by Jane Porter
Christos’s jaw tightened, a small muscle popping. He ignored the chauffeur, his full attention on her. “Sometimes we have to bend the rules to get ahead.”
“Bend the rules? You mean, break them, don’t you? You play every bit as underhanded as my father.”
She felt the weight of his gaze. “Perhaps, but my motives are different.”
“So you say!”
“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Trust you?” Slowly she shook her head, disbelief coloring her speech. “I’d trust my father before I trusted you. At least I’ve known him all my life. You, I just met.”
Christos’s large, callused palm clasped her clenched fists, gathering them into his hands. He kissed her clenched fists and then released them. “Sometimes strangers can be blessings in disguise. Now come, it’s time we went inside.”
Alysia had to admit that Constantine was a better host than her father would have been. He greeted her warmly, kissing her on both cheeks, congratulating her on her marriage. If he felt acrimonious toward her, there was no sign of it. She found herself struggling, though, to answer his polite inquiries about her father with equal enmity. Clearly Constantine sought to put past tensions behind them. She could do no less.
“Well done,” Christos whispered into her ear, as they moved from Constantine and his wife to another couple.
She tried to hold herself aloof as Christos discussed business with the other man, but he snaked an arm around her waist and drew her firmly against his side. His fingers kneaded softly into her waist, moving down slightly to caress her hip.
Alysia attempted to draw away, and his arm only tightened, holding her more firmly. An escape was impossible.
Throwing her head back, she parted her lips to protest but caught the warning light in his eyes. Remember where you are, his expression said, remember who we’re with.
Men. Businessmen. And Christos was conducting business.
She swallowed the bitterness in her mouth, unwillingly flashing back to a time she’d impulsively interrupted one of her father’s meetings to ask if she could join a group of teenagers heading to an Athens disco. She’d never been to a disco, never been dancing. It had sounded exciting and despite her mother’s warning, she’d gone to her father, desperate for permission. Her mother had been right. Her father was furious at the interruption, slapping her sharply across the face in front of a dozen men. He’d slapped her and sent her to bed.
Instead of dancing she’d wept for hours, trapped in her loneliness, and her shame.
Her father had crushed her feeble attempts at independence, refusing to permit her even the smallest of freedoms, wanting the traditional Greek daughter.
The slow circle of Christos’s thumb against her hipbone permeated the cloud of memory and with a small jolt, her attention returned to the business discussion and the warmth of Christos’s hand on her hip.
Heat shimmered within her, a spark of awareness that made her tingle from head to toe. And again she felt desire stir, languorous need awakening, threatening to possess her rational mind.
As Christos and the other man discussed the European market and the American economy, Alysia’s head began to swim, dazed by the tension flooding her limbs. As the conversation continued, she heard fewer words, too aware of the blood surging through her, the tightening in her belly making her thoughts race in a dangerous direction. She’d never felt desire like this. It made her desperate to answer the emptiness aching inside her.
Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, the couple moved on and she caught his fingers in one hand, lifting them from her hip.
“Don’t,” she gritted, undone by the intimacy, overwhelmed by her hungry response.
“We’re supposed to be happy. We’re newlyweds in love.”
She stiffened in silent protest, hating how powerless she felt, helpless with needs she couldn’t control. If he could make her feel this way in public, what would happen tonight when they were alone?
She couldn’t let him make love to her. She wasn’t on birth control, she doubted he’d wear a condom. He’d made it clear that he wanted children and he wanted them soon. One of these nights he’d push to consummate the marriage. Maybe even tonight.
She had to leave, couldn’t afford to wait for another opportunity.
She had to go. Immediately. The party was the perfect cover. So many beautiful people coming and going, music playing, a hum of activity. Christos wouldn’t even know she’d gone until too late.
Afraid she’d lose her resolve, she turned to him, murmured an excuse, a pretense of needing to use the ladies’ room. Quickly she moved away, out of the white-and-gold ballroom, down the hall, continuing to a narrower passage, one that cut through to the kitchen.
She ignored the kitchen staff, her head high, her purse dangling carelessly from her wrist. She didn’t run. Just kept her gaze fixed on the door before her.
The driveway, lined with a dozen expensive imported cars, Bentleys and Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, Jaguars and Ferraris, looked like an exotic car show. Alysia passed the parked cars with barely a glance, nodding briefly at the cluster of drivers who stood in front of a marble lion smoking.
One driver—her driver?—called out to her, asking if she needed a ride. She shook her head and continued on, knowing that a taxi would be the safest option.
She flagged the taxi, a four-person Mercedes, not far from the Trapano Bridge at the south end of Argostoli. Close to the harbor, she could smell the pungent salt in the air, and the hum of the ocean.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Sami,” she said, directing him to the island’s other port, a small village with ferry access to other islands, as well as the mainland. And Sami lay miles from bustling Argostoli with its community of wealthy shipowners who knew too much about her and the Lemos family. No one in Sami would know her.
Alysia pawned her diamond-and-sapphire bracelet in Sami for necessary cash. Out of the money she’d gotten for the bracelet she paid for her ferry ride to Lefkas, and then on Lefkas, was able to buy a one-way plane ticket on Olympic Airways for Athens.
