by Jane Porter
“Body, maybe, but not my soul. Never my soul!”
Again the fire, the spirited defiance. He felt a kinship with her that he felt with few women. He softened his tone, appealing to her intellect. “Think about it, Alysia. In Greece you’re powerless. Your father is the head of the household, the absolute authority. He has the right to choose your husband. He has the right to leave you locked up here. He has the right to make your life miserable.”
“I’m no prisoner here.”
“Then why don’t you leave?
She held her breath, exquisitely attentive, her eyes enormous, her lips compressed.
“Now, if I were your husband,” he concluded after the briefest hesitation, “you could leave. Today. Right away. You’d finally be free.”
She didn’t speak for a moment, studying him with the same intentness with which she listened. After a moment she exhaled. “Greek wives are never free!”
“No, maybe not the way you think of it. But I’d permit you to travel, to pursue hobbies that interested you, to make friends of your own choosing.” He shrugged. “You could even paint again.”
“I don’t paint anymore.”
“But you could. I’ve heard you were quite good.”
She suddenly laughed, her voice pitched low, her body nearly trembling with tension. She wrapped her arms across her chest, a makeshift cape, a protective embrace. “You must want my father’s ships very much!”
Christos felt a wave of bittersweet emotion, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He saw himself exactly as he was. Driven, calculating, proudly self-serving. And this woman, this lovely refined young woman, knew she mattered only in business terms. Her worth was her name. Her value lay in her dowry. For a split second he hated the system and he hated himself and then he ruthlessly pushed his objection aside.
He would have her.
Alysia slipped from beneath his arm, taking several steps away. She walked to the edge of the herb garden and knelt at the flowering lavender. “Ships,” she whispered, breaking off a purple stalk. “I hate them.”
She carried the tuft of lavender to her nose, smelling it.
“And I love them,” he answered, thinking she should have been a painting.
The bend of her neck, the creamy nape, the shimmering coil of hair the color of wild honey, the sun’s golden caress.
He wanted this woman. Deal or no.
She crumpled the lavender stalk in her fist. “Mr. Pateras, has it crossed your mind to ask why a man as wealthy as my father must give away his fortune in order to get his daughter off his hands?”
The sunlight shone warm and gold on her head. The breeze loosened yet another shimmering tendril.
“I’m damaged goods, Mr. Pateras. My father couldn’t give me away to a local Greek suitor, even if he tried.”
More damaged than he’d ever know, Alysia acknowledged bleakly, clutching the broken lavender stalk in her palm. Unwillingly memories of the Swiss sanatorium came to mind. She’d spent nearly fourteen months there, all of her twenty-first year, before her mother came, rescuing her and helping her find a small flat in Geneva.
Alysia had liked Geneva. No bad memories there.
And for nearly two years she’d lived quietly, happily, content with her job in a small clothing shop, finding safety in her simple flat. Weekly she rang up her mother in Oinoussai and they chatted about inconsequential matters, the kind of conversation that doesn’t challenge but soothes.
Her mother never discussed the sanatorium with her, nor Paris. Alysia never asked about her father. But they understood each other and knew the other’s pain.
Alysia would never have returned to Greece, or her father’s house, if it hadn’t been for her mother’s cancer.
The mournful toll of bells stirred Alysia, and she tensed, lashes lowering, mouth compressing, finding the bells an intolerable reminder of her mother’s death and funeral.
The bells continued to ring, their tolling like nails scratching down a blackboard, sharp, grating. Oh, how she hated it here! The sisters had done everything they could to comfort her, and befriend her, but Alysia couldn’t bear another day of bells and prayers and silence.
She didn’t want to be reminded of her losses. She wanted to just get on with the living.
Sister Elena, a dour-faced nun with a heart of gold, signaled it was time to return inside.
Alysia felt a swell of panic, desperation making her light-headed. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to leave the garden, or the promise of freedom.
As if sensing her reluctance, Christos extended a hand in her direction. “You don’t have to go in. You could leave with me instead.”
It was almost as if he could feel her weakening, sense her confusion. His tone gentled yet again. “Leave with me today and you’ll have a fresh start, lead a different life. Everything would be exciting and new.”
He was teasing her, toying with her, and she longed for the freedom even as she shrank from the bargain.
She could leave the convent if she went as his wife.
She could escape her father if she bound herself to this stranger.
“You’re not afraid of me?” she asked, turning from Sister Elena’s worried gaze to the darkly handsome American Greek standing just a foot away.
“Should I be?”
“I know my father must have mentioned my…health.” She gritted against the sting of the words, each like a drop of poison on her tongue. Unwilling tears burned at the back of her eyes.
“He mentioned you hadn’t been well a few years ago, but he assured me you’re well now. And you look well. Quite well, if rather too thin, as a matter of fact.”
Her lips curved into a small, cold self-mocking smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Christos Pateras shrugged. “My first seven ships were damaged. I stripped them to the hull, refurbished each from bow to stern. Within a year my ships made me my first million. It’s been ten years. They’re still the workhorses of my fleet.”
