This new officer recognized Apollo and opened the door with a polite nod.
Beside her, Apollo moved quickly but every now and again his steps would falter, so that it was a huge relief when they finally reached the bank of elevators. He pulled the keycard from his pocket and swiped it. The elevator didn’t move.
He did it again.
Eleanor suppressed a curse and reached across. “Give it to me, I’ll do it.”
He lifted the card up high, staring down at her, so that she had to reach up his body in an attempt to retrieve the keycard.
It was useless. It was too high. But at this vantage point, she could see that it was actually a black American Express and not the apartment key after all.
“Wrong pocket,” she muttered, reaching into his pants and retrieving the key. His proximity set her pulse roaring, but that was nothing compared to the way it felt when he dropped his head forward and nuzzled her hair.
“You smell so good.” She backed away from him faster than if he’d just lit a stick of dynamite, and swiped the key. The elevator began to move and she exhaled a sigh of relief.
“Why did you cut your hair?”
She looked straight ahead, staring at their smoky reflections in the elevator doors.
“Eleanor,” he groaned, and lurched forward. She side-stepped, and her cheeks glowed pink. The doors pinged open and she left the elevator before he could touch her.
She remembered everything about his apartment, and it was exactly the same now as it had been then.
“Go to bed, Apollo.”
“We need to talk.”
She snorted. “You can’t talk. Not like this. You’re obviously drunk…”
“I just need a coffee,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.
And she sucked in a large gulp of air at the sight of him. Without his jacket, she saw how slim he was, and she swept her eyes shut, needing to blot the image out before she succumbed to a sense of concern.
“What’s happened to you?”
He glared at her. “You happened to me. With all your listening and your stories and your smiles and your damned body and your hair…why did you cut your hair?”
His words were like knives in her chest. Slurred and sweet, and completely unwelcome.
She compressed her lips, compassion compelling her to at least do something to help him.
“Eat this,” she said, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. “And drink this.” She took a bottle of Perrier from the fridge and slid it across the bench. “And then go to bed.”
“Who was he?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“The pretty boy you were staring at like the second coming?”
Eleanor ground her teeth together. “He’s a friend of my sister’s, and I was just talking to him.”
“He kissed you,” Apollo said, the words heavy with emotions and blame. He reached for her, catching the fabric of her dress and bunching it in his fingers, drawing her to him. And she went, even when she knew she shouldn’t. “He kissed you,” and he dropped his head, pressing his forehead to hers. He smelled like scotch and exhaustion. “Right here.” And he brushed his lips to hers, so that a sob bubbled through her.
“Don’t,” she whispered, but her lips were staying there, close to his, inviting him, begging him, needing him to do exactly the opposite of what she’d said.
“Has he kissed you before?” He asked, before pressing his lips to hers.
She shook her head.
“Has he done more than kiss you?” And he slid his tongue inside her mouth; she sobbed but kissed him back, her heart breaking for the futility of this need, for the power he held over her.
“You were mine,” he said, but it wasn’t true. She’d never been his; not in the way she’d wanted.
She pulled back from him, jerking away, putting a hand on his chest to stop him from closing the distance once more, and her eyes showed all the hurt she felt.
“I was never yours, and you were never mine. It was all pretend, just like you said that first night we slept together.”
“None of it was pretend,” he contradicted with a fierce intensity that stole her breath. “You were mine, and I was completely yours. I am completely yours.”
She bit down on her lip, hating him then. Hating him for saying things because he’d been drinking – things he didn’t mean. Things she’d needed to hear a month ago and couldn’t make sense of now.
“You won’t feel like this tomorrow,” she said with as much disdain as she could manage.
“I’ve felt like it for four damned weeks. Almost four years, actually,” he contradicted and he reached for her once more, lifting her off the ground, holding her body to his, kissing her then as if she were his dying breath, his last chance for survival. He kissed her and she kissed him back with all of herself, even when it was killing her to be with him like this, even when she knew she had to walk out – to leave him.
“You ended this.” She pulled away and he let her go, slowly, easing her back to the ground.
His hand lifted to her hair, his fingers curling in its short ends. “What happened to your hair?”
She groaned and now she did turn away from him, stalking out of the open plan kitchen, into the lounge room. “I cut it, okay? I cut my hair. Get over it.” And then she scooped up her handbag and glared at him. “Get over it. It’s over. It’s over. A thousand times, over.” And for the second time in her life, she ran away from him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HIS THROAT HAD BEEN scored with a thousand razor blades then doused with hydrochloric acid. His eyes had been rubbed with sandpaper and splashed with antiseptic.
And his dreams existed purely to taunt him.
Eleanor.
He groaned as he rolled over, his elbow connecting with something hard, so Apollo lifted one heavy eyelid and recognized the white leather of his sofa. He frowned, running his hands over his body. Still dressed. What had happened yesterday? He’d had the meeting with the prime minister but he’d… blown it off.