How ironic, she thought with a small twist of her lips, that the bracelet, a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday, should now buy her freedom.
If only she’d taken the bracelet to Paris, pawned it there. She could have used the money. It might have saved Alexi.
Suddenly she saw Alexi’s perfect face, his silvery blond curls, his small arms outstretched, floating.
Floating.
Alysia squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her knuckles against her mouth and fought to erase the memory. For a long moment she sat hunched, her insides frozen, her body rigid with endless, wordless grief.
To think that a bracelet could save her baby’s life.
To think that a bracelet could have saved her sanity.
But, no, she couldn’t think like that. She’d promised her mother she wouldn’t think like that. Those thoughts were the dark ones that ate her alive. Those thoughts nearly destroyed her before. She had to live in the moment. There was only the moment. The past was gone. And the future lay ahead.
In Athens she called an old childhood friend, Lalia, to see if she couldn’t perhaps stay with her for a few days until she arranged for a new passport.
Lalia, who’d always been very modern, so far for-going marriage to pursue a career as a textile designer, was more than happy to accommodate Alysia, especially as she was preparing to fly to London on business and was anxious to find a housesitter for her high-strung cat.
“Zita’s very sensitive and he hates disruption,” Lalia said, gathering her travel bags and taxi fare together. “Don’t be disappointed if he won’t play. He’ll probably hide until I come home. Just feed him and pretend everything’s normal.”
Alysia checked her smile. “How like a man.”
“Speaking of men, I thought you were married?”
“Rumors.” Alysia held the door open for
her friend. “Now go, before you miss your flight. And don’t worry about a thing. Zita and I will get along just fine.”
The first day alone Alysia did nothing but sleep, and read, and sleep some more. The second day she made some calls. The government office handling passports couldn’t help her without a copy of her birth certificate, which would require her coming into the office in person to fill out the necessary paperwork.
She hung up the phone and reluctantly conceded that she’d have to visit the government building in person. She’d hoped to avoid going out in public but perhaps if she donned a hat and sunglasses she’d pass unrecognized.
Zita, the onyx-colored, tailless cat, poked his head out from beneath the lace curtains at the window and gazed at her through narrowed eyes.
Alysia imagined she saw disapproval in Zita’s slitted eyes and turned her back on the cat. Everything’s fine, she firmly told herself. Don’t let a cat put your nerves on edge.
The labyrinth of government offices exercised Alysia’s strained patience. An afternoon spent waiting in long lines, filling out paperwork in duplicate, only to be sent to another endless line, turned a beautiful autumn afternoon into sheer torture.
Three hours after entering the government building, Alysia left, having been informed that the passport, even if rushed, would take two weeks to process.
Two weeks.
Alysia let herself into Lalia’s apartment. Closing the door with one hand, she kicked off her leather loafers and dropped her purse on top of the shoes.
Barefoot she padded down the hall and into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door for a bottle of chilled mineral water. “Zita,” she called. “Hungry?”
The cat didn’t answer. Of course, she hadn’t expected it to answer, but people were supposed to take to their cats, right?
With her bottle of water in hand she headed toward the living room, richly patterned rugs—all Lalia’s design—beneath her bare feet. “Zita! Where are you? Still hiding?”
She stopped short. A man, a tall, broad-shouldered man, sat on the sofa—no, dominated the sofa—with a tailless black cat curled in his lap.
Christos.
CHAPTER SIX
“HELLO, Mrs. Pateras,” Christos said, his tone disarmingly conversational as he caressed Zita’s dark head. “How was your day?”
She stared at the broad tanned hand cupped over the cat’s head, strong fingers slowly, deliberately scratching behind Zita’s short, pointy ears, and began to tremble. Her legs suddenly went nerveless, turning into mush.
The bottle of water almost slid from her fingers. “Christos.”
“You remembered,” he retorted with a savage twist of his lips. He rose so swiftly from the couch that he nearly dumped Zita on his feet. “I wasn’t sure if you would. But then, I’m only your husband.”
He smiled at her, and yet there was nothing remotely kind in his expression, his features granite-like, his dark eyes glittering.
Zita meowed a protest at being so unceremoniously dumped from his comfortable resting place, but Christos ignored the cat, and clenching his fists, took a quick step toward her before checking himself.
She felt his anger, his barely controlled temper, and a sick tremor coursed through her. “Ahh…”
“What was that, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”
His joke went in one ear and out the other. She couldn’t speak, her tongue wooden, her jaw taut, fear turning her inside out. Instead she helplessly shook her head, her gaze darting to the door and then back at Christos.
“I wouldn’t try it. You won’t get away and you’ll only make me angry.”
“And you’re not angry now?” she flashed, finding her voice, and simultaneously stunned by the weakness in her knees. She felt as if her legs would buckle beneath her any moment now.
“Oh, I’m angry all right, I’m fit to be tied. But my father has persuaded me to show you mercy.”
Mercy. What an odd, terrifying, and yet incredibly Greek thing to say.
