Christos's Promise

by Jane Porter

  CHAPTER THREE

  LEAVING the noisy media throng behind, Alysia stepped aboard the yacht, late-afternoon sun glinting off the water in the purest form of golden light.

  Christos swiftly introduced her to his staff and crew, rattling off the dozen names, even as the yacht gently swayed in the harbor waters.

  The emotionally intense afternoon, the numerous introductions, the strangeness of her new surroundings suddenly exhausted her. Or was it the stark realization that until they touched land, she was really and truly caught in this pretend marriage?

  She might never get away.

  She might be trapped forever.

  Her head swimming, she gulped air, panic overriding every other thought. What had she done? What in God’s name had she done?

  “I can’t,” she choked, searching for the exit, her gaze jumping from wall to door to patch of blue sky outside. “I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t—”

  “You can,” Christos softly countered, stepping closer to her side. “You already did.”

  He cut the introductions short and took her by the elbow, steering her through the formal salon to an elegant stateroom decorated in the palest shades of blue. Just beyond the wide French doors, the ocean shimmered a brilliant royal-blue. The effect was calming, indescribably peaceful, and she relaxed slightly.

  “Do you need a drink?” he asked, sliding his suit jacket off.

  “No.”

  “Brandy might help.”

  Nothing would help, she thought, not until she got off the yacht. But she couldn’t say that, and she couldn’t allow him to become suspicious.

  Christos tossed his jacket across the foot of the bed. “Maybe a long hot bath would feel good. I can’t imagine you were allowed such indulgences in the convent.”

  “No, definitely not. Cold showers were de rigueur.”

  He began unfastening the top button on his fine dress shirt. “Think you’ll be comfortable here?”

  Her gaze took in the massive bed with the bolsters and mountain of pillows. Soft silk drapes hung at the French doors. The same ice-blue silk covered a chaise lounge. Her fingertips caressed the silk chaise, the down-filled cushion giving beneath the weight of her hand. Her room at the convent had been so spartan. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He continued unfastening one small button after another, revealing first his throat and then his darkly tanned chest with the crisp curl of hair.

  Alysia sucked in a breath, the glimpse of his chest hair so personal she felt as if she’d invaded his privacy. Yet she found herself turning to watch him again, half-fascinated, half-fearful. Christos appeared utterly at ease as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders, the smooth muscular planes of his chest rippling.

  “Your wardrobe’s in the closet,” he added. “Do change into something more comfortable. We’ll have a light meal now on the deck and then supper later, closer to ten.”

  The typical Greek dinner hour. But not the typical Greek man. She quickly averted her gaze again.

  Then his words registered. Your wardrobe’s in the closet. “We share this room?”

  His expression didn’t change. “Of course.”

  She took a defensive step backward, bumping the edge of the writing table. She glanced down at the desk’s polished surface, noting the neat arrangement of paper, inkwell, pen. “Mr. Pateras, you know the terms of our agreement.”

  “Sharing a bed isn’t a sexual act, Mrs. Pateras.”

  “It’s close enough.”

  “Surely you’ve shared a room before.”

  He didn’t mention her former husband. He didn’t need to. She knew exactly what he was thinking and she didn’t like his presumption. “Regardless, I’d like a room of my own, please.”

  He walked toward her. She leaned back, her bottom bumping the desk. Without apology, he took her in his arms, his mouth covering hers.

  Heat flooded her veins, heat swept through her middle, into her belly and deeper still. She felt hot and weak and when he parted her lips with his, she didn’t resist. If anything she opened her mouth wider, arched closer, straining against the emptiness since her mother’s death, and the years before.

  His palm found her hip, pressed her more tightly against him. She felt the thrust of his arousal and her breasts ached, nipples hardening. This was too close but not close enough, too much sensation and yet too little, everything felt hot and flushed and yet it was wrong.

  But she didn’t pull away, couldn’t pull away, riveted by the tumult of her feelings.

