by Caro LaFever
Stupid thought.
He turned his head and looked over. She lay as far from him as she could, her flannel-covered back to him. Yet the curls of her moonlit hair slid along the pillow towards him, silky tentacles reaching for his lust, grasping for his attention, riding his control.
Aetos dragged his attention away from her allure to stare at the arched, darkened ceiling.
She’d threatened him again.
Forced him again.
Defeated him again.
He was stuck here with no way out. No place to run. And she, this witch, was at fault. The burn of fury melded with the lust to form a steel sword of rigid determination to avenge himself. Somehow, some way, he would pay this woman back.
One long, female leg slipped along his calf. He jerked before going still. Her soft foot slid up and down, causing the hairs on his calf to stand at attention. Another part of his body began to arise.
She doesn’t want you.
Sixty minutes ago, he’d climbed into this bed of torture after walking for hours in the cold Greek night. He’d stumbled around the outside of the farmhouse, then paced down to the vineyard and then, somehow, found himself at the top of the mountain overlooking his grandfather’s land. That perch had been his, his place more than any other in this godforsaken homeland. There, he’d taken his books and lost himself in a land of heroes and dreams and hopes. On the top of the mountain, he’d found the courage to go to a new land where, he’d hoped, he could find himself.
She murmured in her sleep, the low, husky sound winding around him like strands of heated braiding intent on pulling him in.
Coming back here to this bed hadn’t been his intention. Yet suddenly, standing there on the mountain, the December wind howling around him, the half moon glowing in icy glory above him...Suddenly, he’d been exhausted.
Exhaustion wasn’t in his vocabulary.
He regularly worked twenty hours a day. A couple of hours of sleep a night were always sufficient to keep his cylinders going at full blast. Finding the energy to accomplish every goal, conquer every challenge, had never been a problem for him.
Now, there’d barely been energy to find his way back to the farmhouse. Back to this bedroom.
Back to her.
Exhaustion lay like a blanket over his body, along with the quilt his giagiá had sewn for him when he’d first arrived here years ago. He ached with it. The exhaustion. The smothering love.
Still, he could not sleep.
The mágissa rustled beside him and turned. All at once, her body rolled right into his. The heat of her long, lean body seared his side and her scent swirled around him like a veil of lacy, dew-lined flowers. Aetos tensed before trying to pull himself away.
Too late.
He went from semi-hard to fully erect in one second.
Sweat broke out over his entire body.
Every muscle zinged to life.
He sank into her siren spell. Without thought, he moved his hand to her soft curls, ran his fingers through the strands, just as he’d caught himself dreaming of doing a thousand times. Now it was reality and the reality didn’t match his dreams.
Reality was far better, far worse.
Moving his mouth across her forehead, he tasted her. The fine wisps of her hair whispered along his lips, tugging him closer. To her. To woman.
With a soft hum, she snuggled into his heat and one of her hands slid over his chest. He cursed himself for putting on a simple cotton T-shirt and nylon shorts before climbing into bed. If he’d done what he usually did, slept in the nude, he’d have felt her touching him, stroking his needy skin. Instead, he was left with the pain of half-filled desires.
Her hand moved across his abdomen to his side. Her head nestled into his shoulder. He felt the weight of her delicate breasts on his chest.
She sighed and slept.
Aetos stared at the ceiling and swore under his breath.
She didn’t know what she was doing. She was sleeping. While a fire of urgent need strummed through his body, she was oblivious.
She doesn’t want you.
Never, ever had he been in this situation. He’d never shared a bed with a woman other than for one thing. Release. He’d never merely laid beside a woman, holding her, listening to her breathe, taking endless moments to inventory the softness of her hair, the scent of her body. He’d never taken the time to realize a woman’s body, one woman’s body, could easily slide into his arms like she’d been made for only him, only his embrace.
He peered at her face. The moonbeams traced a shadowed light over the pale beauty of her skin. The light flecked her lashes with silver and turned her brows to pearl. Her mouth moved with a whisper of dreamy visions and he stared as the lips parted in a welcoming pout.
A desperate desire, like none he’d ever experienced, ran through him.