Like a tsunami hitting land, memories rushed towards him, so that he was jerking to sitting far faster than was wise, his head splitting in two.
And then he heard it. A noise. A sigh. A breath.
He tore his eyes towards it and she was there. Not a figment of his dreams, but the real deal.
Eleanor.
He swallowed, trying to get some moisture back into his mouth but it remained bone-dry.
“I had your key last night,” she said softly, the words a curt explanation. “I brought it back and was going to leave it, but you were passed out. And I was worried,” she admitted, without meeting his eyes. “I’ve never seen you like that.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t been like that.”
That was a lie. He’d been like it several times since she left the island. Just like the first time they’d broken up. What was it about her that could do this to him?
He knew the answer to that. He’d just been too damned foolish to realise the first time around.
She swallowed, her throat so beautiful and delicate and his eyes were haunted as they roamed over her body, taking everything in, his own body responding with an instinctive need.
“Who was that guy?” The question was too heavy, too possessive. She jerked her head as though he’d slapped her.
“It’s none of your business. There’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen.” She turned to leave but he couldn’t let her. Not again; not a third time.
“Wait, agape. Just… let me –,”
“No.” The word was whispered, but it resounded through the room. “There’s nothing to say, nothing to be done.” She stepped back, her fingers finding the door.
“I just need –,”
“I don’t care about what you need,” she interrupted.
“Fine, let’s talk about what you need,” he said, and despite the fact he felt like death warmed up, he heard himself reverting to the commanding e
xecutive he was known to be. He spoke with an air of authority, and she did listen.
“I need to go home,” she said, after a beat had passed. “I need to get back to my real life and forget about you all over again.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” He asked, not moving closer to her, even when his lips tingled with memories of how right their kiss had felt the night before. He ached to touch her, but she was skittish and one wrong move would send her out the door. He wouldn’t risk it.
“Yes.” She looked over his shoulder.
“Liar.” He finally allowed himself to move closer to her, prowling across the carpet. “You could no sooner forget about me than I could you. We’re both trapped by this, remember?”
She forced her eyes to his, and the pain in them made him want to crawl into a corner and forget to breathe. He had hurt her, and he would have sworn he lived to protect her.
“I want to go home.” The words were heavy with unshed tears, and they were so reminiscent of that last day on the island that his chest rolled with guilt.
“I know,” he said, nodding, gently, slowly. He stood in front of her, pleading with her to stay, his eyes begging her not to run away again. “And you can, any time. But I’m asking you to give me a few minutes first. Let’s just… have a coffee and work this out.”
It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.
“Coffee?” She repeated, and she laughed, a laugh that was tormented and rich with disbelief. “Work this out? Like it’s some simple problem you can just make better? I hate you,” she shouted. “I hate you for what you’ve done to me, and I hate myself for letting you!”
He put a hand out to reach for hers but she jerked away from him.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t look at me. Don’t call me. Don’t come to my house. Don’t you dare even think of me.”
The words rang through his apartment with a finality that sucked all the air from his world.
He caught her at the lift, wishing, more than anything, that he didn’t have the mother of all hangovers in what he suspected would be one of the defining moments of his life.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
“Oh,” she scoffed, spinning around, her beautiful caramel eyes wild, like a tiger’s. “You’re ordering me to stay? Or what? You’ll kidnap me again?”
“I’m begging you to listen,” he contradicted, his voice hoarser than gravel, his eyes showing the truth of his words. She closed her mouth, swallowing, and now there was uncertainty in her eyes as she ran them over his face. “And if you’ve been half as miserable as I have this past month, you’ll do us both a favour and stay.”
She compressed her lips and crossed her arms – closed body language if ever he’d seen it – but she didn’t turn away from him.
“I was determined not to let you get under my skin again, Eleanor. I wanted to control this every step of the way, and I clung to that so hard I refused to see what you meant to me. I loved you three years ago, God, I loved you hard and with all of myself. I wanted to prove to myself I wouldn’t be so stupid, this time around.”
And now her eyes met his and he wished he could stop hurting her! He wished he knew how to explain his actions without hurting her more than he already had, but he needed her to understand.
“I thought I could sleep with you and get some closure. I thought you were an itch I had to scratch.”
Her breath was raspy, as though she’d been running. “And?”
“Does it look like I have closure?” He asked, not touching her, no matter how much he wanted to.
“I’m not sleeping with you again,” she said stiffly, her beautiful face glaring at him. As though this was still just about their physical connection.
“I made you think all I wanted from you was sex because that was how I sought to control this. Because I didn’t want to lead you on, or make you believe we had a future, when I couldn’t see how one would work. I made you think we were just about sex when I want all of you. Everything. Every single part of you. I want you. I need you.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t deserve you to forgive me. I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m begging you for one anyway, Eleanor.”
Her eyes swept shut, so he couldn’t tell how she felt.
“I want to fight for this.”
“You didn’t want to a month ago.”
“I was an idiot.”