  His tongue flicked against her inner lower lip before exploring the recesses of her mouth. Teeth grazed teeth, and then he bit once into the softness of her lip. Her protest sounded like a whimper, more desire than denial, and Christos made a sound low in his throat, rough, hungry.

  He was tasting her, exploring, setting her body and limbs on fire. No pretend marriage for him. He’d have her naked and beneath him in no time.

  Her legs were trembling and she felt the fire lick her ankles, her knees, between her thighs. It was, she thought wildly, a fire she didn’t want, wouldn’t be able to control.

  Christos broke the kiss off, lifting his dark head to gaze into her eyes. He trailed a finger down her flushed cheek. “Separate rooms?” he said hoarsely. “I don’t think so.”

  Christos left to speak with the captain and Alysia fled to the shower. Inside the glass stall, water streamed from the showerhead and she soaped her face vigorously, determined to wash away every trace of Christos’s kisses.

  Who did he think he was, kissing her, touching her, treating her like one of his possessions?

  He might have made a deal with her father, but he hadn’t made a deal with her! With another swipe of the soapy washcloth, she scrubbed her mouth again and then her neck, shoulders, breasts.

  It had been ages since she’d indulged in a long, hot shower and she lathered her hair in the fragrant shampoo provided. The rich scent reminded her of a fruit cocktail with its fragrance of citrus, mango, papaya. It formed billowy suds and rinsed easily.

  Christos Pateras spared no expense of anything. Yachts. Wives. Or bath necessities.

  Suddenly the yacht hummed to life, the engine’s vibrations shooting through the white ceramic floor tiles into the soles of her feet. They were leaving Oinoussai at last!

  With one towel wrapped around her body, and another twisted turban-style around her head, she padded quickly to the bedroom.

  Ambivalent emotions whirled within her, her breath catching in a mix of excitement and dread. She’d waited so long to leave Oinoussai, but to leave as an American’s wife!

  As the yacht pulled anchor she felt momentum shift in her own life. Anything could happen now.

  Everything could happen now.

  In mute satisfaction, she watched Oinoussai recede, the small island shrinking small, smaller, smallest until miles of water lay between the yacht and the rocky sweep of land.

  Finally the island became just a speck in the sea, and then disappeared altogether. When the island was gone, and the horizon blue, just endless blue water and a low, gold sun starting to set, Alysia released the bottled air in her lungs in a rush, her eyes stinging, her heart thumping, lungs raw and bursting.

  She inhaled another breath and suddenly it all became easier, freer, as if a weight had toppled from her chest.

  Free. She was free. She might have been back on Oinoussai only two years, but those years felt like forever. It had been forever. Not just her mother’s death, but the sanatorium, the horrible marriage to Jeremy, the baby…

  The baby.

  Alysia sank onto the bed, crushing the ice-blue silk coverlet. Groaning, she covered her face with her hands, pressing the heel of her palms to her eyes. Miniature yellow dots exploded against the blackness of her lids.

  Her heart felt as if it were on fire and the pain consumed her. With a strangled sob, she rocked back and forth, stricken with need, tortured by the memory.

  Alexi, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.<
br />
  It was too much, too sharp, too horrible.

  She couldn’t do this, couldn’t give in to the terrible grief again. The doctors at the sanatorium had taught her to fight back, to keep the memories at bay. Grinding her palms against her eyes, she pressed until she could see nothing, hear nothing, remember nothing.

  Little by little she calmed, still rocking herself on the bed, unconsciously mimicking the motion she’d used to soothe Alexi when he couldn’t get comfortable, when sleep seemed impossible. Back and forth, back and forth, until at last the monster inside her slept.

  And slowly the grief receded until it lay still and silent, a great hulking giant at memory’s gate.

  Drawing a painful breath, she slowly lifted her head, catching a glimpse of herself in the large gold-framed mirror hanging above the antique chest of drawers.

  Wide, wild eyes. Trembling lips. Terror there, hatred, too.

