by Lynne Graham
The gardens surrounding the chateau were typically French and formal, lined with precise low box hedges and sculpted topiary set off with immaculate paths, weathered urns and gravel. She balanced like a dancer to walk the edge of an old stone fountain, sending shimmering water drops down into the basin below.
From above, Bastien watched her from a window in the huge first-floor salon. Delilah was larking about like a leggy child, while repeatedly throwing that damned stupid squeaky toy for her even sillier yappy little dog. Delilah outraged his sense of order—because he did not like the unexpected, and in every way she kept on tossing him the unexpected.
He was willing to admit that she was not behaving like a guilty woman. At the same time he knew women who could act the most legendary Hollywood stars off the screen. His own mother had always put on an impressively deceptive show for his father, who had adored Athene to the bitter end.
But while Anatole had been easily fooled Bastien had always had a low opinion of human beings in general, and he preferred hard truths to polite lies and social pretences. He had also learned that the richer he became, the more people tried to take advantage of him, and he was always on the watch for false flattery and sexual or financial inducements.
In fact, when anyone injured Bastien he hit back twice as hard to punish them and teach them respect. He was not weak. He was not foolish. He was not forgiving. That had been his mantra growing up, when he had had to prove to his own satisfaction that he was stronger than the feeble but kindly father he loved. No woman would ever make a fool out of Bastien Zikos as his mother had made a fool out of his father.
His mother, Athene, had ridiculed his father, calling him ‘Mr Sorry’, because every time Anatole had visited his mistress and his son he had invariably been grovelling and apologising for something, in a futile effort to keep the peace in the double life of infidelity he led. That was why Bastien was unaccustomed to making apologies of any kind. To his way of thinking, apologies stank to high heaven—of weakness, deceit and cowardly placation.
But at that precise moment Bastien was shocked to acknowledge that he had not thought through the likely consequences of choosing to confront Delilah immediately about the newspaper leak. Shouldn’t he have kept his suspicions to himself until he had established definitive proof? Why the hell had he lost his temper with her like that? Loss of temper meant loss of focus and control, and invariably delivered a poor result. That was why he never allowed himself to lose his temper. Yet on two separate occasions now he had gone off like a rocket with Delilah. Naturally she was playing the innocent and offended card—what else could she do?
* * *
‘I’ll check out every member of your team,’ declared Manos, his chief of security, in receipt of his employer’s instructions. ‘I’m aware that Miss Moore had the opportunity, but somehow she doesn’t seem the type.’
‘Is there a type?’ Bastien asked drily, his attention locked to the sway of Delilah’s shapely derrière in those tight, faded shorts and the slender perfection of her thighs below the ragged hems.
His fingertips tingled at the idea of trailing those shorts off her slender body and settling her under him again. He cut off that incendiary image and hoped she wasn’t planning to leave the grounds dressed in so provocative an outfit.
His strong white teeth gritted. His continuing sexual hunger for Delilah had made her important to Bastien in a way he utterly despised. If she realised how much he was still lusting after her she would use it against him—of course she would. He much preferred the immediate boredom that usually settled in for him after a fresh sexual conquest. He needed to move on, he told himself urgently. He needed to move on from Delilah Moore in particular...fast.
The morning flew past while he worked, furiously trying to counteract the damage done by this morning’s news report. He went downstairs for lunch and discovered that he had the terrace all to himself, Delilah having opted to have a simple snack in her room. His teeth gritted again and he studied Skippy, lying in a panting heap in the shadows. She had evidently roved far enough around the estate to totally exhaust the dog, which admittedly had pitifully short, stumpy legs.
After a moment’s contemplation of the miniature dachshund’s lolling pink tongue, Bastien emptied some fruit out of a bowl and poured water into it before putting it down for the animal. Skippy lurched up and drank in noisy gulps. After trotting back indoors, he reappeared with his squeaky toy in his mouth and laid it tenderly at Bastien’s feet...where it was ignored.
* * *
Full of restive energy, Lilah paced her room. Was she supposed to be a prisoner at the chateau? She refused to sit around and wait as if she had no existence without Bastien to direct her every move.
Recalling the pretty little village of Lourmarin, which they had passed through shortly before their arrival, she decided that what she really needed was an afternoon of sightseeing. Having washed the dust off her canvas-shod feet, she pulled on a white sun dress and sandals before heading downstairs to find Stefan and ask if it was possible for her to visit the village.
Within minutes a car drew up outside to collect her, and she skipped down the steps, smiling at Ciro as he slid in beside the driver.
Bastien was disconcerted when he discovered that Delilah had left the chateau. He hadn’t expected that. Frustration at the childish avoidance tactics she was using on him coursed through him, and he had Manos check with her driver. He set out for Lourmarin in a short temper.
What was it about Delilah? She was a lot of trouble, demanding so much more effort and attention from him than other women did. Why was he allowing her to wind him up? And why did he still want her, regardless of how much she annoyed him?
It was market day in Lourmarin, and Bastien’s disposition was not improved by a lengthy search for a parking spot.