“You sent me away from the island without even the courtesy of a goodbye.”
“I should have let you go the moment you asked,” he groaned. “I landed in Athens and saw my mistake. I thought I could fix this by giving you what you want.”
Her laugh was humourless. A brittle sound of despair. “I can’t handle this. You want me and then you don’t. You blow hot and cold and it’s not fair on me.”
“I have always, always wanted you,” he murmured gently. “I have wanted you from the moment we met, and you doused me in coffee. I spent three years wanting you – I couldn’t bear the thought of touching another woman. I thought I’d live out my life as a monk, with only dreams of you to sustain me.”
“That’s just sex again,” she chastised, but her eyes opened, softly, achingly vulnerable, silently pleading with him not to hurt her again.
“No! It’s holding you, kissing you, walking with you, laughing with you, swimming with you. It’s holding you in my arms as you fall asleep, it’s watching you read, it’s everything.”
“No,” she shook her head, sad and broken. She turned towards the lift, pressing the button.
“You can’t just say ‘no’ and walk away from this,” he said, moving closer, still not touching her, but needing her to understand the intensity of his wants.
And she tilted her head to face him, utter fury in her eyes. “You did,” she snapped. “I was fighting for you. The whole time we were in Greece I was fighting to get past your resentments and your anger to make you understand and you didn’t want that. You wanted to keep me at arm’s length. You wanted to hate me.”
“Yes! I wanted to hate you!” He ground his teeth together. “I was wrong. In every way, I was wrong, except one. Because I still loved you and you knew that – you understood what I didn’t.”
But she was too angry to listen. “I made a mistake. Three years ago I fell in love with you and I took notes on our conversations. Not because I ever planned to use them, but because it’s what I do. Because I never wanted to forget anything you told me. I didn’t know then that every conversation would be burned into my brain. I quit because I would have taken death over betraying you. I was naïve and stupid not to delete my notes off the server. That was my mistake. I’ve spent three years berating myself for that idiocy, and knowing I was to blame for everything that happened. All that hurt and embarrassment. But I didn’t stop loving you.”
Gratitude and relief burst through him.
“Not until you sent me away from the island. I loved you when you made me sign a confidentiality agreement and when you told me we were having meaningless sex and when you belittled my career. I loved you right up until you told me you didn’t love me even as you were inside of me.” She straightened her spine, gaining strength from her words. “I loved you, but that was it for me.”
He swore inwardly and let out a low-pitched groan.
The lift doors pinged open.
He wouldn’t let her walk away from him another time; he couldn’t. He pressed his hand to the side of the door, holding them open when she stepped inside. “Eleanor, you are the love of my life. The only woman I’ve ever loved, the only woman I’ve ever needed with a desperation that has burned my soul. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last in my mind before I sleep. I crave you. Your laugh, your smile, your kindness, your heart.”
She angled her face away from him. He needed to get through to her. He tried again. “I know the article wasn’t your fault. I know you would have moved heaven and earth to prevent its publication. I know that I can trust you, that you are a bri
lliant writer, and that you deserve my support. I know that you are the other part of me.” He reached for her and every fibre of his being rejoiced when she didn’t pull away.
She was watching him with a sense of wariness, though.
He laced his fingers through hers, wondering how such a small gesture could make his whole body hammer.
She squeezed his hand and tears were filling her eyes and then she stepped backwards, separating their hands, and crossing her arms for good measure.
“You ‘know it’ all too late,” she said.
His heart dropped to his toes. “No,” he groaned, shaking his head, his eyes huge. “It’s not.”
“Maybe you were right, Apollo. Maybe our gift is ruining each other’s lives.”
It took him a moment to remember that he’d said that, and his body rolled with shame.
“Look at you!” She was shouting now, and she didn’t make any effort to lower her voice. “Look at what you’ve become. Look at me! Look at what I did to my hair because I was driven half-crazy by grief and hurt and hate and love. How can you be standing there telling me now that you forgive me when you’ve put me through utter hell?” She pressed her back to the elevator wall, as physically distant as she could be.
“I was angry. I was wrong.”
“Yes,” she said, and tears rolled down her cheeks, landing against her shirt. “You were wrong.”
He blinked at her, wishing he was thinking clearer, wishing he knew what he could say to make this better. “Do you still love me?” He asked, and winced at the look of panic in her features.
“Do I still love you?” She repeated with obvious disbelief. “Do you think you have any right to ask me that?”
“I need to know,” he said, the word graveled, desperate.
“I hate you,” she said, and then sobbed, jack-knifing off the wall and pushing her hands to his chest. He stood resolutely where he was. “I love you, too, but I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Please don’t,” he demanded, reaching for her cheek. She pulled away. “I love you.” The words had been stuck inside of him for years and now they tumbled out of him like gold dust. “I love the way you think and move and laugh and I love you, all of you.”
The Greek's Virgin Captive: She was wrong for him in every way but one... (Evermore Book 2) Page 17
