sixteen in those clothes, and with her hair combed down to her shoulders. But her eyes and the purple shadows beneath them belied that illusion.
Costas frowned as his mind superimposed an image of her, almost naked in her sexy, pristine lace underwear. The baggy shirt failed miserably as camouflage. He’d stripped her, touched her bare skin with his hands. The experience was printed indelibly on his brain.
‘There’s coffee,’ he said abruptly, gesturing to the steaming mug on the table.
She didn’t meet his eyes as she sank into a chair and slowly lifted the mug in both hands.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Her voice was like water: cool, devoid of colour, slipping away to nothing. He felt a moment’s burgeoning curiosity then crushed it.
‘I need to see Christina Liakos immediately,’ he said yet again, cur
bing his impatience with iron control. ‘How do I contact her?’
‘You don’t.’ This time there was something in her tone. Emotion so strong her voice cracked. ‘And her name’s not Liakos any more,’ she added abruptly. ‘It’s Paterson.’
Her eyes met his and he endured once again that unwanted, unstoppable sizzle of sexual need.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘My name is Costas Palamidis.’ He paused, waiting for her reaction but her face remained blank. ‘I have an urgent matter to discuss with Ms Paterson.’
‘Palamidis,’ she muttered. ‘I know that name.’ Her brows drew together. But clearly last night’s excesses hampered the effort of recollection.
Costas shifted his weight, tired of this nonsense. He was getting nowhere.
‘I’ve just stepped off a plane from Athens. It’s imperative that I talk to Ms Paterson immediately.’ He refrained from adding that it was a matter of life and death. This was too personal, too private to disclose to strangers.
‘Athens?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You were the one on the phone.’ He watched her perplexity morph into anger. Her coffee mug thumped onto the table. ‘You left messages on the answering machine.’
He nodded. ‘Messages that were never returned—’
‘You bastard,’ she hissed, scrambling to her feet so fast her chair crashed to the floor. ‘Now I know who you are! You can leave right now. I want you out of here!’
Costas didn’t budge. The girl was clearly unhinged. Her eyes were wild and her fingers curved like talons against the edge of the table.
But she was his one lead in locating Christina Liakos. And he’d deal with the devil himself to reach that woman. Deliberately he leaned back against the kitchen bench, crossing one foot over the other.
‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve come to talk to Christina Liakos or Paterson as she is now. And I’m not leaving until I do.’
Fascinated, he watched the emotions race across her face. Her snarling frown blanked out into staring shock. Then her features seemed to crumple into a mask of pain. She laughed, an ugly, hysterical sound that filled him with a sense of foreboding.
‘Well, unless you’re clairvoyant you’ll have a long wait, Mr Palamidis. I buried my mother yesterday.’
CHAPTER TWO
THROUGH THE SEARING glaze of unshed tears, Sophie glared up at him.
Hell! If she’d known who he was when she opened the front door she’d have slammed it in his good-looking face.
How dared he show up here the day after her mother’s funeral and make himself at home? She stared at the mug he held and wanted to smash it right out of his hand. There’d be satisfaction in a violent outburst. She imagined vividly the splash of hot coffee on his snowy white shirt, the look of outrage on his face.
Pity it took all her strength just to stay upright.
Furiously she blinked. She wouldn’t let him see her cry. Her grief was too raw, too overwhelming to share, let alone with a man as coldly unfeeling as he was.
She wanted to shout. To rage. Damn it, she wanted to pummel him with her fists till he felt just a fraction of the pain that was ripping her apart.
But what good would that do? Her mother was gone. Nothing would bring her back.
Sophie drew a shuddering breath and lifted her eyes to meet those of her unwanted visitor. His black gaze wasn’t quite so unreadable now. Maybe it was the way his eyes had widened, brows raised in surprise.
No, not surprise. Shock. He looked as if he’d just got the shock of his life. In fact, he looked ill—his face suddenly drawn and his complexion paler. A muscle in his hard-set jaw worked, pumping frenetically. It was the only sign of animation in him. He didn’t even blink.
Over the sound of her pulse thundering in her ears, Sophie caught the hiss of his indrawn breath. His chest expanded mightily as if his lungs had emptied and he’d only just remembered to breathe.
Then she saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Something so fierce that she almost backed away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘If I’d known…’ Again Sophie saw that shadow of turbulent emotion in his gaze and trembled at the force of it. ‘If I’d known,’ he continued, ‘I would not have intruded on you today.’
‘You wouldn’t have been welcome at any time,’ she said bluntly.
He had a nerve, offering her condolences, now when it didn’t matter. It was too little and far, far too late.
‘Pardon?’ His wide brow pleated in a frown just as if he hadn’t understood exactly what she’d said.