Christos moved toward her, closing the distance between them. She was forced to tilt her head back to see his face, realizing belatedly she’d forgotten his height, and the sheer size of him.
“How did you find me?”
“You didn’t think I would?” A black eyebrow lifted, expressing surprise.
“You didn’t know I was on the mainland. You don’t know Lilia.”
“But I know you.” His eyes gleamed, dark and hard, fixing on her face with predatory instinct. His smile deepened and it was the coldest, most malevolent smile she’d ever seen. “I knew you’d apply for a passport. I knew you’d try to leave Greece.”
Her tongue thick and heavy, wouldn’t form words. Instead she stared at him, dry-mouthed, wide-eyed, unable to think a single coherent thought. Fear pummeled her brain, melted her bones. “No…” she whispered helplessly. “It couldn’t have been so easy.”
“Sweetheart, it was too easy. Like taking candy from a baby.” He stopped in front of her, reached out and lifted one gold strand from her shoulder, sliding the tendril through his fingers as if silk. “You see, sweet Alysia, I have a home here in Athens. I spend a great deal of time here. New York may be my headquarters, but I maintain offices in Athens, too. I have employees in Athens, and they’ve been watching you, from the moment you flew into the airport to the moment you just walked in the door.”
Horror filled her. He’d had her followed the past few days. She’d been under surveillance. A prisoner, his prisoner, and she didn’t even know it.
Slowly he coiled the tendril around his finger, wrapping it into a honey ribbon. He wrapped it tighter then gave a little pull, making her wince.
“You made a fool out of me,” he murmured with another small tug. “In front of my colleagues and friends. You humiliated me at the Pappas’s, created quite a stir. You should be punished. How shall I punish you? Any suggestions?”
Her tongue continued to cleave to the roof of her mouth. Her heart hammered. “No.”
One of Christos’s thick black brows lifted. “No suggestions, or no to punishment?”
All this time she thought—believed—she was free. These past several days had felt like heaven. Instead she’d been his, remained his possession. It made her want to weep with frustration. “Why did you think I’d want to leave Greece?”
“You hate Greece. You feel trapped here. I imagine you wanted to fly to England, look up your mother’s family.” Carefully he unwound the tendril.
“You’re awfully clever, aren’t you?”
“No. You’re just awfully predictable.”
“Go to hell!”
Almost absently he caressed her cheek. “Don’t be childish, Alysia. It’s not becoming.”
She flinched at his touch, drawing sharply away. “I can’t believe you had me followed.”
“How could you think I wouldn’t protect my investment?”
The softness in his voice, the husky tone, contrasted cruelly with his expression. His eyes said it all. She’d betrayed him.
He reached into a pocket and withdrew the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet she’d recently pawned. “Here. Put it back on.”
She cringed at the bracelet, hating the reminder of the power Christos held over her. “No.”
“Do it. Or I will.” Without waiting for her to answer he took her hand, flipped her wrist open and snapped the glittering bangle onto her slender arm.
It looked completely incongruous with her leather loafers and casual clothes yet it felt heavy, like iron, he was shackling her to him, taking control of her life again.
“Do not take it off,” he said curtly, “and do not think of running away again.”
“I refuse to be an object, Christos!”
“You’re no object. You’re my wife.” He tilted her chin up with one of his fingers, his dark eyes searching her mutinous expression. “I erred in judgment once, but I won’t make the same mistake again. It’s time I exerted my rights in this marriage and time you behaved
like a proper Greek wife.”
She knew, a split second in advance, that he was going to kiss her. Yet there was no escaping him. His mouth crushed hers, grinding her lips apart, his tongue boldly thrusting inside her mouth, stabbing at the softness with ill-concealed contempt.
But even as his tongue lashed at her sensitive contours, her body warmed, her innermost muscles tightening in anticipation. Despite everything, she wanted him.
Christos’s dark head lifted and he gazed into her eyes, a mocking smile etched on his lips. “I’m beginning to understand why your father found it necessary to keep you locked up. You’re wild. You’re utterly wanton.”
Heat burned in bands across the tops of her cheekbones. She tried to take a step back but his hands clasped her at the waist, fingers dipping into the small of her spine.
Again his mouth crushed hers, his tongue raking the sensitive contours of her mouth, thrusting at the hollow of her cheek, beneath her tongue, even tracing the roof of her mouth.
She clung to him, clasping his arms, her legs without strength. She felt mindless with wanting and helplessly opened her mouth wider to him, her tongue finding his, teasing.
He moved to strip her of her jeans, but his hand stilled on her tummy. “Stop me, now—” he muttered thickly, but she didn’t speak, and she didn’t answer him.
With a groan he tugged her jeans down and then her panties, pulling them off her ankles and casting them to the ground. She felt him grind his hips against hers, his erection creating friction between her thighs.
He worked his zipper down, dropped his own trousers even as his fingers slid between her legs, finding her heat and to her shame, her eager moisture.
Christos dropped her to the ground and parted her legs with his knees. He held her bottom in his hands and without a word, drove into her.
She gasped at the thrust, her body forced to accommodate his size, and she buried her knuckles into his back, overwhelmed by the intensity of his body filling hers, joining them intimately together.
