by Jane Porter
“It’ll stop.”
He cast her a scathing glance. “There’s glass in it. Hold still.”
Eyebrows flat, expression grim, his lips compressed, he probed the wound, gently working the sliver from her tender thumb. She winced at the pressure and he caught her grimace. Suddenly his expression changed. His eyes were so dark, so deep they looked bottomless. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. I did it myself.”
“Still.”
Still. As though he had the power to somehow heal all wounds, restore her peace of mind and soothe the cuts and bruises. Not just a groom, but a miracle man. Wouldn’t that be something? Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit into her lower lip overwhelmed by the intensity of her longing to feel whole and rested, more herself again.
Christos tossed the glass shard onto the tablecloth. “That should do it,” he said, wiping away the drying blood and bandaging her thumb.
She held her breath as he tucked the ends of the linen cloth beneath the edge of the bandage. Something about his touch made her feel too warm, too liquid. He made her feel so…safe. What an illusion. Could anything be more unjust?
“Your father told me you’re not to be trusted,” Christos glanced up into her face, black lashes only partly lifting, his expression concealed. “But I didn’t know he meant with my crystal.”
His lips quirked, a black eyebrow arched, but beneath his ironic tone, she heard concern, then immediately chided herself. This is a deal, a marriage deal and you are a very expensive bride.
Her throat sealed shut. Unable to speak she stared at his hands, the backs very broad and tanned, his fingers long and well-tapered. His touch was so light, so deft, he could have been a carpenter, or a surgeon. Legally he was her husband. Husband. A shiver raced down her spine, and yet it wasn’t fear creating havoc, it was anticipation. Her imagination was running riot. Nervously she glanced up into his face and her heart skittered sideways, as if she was a frightened country mouse instead of one of the wealthiest women in Greece. But money didn’t equate with confidence, or happiness. No one knew that better than she. “My father…he told you I wasn’t to be trusted?”
“Mmm.”
A blush of shame rose to her cheeks. What else had her father told him? She knew too well that her father’s honesty could be brutal. He had hurt her, and her mother, countless times with his cutting appraisal. No one was good enough for him. Certainly not his family.
“Don’t,” Christos said, his voice unusually husky as he reached up to brush her flushed cheek with the tip of his finger.
A strange pain flickered through her and she pressed her bandaged hand to her belly. Everything felt so raw just then, so exposed. She could smell the sharp pungent salt in the air, the warmth of the night, the motion of the ship as it surged through the waves. “Don’t what?”
“Think.” Grooves formed on either side of his mouth, small creases fanned from the corners of his eyes. “You’re torturing yourself again.”
“Better me than you.” She smiled as carelessly as possible, a devil-be-damned smile that hurt in every pore of her body. She’d fought her demons before and won. She’d win again. And she’d do it without Christos’s help, or interference, whatever it might be.
“One more quick check,” he insisted, taking her hand and lifting the edge of the napkin to examine the cut as if it were a wound of significance. “Maybe you won’t need stitches after all.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“My pleasure.”
He should have laughed, grinned, said something lighthearted. Instead he stared into her eyes, earnest and focused, deep furrows marring his high bronze brow. She swore he could see right through her. See her fears, her shocking secrets.
The blood drained from her face, the intensity of his gaze unnerving. What did he see when he looked at her like that? What did he possibly know? She felt threads of panic, hints of the past. “Really, Christos, I won’t fall apart over this.” She’d meant to be funny, to ease the tension, but he didn’t even crack a smile.
His jaw flexed, a small muscle pulling near his ear. “First time you’ve used my given name.”
What was he doing to her? Softening her stony heart, breaking through her defenses, that’s what he was doing. She couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t let him dismantle the high, hard wall she’d built around herself. No one came inside. Ever.
The sooner they reached Cephalonia, the better. Alysia pushed back her chair, and rose unsteadily. “I don’t think I’m hungry. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return to my room.”