‘I don’t want your apologies,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’
‘I understand that you are grieving. I—’
‘You understand nothing,’ she snarled. ‘You with your superior air and your apologies. You make me sick.’ She gulped down a raw breath. ‘I want you out of my house and I never want to see you again.’
Silence gathered as he returned her gaze, his brows drawing together in a straight, disapproving line.
‘If I could, I would leave now as you wish. But,’ the word fell heavily between them, ‘I cannot. I come here on a matter of great importance. A family matter.’
‘A family matter?’ Her voice rose and broke. How could he be so callous? ‘I have no family.’ No siblings. No father. And now her mother…
‘Of course you have a family.’ He stepped close. So close that his warmth insinuated itself into her chilled body, sending tendrils of heat skirling through her. The invasion of her space was strangely shocking.
But she didn’t move away. This was her home, her territory. No way was she backing down.
‘You have a family in Greece.’
She stared into his grim face. A family in Greece. For how many years had she heard that? The stubborn mantra of her mother, a woman who’d had to make her life in a new country, far from home. A woman who had refused to be cowed, even by her own father’s rejection.
The irony of it. Sophie’s mouth twisted in a lopsided grimace at the unbelievable timing. Her mum had waited a quarter of a century to hear those words confirmed. Now, just days after her death, they were being offered to Sophie like a talisman to keep her safe.
‘Stop it!’ he barked, his hands closing around her shoulders, digging into her flesh.
Sophie jumped, startled out of the beginnings of hysterical laughter. She felt branded by his touch, contaminated. She shrugged, tried to shove his hands off her. Finally he let her go.
‘I have no family,’ she repeated, staring into his furious gaze.
‘You are upset,’ he countered as if explaining away her emotions. ‘But you have a grandfather and—’
‘How dare you?’ she snapped. ‘How can you have the gall to mention him in this house?’ Her heart raced so fast she thought it might burst right out of her ribcage. Again she felt the white-hot rage, that savage need to lash out in fury and smash something.
She’d got through the past few days only by refusing to dwell on what she couldn’t change, by telling herself that it didn’t matter. It was all over now anyway. Old history. No one, not even the cruel patriarch of the Liakos family, had the ability to hurt her mother any more.
And now this family henchman appeared on the scene and dredged it all up again. All the pain and the lacerated hope. The regret and the smouldering hate.
She trembled. But not with weakness this time.
‘Do you think there’s any place in my life for a man who completely disowned his daughter?’ she hissed. ‘Who ignored her year after year? Pretended she didn’t exist?’
Sophie’s chest ached with the force of her hurt, with the gasping breaths she inhaled. Her hands shook with a palsy of repressed fury.
‘Who didn’t even have enough compassion to contact her when she was dying?’ The accusation echoed between them, ebbing away into a silence thick with challenge and pain.
She stared into a face devoid of all emotion. Yet he couldn’t conceal the flicker of surprise in his eyes
. So this was news to him. And not welcome news, judging by the way his brows drew together.
‘Nevertheless, we must talk.’ He raised a peremptory hand as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘I am not your grandfather’s emissary. I don’t come on his business, but my own.’
Sophie shook her head, confusion clouding her tired brain. His business? It didn’t seem likely. Should she believe him or was this some ploy?
‘But your phone calls. They came just a few days after I’d contacted my grandfather. I left a message asking him to call.’
Begging him to ring and speak to her mother.
Sophie steeled herself against the memory of those hopeless days. Of the doctor saying there was nothing more they could do to counter the virulent strain of influenza her mother had contracted. Of how Sophie had swallowed her pride and tracked down a phone number for Petros Liakos, the tyrant who’d disowned his daughter, Sophie’s mother.
But still the old man hadn’t called.
Sophie felt the hatred, the searing pain flood her once more and cursed this arrogant stranger for making her relive it all.
He spoke, his deep voice cutting across the whirling turmoil of her memories. ‘I knew of your mother, but not where she was or how to contact her. I needed to speak with her urgently.’
Something about the tension in him, the harsh lines around his mouth, snared her attention, broke through her impotent rage.
‘When you rang Petros Liakos,’ he said, ‘I was able to get your phone number. I called all this week.’
But Sophie hadn’t answered the messages from the Greek stranger that had filled the answering machine. What was the point, when they’d commenced the very day she’d made the funeral arrangements? It was too late for her mother to forgive her family’s neglect. And Sophie had no intention of ever forgetting the way the Liakos family had treated her mother.
The messages had become more imperious, more urgent, but Sophie had trashed them. And taken satisfaction in slamming the phone down the one time the Greek stranger had reached her at home.
Now he was no stranger. She looked up into his impenetrable eyes, felt again his aura of implacable power. A shiver of apprehension feathered down her spine.