  How could she not be full of hate? She’d done a terrible, unforgivable thing. She hated no one more than she hated herself.

  Christos watched her appear on the deck, a vision in the palest shade of pink. Her long thin sleeveless dress clung to her breasts, brushed her ankles, sliding over her slim hips. With her long wheat and honey hair pulled into a knot at her nape, she looked incredibly feminine, very fragile, and he felt a wave of possession sweep through him. She was his now. She belonged to him.

  He’d seen her before, years ago, at a gathering in Athens. She was young, even more blond, and she’d entered the room to tearfully whisper something to her father.

  The men had hushed, the meeting interrupted, and Darius Lemos reacted in anger. He slapped his daughter in front of everyone, the sound of his palm loud, too loud in the suddenly silent room.

  Christos had been twenty-seven and the foreigner, the interloper, alienated at the back of the room. Although he spoke fluent Greek, he hadn’t understood all the innuendoes tossed his way. All he knew was that he’d had his fill of poverty, and powerlessness, and he’d never let anyone dictate to him again.

  He’d been shocked when Darius struck his daughter, the savagery of the blow leaving a vivid hand-print on the girl’s face. But the girl hadn’t made a sound. She simply stared at her father, tears swimming in her eyes, before wordlessly leaving the room.

  The meeting resumed and all continued as if nothing happened.

  But something happened. Something happened to Christos.

  Alysia approached him now as slowly, as hesitantly as she’d approached her father all those years ago.

  Silently he handed her a glass of champagne, noting as he did the spiky tips of her sooty lashes, the dampness at the corners of her startling blue-green eyes. She’d been crying.

  “Second thoughts?” he murmured.

  “And thirds, and fourths.” She turned her head away, revealing more of her creamy nape.

  Again he felt the urge to take her in his arms, to kiss her soft skin and make her warm in his hands. He’d know her better than anyone one day. He’d discover all the secrets she kept buried within her.

  She rested her slender arms on the railing, the glass of champagne ignored, dangling in her fingers. The yacht was moving swiftly through the water and the wind lifted tendrils of hair from her smooth knot.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Away from Greece.”

  “Done.”

  She turned her head just enough to glance at him over her bare pale shoulder. Her skin gleamed. Her blue eyes were dark, mysterious. “I don’t even know where you live.”

  “We’ll live outside New York most of the time. But I also have houses in London, Provence and on the Amalfi Coast.”

  “You sound restless.”

  Amusement curved his mouth. “See, you know me already.”

  The uniformed cabin steward stepped onto the deck, signaling that the light meal was ready. Christos held out a hand, gesturing for Alysia to follow the cabin steward to the table set on the far end of the deck.

  Christos held her chair as she took her place at the small table on the deck. “You look beautiful in pink.”

  She set her champagne glass down, pushing it across the linen cloth toward the floral centerpiece. She waited until the steward stepped away to speak. Very carefully she kept her gaze fixed on the yellow and white roses. “Let’s not pretend this is anything but a business arrangement, Mr. Pateras.”

  “By its very nature, marriage is a business arrangement.” He sat down across from her and leaned back in his chair. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be sterile, or cold and intolerable. Nor does it mean we can’t celebrate our union.”

  She grasped the stem of the champagne flute between two fingers. “And what are we celebrating, Mr. Pateras? Your new financial gain? Your alliance with Darius Lemos?”

  “All of the above.”

  She made a move to set her glass down. “Then I’d rather not.”

  “What if we celebrate your beauty then?”

  “I definitely won’t drink to that.”

  “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

  “I know I’m not.”

  “I find you breathtaking.”

  “Perhaps you’ve lacked for company, lately.”

  He smiled, almost indulgently. “I’ve had exceptional company. But you, I must admit, fascinate me. You’re a tormented beauty, aren’t you?”

  She paled, her eyes growing enormous, her blue irises dark and flecked with bits of bottle-green. “This conversation makes me very uncomfortable.”

  “Sorry.”