For a kiss. A simple kiss. From this woman and no other.
Would she wake? Would she reject him once more?
Could he change her mind?
He yanked his gaze back to the ceiling. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t going to accept a challenge. Some instinct told him it was far too treacherous with this woman. Other women were occasionally a challenge and occasionally interesting. But this woman was entirely different in every way.
If she rejected him again, it would slice him in half.
Even worse, if she did accept him, want him, she could bewitch him for a lifetime.
A shiver of raw fear doused the fiery lust burning in his cock. With the fear, came the memories of what women could do to men whom they enchanted. What women were capable of when a boy loved them, worshiped them. The old betrayal, the old hate bloomed inside him and the lust vanished in a wisp of vapor.
Aetos breathed a sigh of relief as if he’d just stepped back from a mountain’s edge. He took in another breath and was further relieved when her scent didn’t fire his blood like it had moments before.
He was safe.
With the thought whispering in his mind, he closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
His pappoús looked much better. These last four days at the farm had brought Leonidas Kourkoulos back to life. He still carried the seventeen years of aging on his face and body. Yet his robust laugh was now the same, and the energy, the passionate energy Aetos himself had inherited, had returned to the old man.
His grandfather had also regained his ability to order his grandson around.
“Éna akóma páti̱ma.”
Grunting, Aetos nudged the new stove further into the slot. The slot he’d created when, after much sweating and cursing, he’d managed to yank out the old, decrepit monstrosity his giagiá had been forced to cook on for thirty years.
“Lígo perissótero pros ta aristerá.”
He turned and glared at the old man who sat comfortably at the kitchen table sipping on his coffee, contentedly observing his grandson work. Hard. “The oven doesn’t need to be moved any more to the left.”
An old, broad shoulder shrugged.
“And you shouldn’t be smoking.”
Another shrug.
Standing from the crouch he’d been in, he wiped the trickle of sweat off his forehead. He hadn’t wanted to do this work, but during the last few days he’d come to the reluctant conclusion; it was the only way to make sure the renovations were completed. Plus, to his immense frustration, his laptop didn’t connect to the internet and service for his cell phone was sporadic.
Construction and renovation at least kept him busy.
The change in his work habits had the surprising effect of giving him deep, dreamless sleep. Every night, he landed in bed with the witch, thinking he’d spend the hours in sexual agony. Instead, he dropped off like a log for a good eight hours of sleep. Only to wake early in the morning with the female plastered to his side, sound asleep.
Her hands all over him.
His hands all over her.
The inevitable erection lasted for long minutes under the col
d shower he stuck himself into, in lieu of attacking a woman who’d made it clear she didn’t want him. Or didn’t want him for anything else but a nice warm bed rest.
A thump from above made both men glance up to the ceiling.
“I̱ giagiá sas arései to néo érpi̱ta zo̱stí̱ra.”
His grandmother had taken one look at the samples the roofing salesman had pulled out and chosen the brightest blue shingles Aetos had ever seen.
The mágissa had cackled at the expression on his face.
Her long, curly braid had nearly hit her butt as she’d thrown back her head with her laugh. Her teeth had gleamed in the December sun and her velvet eyes had shone with delight at his consternation. At his disbelief. At his sure knowledge his grandparents would be the laughingstock of the town with their new neon-blue roof.
Her laugh should have made him fiery with fury.
But it hadn’t.
Her laughter no longer made him tense and angry. Rather, he’d almost joined in her laughter. Joy had run through him, the love of life and love for his grandparents and love of even the damned blue shingles.
She’d wanted him to share it, he could sense it and see it in her expression.
Walking away immediately, he’d gone to the shed and pulled out the new stove he’d sent from the States. He tried to remember he needed to keep himself safe. Tried to remind himself he needed to focus on his hate for women, not the love for life the witch kept tempting him with.
Something settled in his gut, though. Something important he couldn’t name or define and certainly didn’t want to analyze.
Another thump from above distracted him.
“Oi ergazómenoi pou proslamvánontai eínai kalés.” His grandfather nodded with satisfaction.
