Christos's Promise

by Jane Porter

  Glancing up, her gaze settled on the high, whitewashed wall. All convent windows faced inward, overlooking the herb garden and potted citrus trees. None of the windows faced out, no glimpse of the ocean, no picture of the world left behind…

  But she hadn’t left it behind. Her father had ripped it from her just weeks after her mother’s death. There had been no mourning for him. Just business, just money and deals and ships.

  A lump filled her throat. For a moment her chest felt raw, tight. “If we are going to do it,” she said after a long painful silence, “let’s not waste time.”

  They were married in the briefest of ceremonies in the convent chapel. Rings, exchange of vows, a passionless kiss.

  In the back of the limousine, Alysia clenched her hand on her lap, doing her best to ignore the heavy diamond-and-emerald ring weighting her finger. Christos had already told her it wasn’t a family heirloom, three carat diamonds had never been part of his family fortune. No, the ring had been purchased recently, just for her. But she wouldn’t wear it long. By this time tomorrow she’d have it off her finger, left behind on a dresser or bathroom counter, she promised herself.

  A strange calm filled her. For the first time in years she felt as if she were in control again, acting instead of reacting, making decisions for herself instead of feeling helpless.

  With a swift glance at her new husband, she noted Christos Pateras’s profile, his strong brow creased, a furrow between his dark eyes. He wore his black hair combed straight back, and yet the cowlick at the temple softened the severity of his hard, proud features.

  He’d be surprised—no, furious—when he discovered her gone. He didn’t expect her to deceive him. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind. Just like a Greek man to assume everything would go according to his plan.

  He sat close to her, too close, and she inched across the seat only to have his hard thigh settle against hers again.

  She became fixated on the heat passing from his thigh to hers, panic stirring at the unwelcome intimacy. She wasn’t ready to be touched by him. Wasn’t ready to be touched by anyone.

  She scooted closer to the door, pressing herself into the corner, willing herself to shrink in size.

  “You’re acting like a virgin,” he drawled, casting a sardonic look in her direction.

  She felt like a virgin. Years and years without being touched, not even a kiss, and now this, to sit thigh to thigh with a stranger, a tall, muscular, imposing stranger who wanted her to bear his children.

  Stomach heaving, Alysia pressed trembling fingers against her lips. What had she done? How could she have married him? If she didn’t escape him, surely she’d die. Despite her mother’s wisdom, despite the gentle counsel of the sisters, Alysia didn’t want family. No children, no babies. Ever.

  She couldn’t ever give Christos Pateras a chance. She wouldn’t let him make a move. No opportunities for seduction. First chance she could, she’d leave.

  “Relax,” Christos uttered flatly. “I’m not going to attack you.”

  She opened her eyes, glanced at him beneath lowered lashes. He looked grim, distant. Gone was the laughter, the fine creases fanning from his eyes.

  The luxury sedan bounced down the narrow mountain road, the street unpaved, lurching across a deep pothole. Despite the seat belt, Alysia practically spilled into Christos’s lap. Quickly she righted herself, drawing sharply away. Christos’s mouth pressed tighter.

  The silence stretched, tension thick. Squirming inwardly, aware that she’d helped create the hostility, Alysia searched for something to say. “You like Oinoussai?”

  “It’s small.”

  “Like America.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in faint amusement. “Yes, like America.” The amusement faded from his eyes, his features hardening again.

  She felt his dark gaze settle on her face, studying her as dispassionately as one studied a work of art hanging on a museum wall. “Have you ever been to the States before?” he asked.

  “No.” She’d always wanted to go, was curious about New York and San Francisco, but she hadn’t had time, nor the opportunity. Thanks to her father, she’d been too busy enjoying the special pleasures of the sanatorium and the convent.

  “I have a meeting in Cephalonia, which we’ll sail to from here. And then I thought we could conclude our honeymoon someplace else, someplace you might find interesting before returning to my home on the East Coast.”

  Honeymoon. She tensed at the very suggestion. He’d said he wouldn’t force himself on her, said he’d be content to wait. Honeymooning conjured up lovemaking and intimacy and…

  She shuddered. This was a mistake. She’d made a mistake. He had to turn the car around, take her back to the convent now.

  “We’re not going back to the convent,” he said, still watching her, dark eyes hooded.

  Her head snapped up. She stared at him, shocked that he knew what she’d been thinking.

  “My dear Mrs. Pateras, you’re not difficult to read. You wear your emotions on your face, they’re all there, right for me to see.”

  He tapped her hands, knotted in her lap. “Try to relax a little, Alysia. I’m not demanding sexual favors tonight. I’m not demanding anything from you just yet. You need time. I need time. Let’s try to make this work, learn a little about each other first.”

  Angered by his rational tone, finding nothing rational in being coerced into marriage, she lifted her head, temper blazing. “You want to learn about me? Fine. I’ll tell you about me. I hate Greece and I hate Greek men. I hate being treated like a second-class citizen simply because I’m a woman. I hate how money empowers the rich, creating another caste system. I hate business and the ships you treasure. I hate the alliance my father has formed with you because my father detests America and American money—” she drew a breath, shaking from head to toe.