“Certainly. Why don’t you go to our room and rest. I’ll have dinner sent to you later.”
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER her solitary dinner, Alysia changed into her satin lilac pajama set, the wide trousers and loose jacket style top covering her from ankles to collarbone. Of all her pajamas these were the least figure-flattering and not at all bridelike.
Bride. Even the word stuck in her throat, making her gag. But she wasn’t a bride. She was an impostor and this time tomorrow she’d be gone. Christos could have the marriage annulled and they’d both put this embarrassing episode behind them.
Alysia crawled into bed and tried to sleep, but sleep didn’t come. Moonlight flickered through the gap in the curtains and the rocking of the yacht was doing funny things to her insides. She felt deceptively warm, and alive, nerve endings alert, senses sharp. Turning onto her side, she closed her eyes and listened to the slap of waves against the yacht’s hull, the groan and creak of wood and the low hum of the engine. Would Christos put in an appearance? Did he intend to share the bed?
How could she think she could manage a man like Christos Pateras? She must have been out of her mind. He might not be exactly like her father, but he was close enough. He’d get what he wanted and he wanted children.
Her stomach cramped and she squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t panic, she soothed. Tomorrow they’d dock in Cephalonia, the largest of the Ionian islands, and mountainous Cephalonia was diverse enough, busy enough, to allow her to escape and hide. She just had to wait for the right opportunity.
Calmer, Alysia relaxed, and gave herself over to the gentle roll and sway of the ship. The rocking motion soon lulled her to sleep.
Warmth permeated her dreams, as well as the realization that a very solid, very real presence was taking up more than half of the bed.
Opening her eyes she discovered Christos next to her, his long muscular body inches away, his arm outstretched, practically touching her.
Alysia stiffened, held her breath, as his palm moved slowly across her head to tangle briefly in the long strands of hair. As quietly as possible, she scooted away, creeping to the bed’s edge and listening with satisfaction as his hand fell to the mattress.
Alysia gathered her hair, moving it from harm’s way. His deep, steady breathing reassured her and little by little she relaxed. Just when she was close to drifting off again, Christos stirred.
Suddenly he moved against her, pressing his thighs to the back of her legs. Total body contact, hip to ankle, his knees fitting behind hers, his groin pressed to her bottom.
Despite the clamor of protest inside her head, her body came to life, nerve endings screaming as if electrified.
Opening her eyes, she gripped the downy comforter, and stared at the edge of the bed, then down at the carpet. There was nowhere to go. She bit her knuckle to keep from shouting out loud.
She wasn’t ready for this kind of intimacy. She didn’t know Christos, and couldn’t bear to be pressed limb to limb with him.
As her senses flooded, responding to his heat and strength, her fear grew. She’d never met a man who aroused such contradictory emotions in her before. Awareness, mistrust, desire, dread.
Using her elbow, she pushed against his chest, trying to prod him backward. He didn’t budge. She pushed again. And still nothing but his deep, even breathing, his warm breath bathing the back of her neck.
Da
mn him. Damn his incredible nerve. Damn his empire, too.
He had her trapped on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t move forward, she’d fall on the floor. If she wiggled backward, and she tried, she came up square against his groin.
Suddenly she realized not all of him was asleep.
Part of him was definitely awake and his thin cotton pajama pants did nothing to contain his impressive length.
Mortified, she pressed a forearm across her eyes, trying to block out the pressure of his arousal against her bottom. But the more she denied the existence of his erection the more rigid his shaft became, enflaming her tender skin, creating heat and liquid desire between her thighs.
The tip of his erection strained against her night-wear, her thighs tingling, her innermost muscles tightening, clenching at air and nothing when he lay so dangerously close.
She’d never admit it in a thousand years, but she wanted him, wanted to feel more of him, and the carnal want was more than she could bear. She’d never been physical, never felt sexual in her life, but Christos Pateras was changing all that. He was making her ache for things she’d never fully experienced.