  But he didn’t sound sorry, she thought, fighting fresh panic, feeling increasingly trapped.

  While dressing tonight she’d determined to keep her distance, to remain detached, to do everything in her power to keep him at arm’s length but his power was insidious. She found herself drawn to him in ways she couldn’t fathom.

  He was a stranger. He’d been bought by her father. He only wanted Lemos money. So why did her heart stir and her emotions twist, why did she want what was absolutely wrong for her?

  She half closed her eyes, reminding herself that he was a spider and he’d woven a web and if she weren’t careful he’d eat her, the same way a spider ate a little fly.

  This was about survival.

  Alysia crossed one ankle behind the other, as if to fortify herself, become impenetrable. She’d shut him out, draw the line here. He wouldn’t cross it. She wouldn’t let him.

  Christos stirred, lazily stretching out one long arm to drag her chair toward him. He had no intention of letting her escape. “No need to be frightened.”

  “I’m not.” Good, frost glittered in her voice.

  “Your pulse is racing. I can see it there, at your throat.”

  Her heart was racing. She felt breathless, dizzy, on edge. If he touched her, she’d scream. If he drew her any closer, she’d leap out of her skin. This was all going wrong, terribly wrong and there was nothing she could do now but play the cards she’d been given.

  “It’s not. I’m quite calm. You probably need glasses.”

  His lips tightened and then eased and she realized he was grinning. “My vision is perfect. Twenty/twenty. Neither my father nor mother wear glasses, either.” His smile faded, eyebrows pulling and suddenly all laughter was gone and he looked hard, focused, determined. “Why do you think so little of yourself?”

  The swift change of subject knocked her off balance. Alysia felt as though she’d run smack into a wall and she shook her head once, dazed by the contact with a reality she resisted.

  Why, he asked? Because she’d committed an act so terrible, so vile that her husband had left her, her friends abandoned her, her mind had shut down. It had taken her time in the sanatorium to begin to recover.

  “You’re intelligent, beautiful, sensitive, possibly charming,” he said, touching her on the cheek with the back of his hand. She averted her head. He took her chin in his hand and turned her back
to face him. “Why so little pride?”

  The kindness in his voice almost undid her. No one except her mother, and maybe the abbess, had spoken to her so softly, so gently, in years. He made her feel like a…human being.

  Tears started in her eyes and she blinked them back. Clutching the champagne flute’s slender stem even more tightly, she tried to break the intensity of his gaze. “Please, no more.”

  “I want to understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand. I am what my father says I am. Reckless. Disobedient. Rebellious.”

  His dark gaze moved searchingly across her face, examining every inch of her profile before dropping to her breasts and lower still. “Are you?”

  “Of course. I’m my father’s daughter.”

  She’d meant to be flippant but it came out dreadfully wrong, more despair than arrogance in her husky voice. Suddenly she felt completely naked, her dress no more protection than a sheet of plastic kitchen wrap.

  Alysia clutched the champagne flute as though her life depended on it. What if he discovered the truth about her? What if he realized the kind of person she really was? “Let me go, please. You can keep the dowry, my jewels, my savings. I don’t want anything.”

  “You couldn’t survive poor. You’ve never tasted poverty. It tastes as bad as it looks.”

  “I’d rather be poor and free. Please, just let me go.”

  His dark gaze bored through her. He didn’t speak for a long, tense moment. Finally he shook his head. “I can’t. I need you too much.”

  Her slim body jerked, her hand convulsively tightened on the goblet and with an ear-splitting pop, she snapped the crystal stem in two. The champagne flute crashed in pieces to the table. A shard of glass lodged painfully deep in her thumb.

  It was like slow motion, she thought, watching the blood suddenly spurt in a brilliant red stream. Christos swore violently, sounding every bit a native Greek, as he grabbed a linen napkin and covered the arc of blood.

  “I’m fine,” she protested weakly.

  “You’re not. You’re a bleeding fountain.” He lifted the napkin briefly to inspect the damage. “You might need stitches.”