She envisioned him stripping her bare and attempting to make something of her. The vivid picture shocked and frightened her. It’d been years and years since she’d been intimate with a man, and this man, was nothing like her teenage lovers.
Hating the flush creeping through her cheeks, she lifted her chin. “I won’t make you any millions.”
“You already have.”
Stung by his ruthless assessment, she tensed, her slender spine stiffening. “You’ll have to give it back. I told you already, I shall never marry.”
“Again, you mean. You’ll never marry again.”
She froze where she stood, at the edge of the herb garden, her gaze fixed on the ancient sun dial.
He knew?
“You were married before, when you were still in your teens. He was English, and six years older than you. I believe you met in Paris. Wasn’t he a painter, too?”
She turned her head slowly, wide-eyed, torn between horror and fascination at the details of her past. How much more did he know? What else had he been told?
“I won’t discuss him, or the marriage, with you,” she answered huskily. Marrying Jeremy had been a tragic mistake.
“Your father said he was after your fortune.”
“And you’re not?”
Lights glinted in his dark eyes. It struck her that this man would not be easily managed.
He circled her and she had to tilt her head back to see his expression. Butterflies flitted in her stomach, heightening her anxiety. He was tall, much taller than most men she’d known, and solid, a broad deep chest and muscular arms that filled the sleeves of his suit jacket.
Her nerves were on edge. She felt distinctly at a disadvantage and searched for something, anything, to give her the upperhand—again. “Good Greek men don’t want to be the second husbands.”
“We’ve already established I’m not your traditional Greek man. I do what I want, and I do it my way.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT STRUCK her then, quite h
ard, that two could play this game. All she had to do was think like a man.
Christos Pateras wanted her to further his ambitions. He was marrying her to accomplish a goal. This wasn’t about love, or emotions. This was a transaction and nothing more.
Why couldn’t she approach the marriage the same way? He wanted her dowry; she wanted independence. He wanted an alliance with the Lemos family; she wanted to escape her father.
Greece might be part of a man’s world but that didn’t mean she had to play by a man’s rules.
She sized him up again, assessing the odds. Tall, strong, ridiculously imposing, he exuded authority. Could she marry him and then slip away?
No more Alysia Lemos, poor little rich girl, but an ordinary woman with ordinary dreams. Like a small house in the country. A vegetable garden. An orchard of apple trees.
She stole a second glance at Christos’s rugged profile, noting the long, straight nose, line of cheek, strong clean-shaven jaw. He looked less ruthless than determined. Assertive, not aggressive. If she ran away from him, what would he do?
Chase her down? She doubted it. He’d have too much pride. He’d probably wait a bit and then quietly annul the marriage. Men like Christos Pateras wouldn’t want to advertise their failure.
He turned, caught her eye, his dark gaze holding hers. “Everyone thinks you’ve already married me.”
“How can that be?” she scoffed.
Opening his coat, he drew a folded newspaper from the breast pocket and handed it to her.
Not certain what she was supposed to find, she unfolded the paper and pressed the creased pages flat. Then the headlines jumped out at her, practically screaming the news. Secret Wedding For Lemos Heir.
Anger, indignation, shock flashed through her one after the other as the headlines blinded her. How could he do it? How could he pull a stunt like this?
And then just as quickly as her anger flared, inspiration struck. For the first time in months she saw an open door. All she had to do was walk through it.
Marry him, and walk away.
It was all in place. The husband, the marriage, the motivation. She just needed to go along with the plans and then leave.
Perfect. Her heart did a strange tattoo.
Maybe too perfect. Christos Pateras didn’t seize control of the Greek shipping industry by luck. He was smart. No, rumor had it that he was brilliant. A brilliant man wouldn’t marry a young woman and then just let her slip away. He’d be prepared. He’d be alert.
She’d have to be very, very careful.
Alarm and eagerness tangled her emotions. She could do this, she could escape him, it was a matter of being just as smart as him.
Her heart began to pound faster and she felt heat creep beneath her skin. Excitement grew but she dampened her enthusiasm, not wanting to overplay her hand or reveal her true intentions.
She frowned, feigning surprise and shock. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s front page news.”
“There’s no wedding. How can there be a story?”
“Read it for yourself.”
She obliged, skimming the front page story where her father had been quoted as saying he couldn’t confirm or deny reports of the secret wedding, only that he knew that Greek-American shipping tycoon, Christos Pateras, had visited Oinoussai in the past several days and had visited his daughter at the convent. Other sources confirmed that Pateras had been seen in town, while another source mentioned the convent as the secret wedding location.
Her father’s work, no doubt. The puppet and the puppeteer. Incredible. But this time, she was the puppeteer. She was in control.
She crumpled the paper for show. “You and my father make a spectacular team.”
“Your father’s idea, not mine.”
“No one will believe this drivel.”
“Everyone believes it. Media has descended on the harbor. They’re expecting to see the blushing bride and groom board the yacht later this afternoon.”