Alysia writhed. She couldn’t help it. She only prayed he was so deeply asleep he didn’t know the effect he was having on her. Wriggling, her hips shifted, and she brushed the tip of his shaft, tormenting herself.
In the dark, with her arms around herself, and his arousal square against her, she could imagine making love to him, imagine him inside of her, imagine the pleasure of being filled by him.
It was all she could do to not whimper aloud.
And still, he slept on.
Suddenly one of his arms snaked out and clasped her around the waist, holding her firmly against him. His chest pressed to her back. His hips formed a cradle for her bottom. His taut thighs shaped hers. His shaft nearly pierced her through the satin of her pajamas.
Her heart stuttered, her breath caught in her throat. Digging her teeth into her soft lower lip, she muffled a groan. This was torture. Exquisite torture of the best and worst kind.
“Go to sleep,” Christos growled in the darkness, his voice pitched deep and rough.
“I can’t.”
“You can. Just close your eyes. Stop thinking.”
Thinking! She wasn’t thinking. She was feeling, and every nerve ending begged for more sensation. She felt wired for action and nothing was happening. Absolutely nothing. So how was she supposed to sleep?
It seemed as if she lay awake for hours, her lower belly aching, her inner muscles clenching at nothing.
Easy for him to say sleep, he wasn’t the one about to explode out of her skin. But finally, painfully, she drifted off. When she next awoke, the sun was shining and Christos was gone.
Dressing in a slim taupe linen skirt and matching knit top, Alysia tried to deny the nervous thrill she felt at seeing Christos again. He’d made her feel desperate last night, his hard muscled body a torment, and yet he’d also been warm. And solid. And real.
She thrust her feet into strappy tan sandals and hurried upstairs to the deck. A steward met her, greeted her with a bow and showed her to the breakfast table overflowing with lavish platters of fresh fruit and sweet rolls, yogurt and coffee. But no sign of Christos.
She felt her excitement plummet, anticipation turning inside out. The disappointment was so strong that she felt furious with herself for caring so much about someone she knew so little. For heaven’s sake, he was a stranger. She married him to escape her father, not for a stab at domestic tranquillity.
Alysia nearly dropped her china coffee cup. She wasn’t falling for him, was she? She didn’t really expect a happy-ever-after with him…did she? This wasn’t a real marriage. It wasn’t a honeymoon.
Wake up, she snapped at herself. Grow up!
Halfway through her croissant, her appetite well and truly gone, she spotted gleaming white bobbing next to the ship on the water. Pushing back from her chair she moved to the railing and looked down. A speedboat.
Sleekly designed, painted a glossy white and maroon, the speedboat hadn’t been there before. Had someone come on board? Or was Christos planning a trip out?
Either way, there was a boat, and means for escape.
Her fingers tightened on the railing, the wood warmed by the sun. She felt a whisper of regret, but mocked her weakness and her attraction to a man so potentially dangerous. This wasn’t the time to rely on her emotions. She needed to act.
Swiftly descending the flight of stairs that joined the two wraparound decks, Alysia slid over the bottom rail and into the low-slung speedboat. She reached past the steering wheel toward the gauges. A key dangled from the ignition. Yes.
A shadow darkened the deck, filtering the bright morning sun. “Going somewhere?” a husky voice drawled.
Christos.
Her stomach fell so fast and hard she leaned against the speedboat’s dash, fingers compulsively flexing.
Go, just go, a terrified voice screamed inside her head. Get out of here.
But she couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. She stiffened, expecting him to grab her, haul her from the boat. He’d be enraged. He’d be physical.
“You like the Donzi?” he asked, his voice husky, almost amused.
How could he be amused? She’d tried to run away.
“The Donzi?” she choked, her breathing ragged, her body weighted with fear, and dread. Her father would have broken her in two if she’d tried this with him.
“My speedboat. It’s an American boat, made in Florida.”
Tensing, she dragged her gaze up, an inch at a time. He was wearing faded khaki shorts that exposed every sinewy muscle in his thigh and calf and a white cotton T-shirt that had obviously seen better days.