  One of his black eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Finished?” he drawled.

  “No. I’m not finished. I haven’t even started.” But her outburst had leveled her, and she leaned heavily against the leather upholstery, exhausted, and suddenly silent.

  She wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to fighting, to speaking her mind. Her father had never allowed her to say anything at all. Her father never even looked at her.

  “What else is bothering you?” Christos persisted, his attention centered on her and nothing but her.

  She shook her head, unable to speak another word.

  “Perhaps we should leave our philosophic differences for a later date. Those big issues can be overwhelming, hmm?” He smiled wryly, his expression suddenly human. “Why don’t we start with the small things, the daily routines that give us comfort. For example, breakfast. Coffee. How do you take yours? Milk and sugar?”

  She shook her head, eyes dry, gritty, throat thick. “Black,” she whispered.

  “No sugar?”

  She shook her head again. “And yours? Black?”

  “I like a touch of milk in mine.” He spoke without rancor, the tone friendly, disarmingly friendly. “Are you an early riser?”

  “A night owl.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Lovely,” she answered bitingly. “We should be perfect together.”

  His expression remained blank, yet a hint of warmth lurked in his dark eyes. “A promising beginning, yes, but I do think a week or two alone should help rub some of the edges off, take the newness away. And with that in mind, I’ve cleared my calendar and after this meeting on Cephalonia, will have the next couple weeks free.”

  “How accommodating.”

  “I try.”

  Her exhaustion fed her fear. She felt a fresh wave of panic hit. What if she couldn’t break away? What if he stayed too close, paid too much attention, to allow her to leave? She’d be trapped in this relationship, forced into marriage. The possibility made her almost ill, and a lump lodged in her throat, sealing it closed.

  She couldn’t afford to wait. She had to escape, and soon. Before boardin
g the yacht. Before appearing in public together.

  He must have sensed her panic because he suddenly lifted her hand, examined the ring on her finger, before kissing the inside of her wrist. “You don’t have to hate me.”

  A tremor coursed through her at the touch of his lips, her blood leaping in her veins. She tried to disengage but his mouth caressed her wrist in another sensitive spot.

  “Please don’t,” she said, pulling at her wrist, attempting to free herself from his clasp.

  “You smell like lavender and sunshine.”

  Anger hardened her voice. “Mr. Pateras, let me go.”

  He released her arm and she buried her hand in her lap. Her inner wrist burned, the skin scorched, her pulse pounding.

  She hadn’t realized she’d become so sensitive.

  Alysia forcibly turned her attention back to the rocky landscape, watching the rough road as they snaked down the hill, kicking up dust and loose gravel. They were nearing the outskirts of town.

  An unwanted thought suddenly crossed her mind. “Will I see my father in town?”

  “No. He flew out this morning for a meeting in Athens.”

  Relief washed over her. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with him right now.

  “You don’t care for him much, do you?” Christos asked, checking his watch and then glancing out the window again.

  “No.”

  “He seems like a decent man.”

  “If you like maniacally controlling men.”

  His eyebrows lowered, his brow creasing. “He’s tried to do what’s best for you.”

  A lead weight dropped in her stomach. Christos Pateras didn’t know the half of it! Her father had never done what’s best for her. It’d always been about him.

  She could forgive her father many things, but she’d never forgive him for neglecting her mother in the final weeks of her life. As her mother lay dying in that marble mausoleum of a house, Darius never once reached out to her; no acknowledgment of her pain, no interest in bringing closure, no awareness of her needs.

  He should have been there for her. He owed that much to her. How could he not have cared?

  A lump formed in her throat, and narrowing her eyes, Alysia concentrated very hard on the rocky landscape beyond her closed window.

  “I wish I’d had the pleasure of knowing your mother.”

  The lead weight seemed to swell in size, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Gritty tears burned at the back of her eyes. “She was beautiful.”

  “I’ve seen photographs. She once modeled, didn’t she?”

  “It was a charity event. My mother was dedicated to her causes. I think if my father had let her, she would have done more.” Her voice sounded thick with emotion.

  “You must miss her.”

  Dreadfully, she thought, struggling to maintain her control. She was finding it almost impossible to juggle so many contradictory emotions at one time. The whole last year had been like this, too. The loss of her mother on top of the others…

  It was too much. She sometimes didn’t know where to go for strength and had to fight very hard to reach inside herself for the courage to continue.

  “Your mother liked Greece?” Christos persisted.

  “She tolerated it,” Alysia answered huskily, patting her shift pocket for a tissue. Her eyes were watering, her nose burned, she felt like an absolute mess. And to top it all off Christos was looking at her with such concern that she felt as though she were covered in cracks, threatening to break in two.

  “Too oppressive?” he mused.

  “Too hot.” She smiled for the first time all afternoon. Mother had hated the heat; she positively wilted in it. “Mum pined for the English grays and cool greens the way some pined for lost love.”

  Christos laughed softly, his expression surprisingly gentle. But his gentleness would be her undoing. Alysia stiffened her spine, reminding herself that she couldn’t trust his smile, or his warmth. He wasn’t just any man; he was a man handpicked by her father and tainted.