He looked so damn smug, as if he’d thrown a net around her, trapping her in his scheme. Sorry, she silently apologized, but I win this one. Hands down.
She was going to marry him. And then she’d leave him. He could pick up the pieces. The fall-out with her father wouldn’t be her problem. If Christos Pateras wanted to make deals with her father, then fine, let him experience her father’s wrath firsthand.
Guilt briefly assailed her. Then she ignored the voice of conscience, reminding herself that Christos and her father were the same kind of man. Selfish. Unthinking. Lacking compassion.
Not once during her mother’s horrible last year did her father slow his schedule, put off a meeting, change his travel plans. He never once attended her radiation treatments. Never held her hand during the chemo. Never checked on her at night when she lay huddled with pain and fear.
Her father acted as if nothing bad had happened, ignoring the terminal diagnosis as though it were a spate of bad weather and simply charged ahead with his plans for new ships, new routes, new alliances.
Damn her father, and damn Christos Pateras.
Alysia knew of no fate worse than that of being a Greek tycoon’s wife.
But she hid all this, focusing instead on her goal. Independence. Peace. A life far from the wealthy Greek shipping families. Maybe back to Geneva. Maybe a little house south of London.
“When would we marry?” she asked, her pulse leaping in anticipation.
“Today. We’d marry here, in the chapel, and then sail this afternoon.”
“And just what are your expectations?”
His dark gaze studied her, his expression blank, giving away nothing. “As my wife, you’ll travel with me. When I entertain, you shall perform the duties of the hostess. And for my family functions, we’ll appear together, behaving like a real couple.”
“Versus a business liaison?”
“Precisely.”
“For your parents sake?”
“Right, again.”
He didn’t want to disappoint his parents. She could almost admire him for that. Almost.
But fortunately, she needn’t worry about his family, or his expectations. She wouldn’t be around long enough to fulfill any such duties. If they married today, this afternoon, she was just hours from freedom, hours from starting a new life for herself far from Greece and the influential Lemos name.
“Anything else?” she demanded coldly, conscious that she could never let Christos Pateras know her intentions. Christos might dress fashionably, move with athletic ease and speak eloquently, but underneath the gorgeous veneer he was the same man as her father. And her father, ruthless, critical, unyielding crushed those close to him, destroying family as indiscriminately as he destroyed friends. No one was safe. No one was exempt.
“I expect us to have a normal relationship.” He, too, had become detached, businesslike.
It struck her they’d moved to the negotiation stage. The deal would take place. It was just a matter of formalizing the details. He knew it. She knew it. A bitter taste filled her mouth, but she wouldn’t back down now. “Define normal, if you would.”
“I expect you to be faithful. Loyal. Honest.”
She felt something shift inside of her, another whisper of conscience, but she dismissed it with a small sneer. Men had controlled her all her life. For once she’d take care of herself. “That’s it?”
“Should there be more?”
He was testing her, too. He knew there should be more, would be more. They hadn’t even discussed the physical aspect of the marriage and it loomed there between them, heavy, forbidding.
“This is a marriage of convenience, yes?” She cast a glance at him before looking too quickly away, but she caught the predatory gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t nervous. He seemed to enjoy this.
“Marriages of convenience don’t produce children. I need children.”
Before she could speak, he continued.
“I’ll do my best, Miss Lemos, to ensure you’r
e satisfied. I want you to be happy. It’s important we’re both fulfilled. Sex is a natural part of life. It should be natural between us.”
Fingers of fear stroked her spine, stirring the fine hairs on her nape, even as blood surged to her face, heating her cheeks, creating a frisson of warmth through her limbs. “We hardly know each other, Mr. Pateras.”
“Which is why I won’t force myself on you. I’m content to wait until some of the newness wears off and we’ve grown more…comfortable with each other before becoming intimate.”
Another surge of heat rushed to her cheeks. His voice had deepened, turning so husky as to hum within her, warm and intimate. For a split second she imagined his body against hers, his mouth against her skin.
The very thought of making love with him made her inhale sharply. Every nerve in her body seemed to be alert, aware of this man and his potent masculinity.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Alysia tried to deny the tingle in her breasts, and the longing to be real again. It’d been forever since she’d felt like a woman.
She wouldn’t look at him. “You’re willing to commit to a loveless marriage?”
“I’m committing to you.”
Oh, to have someone want her, to care for her…
She drew a ragged breath, hope and pain twisting in her heart, seduced by his promise and the warmth in his voice. What would it feel like to be loved by this man?
She drew herself up short. He’d never said anything about love, or wanting her. He wasn’t even committing to her. He was committing to the Lemos house, committing to her father, but not to her. How could she allow herself to daydream? Hadn’t she learned her lesson by now?
This is how Jeremy had broken through her reserve. This is how she’d offered up her heart. Well, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it again. Experience had to count for something.
Hardening her emotions, she reminded herself that Christos Pateras did not matter. His promises did not matter. The only thing that mattered was escaping the convent and her father’s manipulations. It was what her mother would want for her. It was what her mother had wanted for herself.
