The Greek's Virgin Bride

by Julia James

  There was a note in her voice that Nikos did not miss, and it sent a shaft of satisfaction through him which, right now, he badly needed. It had been something between dismay and jeal­ousy.

  'She is also,' he said, 'quite happy to reward a large assort­ment of her chosen admirers with a hands-on tour of her spec­tacular body. I'm confident she found it extremely easy to re­place me,' he finished dryly.

  But Andrea didn't want to hear about Esme Vandersee and her spectacular body. In fact if the supermodel had suddenly beamed aboard right in front of her she would have got a dusty reception from her lover's bride. Extremely dusty.

  She quelled the stab of pure possessiveness that darted through her at the thought of Esme Vandersee or Xanthe Whatever-her-name-was making moves on Nikos Vassilis. It was utterly inappropriate.

  And totally irrelevant.

  Why am I discussing Nikos's mistresses? she thought.

  They've got nothing to do with why I'm going home tomor-

  'So,' Nikos continued smoothly, 'now I understand the rea­son for your ill-temper all day, Andrea mou—'

  'I'm still leaving tomorrow morning! And it's got nothing

  do with any of the women you put out for! I have absolutely no intention of staying married to you!'

  The glitter was back in Nikos's eyes.

  'And what objection, may I ask again, are you going to put forward now?'

  Her eyes flicked to the opulence all around them. Kim's entire flat would just about fit into the space of this single stateroom! Tell him the truth about yourself now—he'll send you packing the moment he hears!

  'For heaven's sake, how could I possibly even think of being married to you? We come from totally different worlds—'

  She broke off. Something was in his face that made her feel frightened suddenly.

  Different world? Oh, yes, different worlds indeed. A father­less street boy and a pampered heiress...

  'Nevertheless...' the softness was back in his voice, and it was slicing at her flesh again '...you are my wife, Andrea Vassilis, and if you understand nothing about what it means to be Greek, understand this—no husband lets his bride make a laughing stock of him by walking out on him straight after their wedding! And never, ever—' his eyes slid over her face, her body '—before their wedding night...'

  He came towards her. She could not move. Slate eyes fixed her where she was. Slate eyes with only one purpose in them.

  The fear dissolved. For a brief moment desire flooded through her, powerful and irresistible. She crushed it aside. There was no place for it. There could not be. There must not be. In its place came a flat, dull resolve. So it was going to be like this, was it? Very well, so be it. She'd see it through the bitter end—and be on a plane home tomorrow.

  She stood there motionless. In her mind she searched for the impenetrable mask she had donned every time she was in his company. It was time to wear it again.

  He stopped in front of her. She was very still. Like a statue. He reached a hand towards her. The back of his fingers brushed her cheek, trailing down over the column of her neck, turning to close over the cusp of her shoulder, bared except for the narrow straps of her dress.

  'The last time you wore this you melted into my arms like honey on a warm spoon.'

  The thumb of his other hand came up to ease along the trembling line of her lips.

  She stiffened, clutching the carapace to her.

  She was holding out on him. Denying her response to him. He smiled. This and this alone was the way to communicate with the woman who today had been joined in matrimony to him. And when, eventually, she lay beneath him, and throbbed in his embrace, then—oh, then—let her think of the 'different worlds' they came from. Let her think of the 'release of capital' she'd gained today. Let her think of walking out of their brand-new marriage. Let her think of anything she liked—if she could.

  But all she would be capable of thinking about, he knew, with every fibre of his being, would be him and him alone.

  He let his hands fall to his sides. She was resisting him— she would do so no longer. Swiftly he crossed to the banks of wardrobes lining the side of the room, throwing open one door after another until he found what he was looking for. Then, grasping delicate folds, he tossed it at her.

  'Go and change!'

  He nodded towards the en suite bathroom. Andrea looked at the garment he had thrown her. She knew what it was—the negligee he had bought her in the shop that had treated her like a rich man's floozy.

  She turned and walked into the bathroom. Well, in a few minutes now she would be a rich man's unwanted wife.

  The knowledge stabbed at her. It hurt—it hurt more than she had ever dreamt it could. Knowing what was coming. Knowing that she was to be Nikos Vassilis's oh-so-unwanted wife.

  But it was inevitable. Had been from the moment he had looked across her grandfather's terrace at her and she had seen the flare of sexual interest in his eyes—felt it set light in her an answering flame.

  Time to douse the fires.

  Permanently.

  She hugged the carapace to her more tightly than ever.

  As the bathroom door clicked behind her Nikos got busy. Ringing for a steward, he had the scarcely touched bottle of champagne brought to him, and let the man torn down the bed. Then, retiring to the matching en suite bathroom he prepared himself. He had already shaved before dinner, and now it was a matter of moments to strip off and don a bathrobe.

  He was already aroused. His celibacy of the last few weeks was obviously being felt—protestingly—by his body. He found himself thinking back to when he'd first thought through the implications of marrying Yiorgos Coustakis's unknown grand­daughter. He had worried about her lack of looks, her virginity, the fact that he would have to steel himself to get through his wedding night while making it as physically painless as pos­sible for his dutiful bride.