When he tracked Delilah down he heard her laughter first, and even that contrived to annoy him—because two years had passed since he had last heard her laugh. In addition, although he hated gigglers, there had always been something incredibly infectious about Delilah’s giggles. He saw her seated on a café terrace, her white dress spilling round her, black hair framing her animated face as she laughed and chattered to Ciro, at one point even touching the younger man’s arm with a familiarity that set Bastien’s teeth on edge.
Ciro, not surprisingly, wore a slack-jawed expression of masculine admiration.
‘Delilah...’
The sound of that deep, dark drawl banished the pleasure of Lilah’s sun-drenched surroundings and stiffened her spine as much as if a poker had been attached to it. She lifted her head and fell into the smouldering golden sensuality of Bastien’s intent scrutiny. His dark-fallen-angel face was grim, but nothing could detract from the sheer beauty of it, nor the mesmeric potency of his gaze.
‘Been looking for me?’ she quipped, setting down her glass of wine. ‘I doubt that your presence here is an unlucky coincidence.’
In answer, Bastien reached down to close a hand over hers and used that connection to literally lift her upright out of her chair. ‘Thanks for looking after her for me, Ciro. We’re heading home now.’
‘You’re making me feel like I shouldn’t have gone out,’ she whispered thinly as he walked her away.
‘No, what you shouldn’t have done is flirt with Ciro,’ Bastien told her drily.
‘I wasn’t flirting with him!’ Lilah snapped back in irate protest, practically running to keep up with his long stride as, with one strong hand gripping hers, he cut through the clumps of pedestrians and dragged her in his wake. It didn’t help that almost two glasses of wine had left her head swimming a little...
‘He should know better than to get that close to a woman who’s mine,’ Bastien added grittily, hanging on to his temper by a hair’s breadth and ready to grab her up into his arms and bodily carry her back to the car at the first sig
n of rebellion.
‘I’m not yours!’ Lilah fired back at him with ringing vehemence. ‘I simply agreed to sleep with you until you got bored...that’s all!’
As that startling statement rang out, Bastien watched curious heads swivel in their direction and compressed his sensual mouth. ‘You’re shouting. Would you like a megaphone to share that confession further afield?’ he demanded in a tone of incredulous reproof.
‘I wasn’t shouting,’ Lilah hissed with a furious little shrug of her slight shoulders, her bright blue eyes remaining defiant. ‘I was merely pointing out the basic terms of our agreement. It was a devil’s bargain but I’ve stuck to my side of it. The least I deserve from you in return is respect and consideration.’
‘When do I qualify for some respect?’ Bastien enquired with honeyed scorn.
‘When you do something worthy of respect,’ Lilah slammed back without hesitation.
Unlocking the Ferrari, Bastien scooped Delilah up and stowed her in the passenger seat, impervious to her vocal complaints. He wanted to shout at her. For the first time since his childhood, anger and frustration had reached a peak inside him and he actually wanted to shout. Evidently Delilah really was toxic for him, challenging his self-discipline and making him react in unnervingly abnormal ways.
‘And why are you dragging me back to the chateau anyway?’ Lilah queried truculently as he swung in bedside her. ‘You should be avoiding me like the plague right now.’
In slow motion, Bastien twined his fingers slowly into her long black hair to turn her face up while his other hand framed a delicate cheekbone to hold her steady. The crash of his mouth down on hers felt as inevitable to him as the drowning heat of the summer sun in the sky.
Lilah jerked, as if he had stamped her with a burning brand. Her hand rose of its own volition and delved into his luxuriant black hair, fingertips roaming blissfully over his well-shaped skull. Hunger coursed through her like a hot river of lava, scorching and setting her alight wherever it touched.
She had never felt hunger like it. In fact, it was as if Bastien’s lovemaking the night before had released some dam of response inside her that could no longer be suppressed. The resulting ache between her legs and the sheer longing to be intimately touched physically hurt.
Long fingers eased below the hem of her dress and roamed boldly higher.
In a sudden movement Lilah pulled back and slapped her hand down on top of Bastien’s to prevent him from conducting a more intimate exploration. ‘No,’ she told him shakily.
Bastien swore long and low in Greek, the pulsing at his groin downright painful. He wanted to yank her out of the car, splay her across the bonnet and sink into her hard and fast. He gritted his teeth, rammed home his seat belt and drove out onto the narrow twisting road that snaked down the mountain.
The screaming tension inside the car made Lilah’s mouth run dry. It was his own fault. He should never have touched her, she thought piously, pride making her ignore the hollow dissatisfaction of her own body. But then every time Bastien touched her he shocked her, she conceded grudgingly, because somehow he always made her desperate to rip his clothes off.
Mortified, she dragged her attention from him and stared out of the car, mouth swollen and tingling.
Manos was waiting for Bastien when he returned. Delilah took the opportunity to race upstairs.
Bastien did not want an audience as he learned that preliminary enquiries had revealed damning facts about one of his personal staff. Andreas Theodakis had taken a smoke break that evening in London, and had been seen using his phone out on the balcony. Furthermore, a colleague had volunteered the news that Theodakis was a gambler. Bastien knew then in his gut that in all likelihood Andreas had tipped off the business press about the Dufort Pharmaceuticals deal.