  Christos Pateras married her for money.

  He was as bad, if not worse, than her father.

  Flatly, no emotion left, she asked about her things. “Will I have any of my books or photos sent to me? And my wardrobe? What’s happened to that?”

  “Everything’s already been transferred to the yacht. Your entire bedroom was boxed up and put in the ship’s storage.”

  Shock rivaled indignation. “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I had your father’s support.”

  “Obviously. But what I want to know is how? And why?” Her father had never liked Americans, and detested foreign money. “Why did he go to you? What made you so special?”

  “I had what he needed. Money. Lots of it.”

  “And what did he give you in exchange?”

  Christos’s dark eyes gleamed at her, a faint smile playing his lips. “You.”

  “Aren’t you lucky.”

  He shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Anyway, your father is happy. He won’t bother you anymore.” He turned a smoldering gaze on her. “I won’t let him.”

  She heard the promise in his voice, and a hint of menace, too. For a moment Christos Pateras sounded like a street-boxer, an inner city thug, but then he smiled, a casual, relaxed smile, and she felt herself melt, her chilly insides warming, her fear dissipating ever so slightly. Truthfully she’d welcome a buffer between her and her father. He’d made her life nearly unbearable. She needed to get away.

  Elegant whitewashed villas came into view, along with the sparkling harbor waters. The late-afternoon sun illuminated the bay. “There’s my yacht,” Christos said, leaning forward to point out a breathtaking ship of luxurious proportions.

  She leaned forward, too, her breath catching in her throat. The yacht might prove to be just as confining as the convent and it crossed her mind that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

  No, she’d be fine. She’d figured a way out. She simply needed time.

  Numerous fishing boats dotted the harbor, as did several yachts, but one moored ship dwarfed all others. The glossy white, sleek design only hinted at the elegant state rooms inside. The yacht would have cost him dearly.

  She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought out loud until he chuckled softly, a twisted smile at his lips. “She was expensive, but not half as much as you.”

  Indignation heated her skin, hot color sweeping through her cheeks. “You didn’t buy me, Mr. Pateras, you bought my father!”

  But he was right about one thing, Alysia thought darkly as the limousine pulled up to the harbor. The media were out, and out in force. Reporters and photographers crawled all over town, jostling each other to take better position.

  They surged forward when the car stopped and she sucked in a panicked breath. All those cameras poised…all the microphones turned on…

  “It’ll be over in a minute,” Christos said, turning to her.

  She felt his inspection, his dark eyes examining her face, her dress, her hair. He startled her by reaching up to pluck pins from her hair. The heavy honey mass tumbled down and he combed his fingers through it with unnerving familiarity.

  “That’s better,” he murmured.

  Just the touch of his fingers against her brow sent shivers racing through her. Repulsion, she told herself, even as the tight core of her warmed, softened. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him.

  But when he tucked one long silky strand behind her ear, his hand caressing the ear, then the tender spot below, her belly ached and her limbs felt terrifyingly weak.

  No one had touched her so gently in years.

  Her need shocked her. She felt like a woman starved for food and warmth. Helplessly she gazed at him, hating herself for responding to him. “Are you quite finished?” she whispered breathlessly.

  “No, not quite,” he murmured, before his dark head lowered.

  She stiffened as his head dr
opped, drawing back against the leather upholstery. No! No, no, no. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t kiss her, especially not here, not when she felt like this. Everything was too new, too strange, too crazy.

  If he felt her resistance, he ignored it, clasping the back of her head, fingers twining in her long hair. She caught the glint in his dark eyes and a hint of rich, sweet spice. Not vanilla, not cinnamon, but some other fragrance so deep, and familiar, that it tantalized her memory.

  His mouth took possession of hers and she breathed him in again, reminded of almonds, sweet baby powder, the heady musk of antique roses…

  Somehow it all fit, he, this, the kiss. His mouth, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms. Tremor after tremor coursed through her veins, creating an intense craving for more sensation.

  Even as his lips parted hers, another electric current shot through her, sparking awareness in every nerve in her body. More, her brain demanded, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue answering the play of his, more, more…

  The kiss deepened, and unconsciously she moved against him seeking to prolong the contact, relishing the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the heady sweet spice of his cologne.

  As his tongue sought the sensitive hollows in her mouth, the inside of her lip, the curve of cheek, blood pooled in her lower belly, her veins pulsing. This felt, he felt…

  Incredible.

  Muffled voices penetrated her brain. Voices. People.

  Her eyes flew open, reality returning.

  Cameras pressed against the limousine windows, dozens of lenses, shutters snapping. “Mr. Pateras, we have company.”

  He raised his head, his mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He didn’t even give the throng of reporters a second glance. “Let them watch. After all, this is what they’ve come for.”

  Panicked, she tried to bolt from the car, lunging out thinking only of running from the crowd and the cameras and Christos—

  A hand clamped at her waist, biting into her skin, holding her still. “Mrs. Pateras—” Christos’s husky voice pierced her panic “—smile for the cameras.”