  His mouth twisted. Well, that was one word he didn't have to apply to Andrea! Dutiful she was not!

  Would you want her to be? came the immediate ironic ques­tion, and the answer was immediate. No way! What he wanted her to be was...passionate, ardent, melting, molten, sensual, arousing, scorching, purring...

  The litany went.on inside his head, each word an image that burned with increasing fire in his guts. Theos, he wanted her! Wanted her as he wanted no other woman!

  As an academic exercise he tried to make himself remember what Xanthe looked like, Esme—but he could not do it. There was only one face, one body that he could see.

  Andrea's.

  My wife.

  Possession surged through him. He was about to make her his in very truth, physically merging their bodies into one.

  Desire kicked at him again, more urgent than ever.

  With a tug he opened a shallow drawer in the vanity unit and drew out a handful of the small silvery packets that nestled within. He gave a wolfish grin. Oh, he'd get through the lot of them tonight, he thought.

  He felt his body tighten. Sexual anticipation flooded him.

  He strode out of the bathroom.

  She was there, waiting for him. His breath caught.

  Beautiful! His body jerked in salute of the image she made.

  She stood in the centre of the room like a flame-haired queen. Her glorious locks were loose, tumbling down over her shoulders. The white, almost transparent silk of her negligee outlined her body, her full breasts thrust forward, straining against the taut material.

  Desire kicked in him, hard and insistent.

  'You're so beautiful—'

  His voice was husky.

  Andrea heard it, heard the note of raw desire in it. Her breath caught, and a shot of pure adrenaline surged through her. Then the words he had uttered penetrated, and the rush died, draining away like dirty oil from the sump of a wrecked car.

  You're so beautiful... .

  Her mouth made a tight twist, and her eyes took on a strange brightness.

  'Am I? Am I beautiful?'

 
; Her voice was as strange as the twist to her mouth, the brightness of her eyes. She spoke to him, spoke to the man who stood waiting for her, stripped and ready for action.

  A man who made her feel weak all over, inside and out, who made her heart clench and her breath catch just with looking at him.

  But now it was him looking at her. She let him look. Wanted to look.

  That was the only way she could play this now—nothing Ise had worked. This must. It could not fail.

  She went on speaking in that low, strange voice.

  "This is what you want, isn't it, Nikos? A beautiful woman in your bed. Am I beautiful enough, Nikos? Am I?'

  Her hands slid around the nape of her neck, lifting up her hair. She moved her head so that the glorious tumble flamed like fire. Then her hands slid down to the bodice of her neg­ligee, fingers sliding beneath the delicate expensive material. She slipped it back, baring her shoulders, her hands grazing her breasts.

  And all the time her eyes held his, never letting them go for a second.

  'Am I beautiful, Nikos? Your beautiful bride?'

  He couldn't answer her. His breath was frozen in his throat, though in his veins the blood roared.

  She smiled. A fey, taunting smile.

  Inside her head, behind the mask of her face, she was filled with flat, cold desolation. She was being cruel, she knew, but it was the only way. The only way.

  She moved towards the bed, gliding softly, and lay down upon it, one hand loosely gathering the half-discarded material of her negligee to her breasts, the other smoothing the silk along the line of her legs.

  'Am I your beautiful bride, Nikos? Beautiful enough for your bed?'

  He came towards her. Purpose, desire, arousal—all hi his eyes, his face—his ready, hungry body.

  He could not resist her! Not for a second longer! Tumult consumed him. Who was this woman? One moment a cold, sulking ice-maiden, denouncing him for his sexual appetites, icily demanding a divorce before the ink was dry on the mar­riage certificate, sneering at him for his lowly origins. And now—now she was lying here, eternal Eve, displaying her body for him, lush and beautiful, oh, so beautiful, tempting him, arousing him—inviting him.

  He looked down at her, caught in a pool of light, her body on show for him, veiled only by the sheerest of fabrics.

  'Show me your body, Andrea—'

  It was a rasp, a husk—a command, a plea.

  There was a brightness in her eyes, a strangeness to her lips. He did not see it, saw only the soft outline of her limbs, her breasts, her belly...

  'Show me...'

  Her hand moved on her thigh, sliding the silk away, letting it slither from her thighs to the bedclothes on either side.

  She looked at him. There was no expression in her eyes. None at all.

  There was silence. A silence so profound Nikos knew he could hear his own heart beating.

  Oh, dear God, dear God...

  He stared down, the twisted, pitted surface of her legs scar­ring into his retinas as deeply as the scars that gouged and knotted her limbs from hip to ankle, runnelling through her wasted muscles, winding around her legs like some hideous net.

  Horror drowned through him. She saw it in his face, bis eyes. The brightness in her own eyes burned like acid. The tightness in her throat was like a drawn wire. Then deliberately, jerkily, she covered her legs again and stood up.

  He stood aside to let her get to her feet. She yanked the negligee back into place over her shoulders, tugging at the belt to make it tighter—hugging her carapace into place. She must not lose it now. She must not.