‘I should have confirmation for you one way or another by the end of tomorrow,’ Manos concluded.
Bastien had a stiff drink and brooded over the information. No way was he saying sorry when Delilah had made such a big deal of him humbling himself. Indeed, he cringed at the prospect.
He dined alone at his desk, burying himself in work—as was his habit when anything bothered him.
A scrabbling noise made him glance up from the screen, and he frowned at Skippy, who must have sneaked in when Stefan had delivered Bastien’s meal. The miniature dachshund was engaged in using a briefcase on the floor as a springboard to the chair on the other side of Bastien’s desk. Skippy made it up on to the chair and then with a sudden tremendous leap reached the desk top, whereupon he trotted towards Bastien, his long ears flapping, and dropped his squeaky toy beside Bastien’s laptop.
With a sigh, Bastien scooped up the dog before it skidded off the desk and broke its legs, and settled it on the floor. Then, lifting the toy with distaste, he flung it—sending Skippy into a race of panting pleasure.
‘I will only throw it once,’ he warned the animal.
Unable to get back to work, he walked out onto the balcony and groaned out loud as he paced in the warm evening air. His muscles were stiff.
Banishing Skippy, who was showing annoying signs of wanting to follow him, Bastien went down to the basement gym in an effort to work off some of his tension. A marathon swim, followed by a long, violently cathartic session with the punch bag, sent Bastien into the shower.
All he needed was a good night’s sleep and a clear head, he told himself urgently when he was tempted to approach Delilah. He did not need or want her...
* * *
Lilah sat up late in bed, reading, and fell asleep with the light on, wakening disorientated at around three in the morning. On her way back from the bathroom she thought she heard someone cry out, and she went to the window and brushed back the curtain to look down at the moonlit garden below. Nothing stirred...not even the shadows.
When the sound came again she realised that it had come from Bastien’s room, and she crossed the polished wooden floor to listen behind the communicating door with a frown etched between her brows.
The sound of a shout galvanised her into opening the door. Bastien was a dark shape, thrashing about wildly in the bed, and choked cries interspersed with Greek words were breaking from him.
There was no way on earth that Lilah could walk away and leave him suffering like that. He was having a nightmare, that was all, but it was clearly a terrifying one.
She hovered uncertainly by the side of the bed, and then closed her hand firmly round a sleek tanned muscular shoulder to shake it.
‘Wake up, Bastien...it’s just a dream,’ she told him gently.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARMS FLAILING AND eyes wild, Bastien reared up and closed a hand round her throat, dragging her down to the bed on top of him as he struggled to focus on her.
‘Bastien...it’s Lilah!’ she gasped, in stricken dismay at the effect of her intervention. ‘You were stuck in a bad dream. I was trying to wake you up.’
‘Delilah...’ Bastien framed dazedly, shifting his tousled dark head in confusion, his eyes glittering dark as night in the faint light emanating from her room. He blinked. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘You were having a really bad nightmare,’ she repeated as she levered herself away from him and settled on the empty side of the bed. The dampness of perspiration sheened his lean dark features and he was still trembling almost imperceptibly. ‘What on earth has got you that worked up?’
‘I put my hand round your neck... Did I hurt you?’ Bastien demanded, switching on the bedside light and tipping up her chin to examine the faint red fingermarks marring her slender white throat. ‘Diavelos, Delilah... I’m sorry. I could have seriously injured you. You should never have come near me when I was like that. I’m very restless. That’s why I always sleep alone.’
‘I’m fine... I’m fine... I was worried about you,’ she admitted.
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‘Why the hell would you be worried about a guy who doesn’t treat you with respect or consideration?’ Bastien prompted grimly.
‘I was really concerned about you,’ Lilah countered, ignoring that question because she could not have answered it even to her own satisfaction. ‘What on earth were you dreaming about?’
His lean dark features were shuttered. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know.’
In an abrupt movement that took her by surprise, he pulled her backwards into his arms. Little tremors were still running through his big powerful frame.
Lilah released her breath in a bemused hiss. ‘Try to relax,’ she urged him, aware of the shattering tension still holding his muscles taut in his big body.
‘Don’t try to mother me, glikia mou,’ Bastien growled warningly, resting back against the pillows and breathing in slow and deep before exhaling again. ‘That’s not what I want from you.’
‘Well, you’re not getting anything else,’ Lilah warned him bluntly.
At that tart response unholy amusement quivered through Bastien’s lean, powerful frame and he laughed out loud.
‘So, what was the dream about?’ she prompted again.
In the low light, Bastien rolled his eyes and laced his fingers round her abdomen as she relaxed back against him. ‘I was getting beaten up... It’s something that happened when I was a child.’
Taken by surprise, Lilah twisted round in the circle of his arms and lifted her head to look directly at him. ‘When you were a child?’
‘I walked in on my mother, in bed with her drug-dealing boyfriend. She didn’t intervene. She was terrified that I would accidentally let it drop to Anatole that she had other men because Anatole paid all our bills.’
Lilah frowned down at him in disbelief. ‘For goodness’ sake—what age were you?’