He looked fearless, careless, distinctly American. A frisson of warmth shot through her. There was no anger in his eyes. No anger in the twist of his lips.
“Get your swimsuit,” he said, stepping down into the boat, one long bare leg grazing hers. “I’ve got a favorite beach I like to visit whenever I’m near Cephalonia.”
She almost tripped in her haste to escape him. “I’m not much for the beach,” she fibbed, scrambling out of the boat, away from him, cursing her slim-fitting skirt that hindered her movement.
Christos watched her struggles with interest, arms folded across his chest, the white T-shirt pulled taut at the shoulders. “This isn’t an elective, Mrs. Pateras. It’s a requirement. Get your suit. We’re going swimming.”
Heaping Greek curses on his head, Alysia changed in the bedroom, stepping out of her panties and bra and into a two-piece bathing suit she hadn’t worn in years. Except for the bare midriff, the tank-style suit was cut conservatively, a little high on the thigh, but not indecently so, the top more like a soft sports bra, ample coverage there, too.
This shouldn’t do much for Mr. Pateras, she thought, glimpsing her slim pale limbs in the mirror, her arms too long, her legs too thin, her head looking ridiculously doll-like on her fragile body.
She didn’t look much like a Greek woman anymore, her curves melting away. Nursing her mother had taken its toll, the long exhausting hours decimating what little remained of her appetite. No wonder the sisters were always telling her to eat. She wasn’t just slender anymore, she was skinny.
Alysia resolved to eat better starting immediately. No more cups of black coffee and nibbles of croissant for breakfast. She’d eat more fruit and vegetables, take bigger portions, make sure she was getting enough of the healthy foods.
The telephone by the bed rang and Alysia started. It rang again and she reached for it.
It was Christos. “Are you coming up or do I need to fetch you?”
“I’m coming,” she retorted grimly before slamming the phone back down. She was definitely going back up. The last thing she needed was to be alone with Christos in the bedroom again.
Christos untied the speedboat from the yacht and within minutes they were jumping the white-tipped waves, sending streams of water
into the air. The wind whipped Alysia’s long hair into a frenzy, and she grabbed at it, futilely trying to bring it under control.
The speedboat hit a big teal-green wave and Alysia threw her hands out to steady herself.
Grinning, Christos shot her a quick glance. “Too fast?” he shouted.
“No!” The speed dazzled her, nearly as much as the brilliant sunshine and intense sparkle of blue water. She felt immersed in sensation—the speed of the boat, the surge of the engine, the wind whipping through her hair. Could she feel any more alive?
“You must have spent a lot of time on the water with your father,” Christos said, his voice breaking up in the wind.
“Not really. He doesn’t really like sailing. He usually flies everywhere he needs to go.”
They were flying over the water now. Salty spray coating her skin, droplets dancing in her hair. The daring capabilities of the Donzi left her breathless. “This is incredible,” she confessed. “I could get addicted to this.”
Christos laughed, the sound deep, husky and something turned over in Alysia’s chest. She could see herself cradled in his arms, snuggled against his chest as she’d been last night. He’d been so warm and strong, his hard body a refuge.
Fiercely she squashed the image, reminding herself that he’d forced her into this marriage, manipulated her into taking vows. This wasn’t a real relationship. He’d bought her.
Her pleasure in the boat ride faded and she sat numbly for the remainder of the trip. When Christos slowed the Donzi to steer into a protected little bay, Alysia felt tears prick her eyes. He made everything seem so interesting. His voice resonated with warmth and she found herself responding to him over and over again.
It made her mad. No, furious. And not just at him, but at herself. Didn’t she have any sense? What about her self-control?
The boat motored closer to shore. The bay, shaped by massive rocks and backed by rugged vegetation, looked utterly private. No roads, no other boats, no people. Just the crescent beach with powdery ivory sand and the gentle lapping of waves.