  "The comedy is ended,' she announced. Her voice was flat. I’ll sleep in another room tonight. If you could be so good as to ensure we dock back at Piraeus tomorrow, I'll make my own way to the airport.'

  She turned to go.

  He caught her arm.

  She looked down to where his fingers closed around her flesh.

  "Let me go, Nikos. There's no need to say anything. Not a thing. I'm—sorry—it came to this. I thought it wouldn't be necessary. That you would accept the dissolution of our ridic­ulous marriage without any need to get this far. But in the end—' her voice tightened yet another unbearable notch '—it Seemed the quickest way to convince you. Now, please let me go. I'll get my things and find another room...cabin... whatever they're called on a boat like this.*

  He let her go, but only to slide his hand past her wrist and take her hand.

  It was strange, thought Andrea, with the part of her mind where her act did not seem to work. The feel of his fingers trapping hers was making her feel very strange. Very strange indeed.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing her down beside him. His hand did not let go of hers.

  'What happened, Andrea?' he asked.

  There was something in his voice that made her eyes blink. The acid was burning them and she couldn't see properly. Something was misting her vision.

  'What happened?' he asked again. His voice was very quiet.

  She stared down at the carpet. There was a gold swirling in the pattern. It shifted in and out of focus. It seemed very im­portant that it stay in focus. She stared at it again.

  After a while, she spoke.

  'It was a car crash, when I was fifteen. The older brother of one of my classmates was driving. He was driving us home— we'd been to the movies. I—I don't remember much. We swerved suddenly—a tyre burst, apparently—glass on the road, a broken bottle or something—and hit a wall. I was in the passenger seat. I was knocked out. I got trapped. The firemen had to cut me out. My legs were all smashed up. In hospi­tal... in hospital... the doctors wanted... wanted...' Her voice was dry. 'They wanted to amputate—they said they were so smashed up they couldn't save them.'

  She didn't hear the indrawn breath from the man sitting be­side her. Nor did she feel the sudden tightening of his grip on her hand.

  She went on staring at the carpet.

  'My mother wouldn't let them. She said they had to save them. Had to. So—so they did. It...it took a long time. I was in hospital for months. Everything got pinned together some­how, and then, eventually, I was allowed into a wheelchair. They said I'd never walk. So much had gone. But Mum said I was going to walk. She said I had to. Had to. So... so I learned to walk again. I got sent to a special place where they help you learn to use your body again. It took a long time. Then they sent me for more operations, and that set me back, but Mum said it didn't matter, because I was going to walk again. I had to. And I did.'

  The pattern in the carpet was going out of focus again. She swallowed.

  'The only thing is, I can't do things like...like dance, and so on. It... it hurts. And I get frightened I'll damage them some­how. And though I can swim—it was part of my physio and still is, because the water helps to take the weight off my legs as I exercise them—I do it very early in the morning, when no one can...no one can see me.'

  She blinked. 'I'm very lucky. Incredibly lucky. I learnt that in hospital, and in the physio place. There were others much worse off than me. Now the only thing wrong with me is that I have to be careful and not overdo things. And never marry­ing—' Her voice shook, but she steeled it to be still, and carried on. 'Never marrying won't be so bad. I've accepted that. I know no man can want me, not when they know, not when they've seen—'

  Her voice broke.

  Quietly, Nikos slid his hand out of hers. Then, just as quietly, he slipped to his knees on the floor at her feet. The dark of his head gleamed like black satin. He put his hands on her thighs. Beneath the flawless silk of the negligee he could feel the surface of her legs, uneven and knotted. Slowly he pushed the material aside.

  She tried to stop him, tried to jerk her legs away from him, but his hands pressed on the sides of her thighs. His head bowed.

  Slowly, infinitely slowly, Nikos let his hands move with ab­solute gentleness over the scarred, runnelled tissue of her legs, across the twisted muscles of her thighs, down over the knife-cut k
nees, along the warped, lumpen line of her calves, to circle her ankles. Then slowly, infinitely slowly, with the same ab­solute gentleness, he moved his hands back up, to rest once more on the sides of her thighs.

  Then he lowered his mouth to her legs and kissed them— each thigh, each knee.

  She sat still, so utterly still. All that moved within her body was her heart. She could not breathe; she could not think. Could not understand.

  How can he touch them? How can he not be revolted? Disgusted?

  A cruel memory surfaced in her thoughts. His name had been Dave, and he'd had a reputation with the girls. He'd made a play for her the moment he'd set eyes on her, and her refusal to go out with him had only made him more determined. She'd been twenty-two, and by then she had known just how ugly her legs were going to be all her life. She'd been chary of men. But Dave had gone on at her and on at her, and he was good-looking, with winning ways, and she couldn't help but fancy him, and in the end she'd given in to temptation and gone out with him. She'd wanted so much to be normal again—have boyfriends, discover sex. Fall in love. They'd dated quite a while, and he hadn't seemed to mind that she couldn't go club­bing, and she'd even, after a few weeks, told him about her accident. He hadn't seemed to mind.