Without a doubt, the workers Aetos hired were good. He never hired inferior workers. Striding to the doorway leading into the hall, he scrutinized the two men laying the last of the tile in the bathroom. He couldn’t do everything, not if he had to finish this before Christmas as his grandparents had wanted. Initially, he’d argued for starting the work after the holidays so the bathroom and kitchen could be expanded.
But his grandparents had no interest in expanding their simple home. They had no interest in doubling the size of their living room or knocking down a beloved wall to add another bathroom. They absolutely refused to let some unknown contractor supervise any changes to the farmhouse. He would not be allowed to start the work and then hand it over to a competent contractor and go back home.
Home.
Aetos leaned on the doorsill and sucked in a deep breath. He reminded himself daily; his real home was New York City. Where he’d built an empire. Where he belonged. He told himself every day that this time in Greece was merely a blip on his calendar, a calendar completely filled after the holidays. With work, not his family. With nameless women, not the female who’d slept in his arms for the last three nights.
“Eínai kaló pou eínai to spíti kai páli.”
His grandfather was wrong. Utterly wrong. It was not good that he was home again. This wasn’t his home and every day spent here was not good. It was torment.
Wasn’t it?
Pipe smoke puffed from his pappoús’s mouth and wafted in the air, encircling him. The spicy scent brought so many memories back, crowding around him, forcing him to acknowledge their presence. He’d missed the smell, he admitted finally. He’d missed the laughter of his grandmother as she’d stirred her fakes soupa, the lentil soup he’d been served too many times to count as a hungry boy. He’d missed the silence of the night when a boy—a man—could think.
“Eíste graftó na gínei edó̱.”
He wasn’t meant to be here. He wasn’t.
“Kápoia méra, sýntoma, to agrókti̱ma tha eínai dikí̱ sas.”
His grandfather’s low words spiked fear in the pit of his stomach.
Someday, soon, this farm will be yours.
Soon? He swung around, stared into his pappoús’ dark eyes and rejected the wisdom shining from them. Not soon. The old man had survived this time and he’d be around for many more years.
Wouldn’t he?
At that moment, the last words penetrated the fear.
His farm. His home.
His place.
“Óchi.” The denial came out, sharp and biting. But something, the something the witch had brought to life with her laugh, the something bloomed inside him.
“Nai, Aetos.” His grandfather sucked on his pipe. “Échete tréxei arketó kairó apó ti̱n kli̱ronomiá sas.”
You have been running long enough…
He hadn’t been running away. He’d been running forward. To his new life and new empire.
…from your heritage.
Aetos stared at the old man. He couldn’t seem to get the certain rejection out of his mouth. He couldn’t find any words to instantly deny what his grandfather had stated emphatically.
“Tóso i̱ mi̱téra sas.”
His mother’s heritage. This farm. This place.
“Kai tou patéra sou.” The dark eyes stared steadily at him and at his heart.
His father’s heritage. The empire. The cousins.
The sudden burst of womanly chatter coming from the opening front door jolted him from his frozen state. With relief, he turned to see his giagiá and the mágissa enter the farmhouse with a bundle of boxes. They’d gone into Thívai, at his grandmother’s insistence, to buy gifts for the New Year’s festivities. Natalie had consistently said no throughout the morning, and had flushed with anger when he’d offered her money, but eventually she’d succumbed.
To the trip. Not his money.
He’d never been happier to see her coming toward him.
His giagiá bustled into the kitchen, tut-tutted at her husband’s smoking, and finally turned to look at the shiny new stove. A crow of pure rapture erupted from her mouth and she immediately turned and threw her arms around him.
He’d never gotten used to the hugs, the touches when he’d arrived here. Any familial contact he’d experienced before arriving here had either been brutal punishment or treacherous enticement. Yet now, for some reason, he sank into the feeling of being held by someone who loved him. Something twisted inside him, like a linked chain, tightening around his heart.
“The oven looks great.” The witch smiled at him, the smile she’d given him since arriving here. Not precisely the warm smile she gave to his grandparents, but it was nothing like the cold smiles she’d given him before.
He couldn’t figure out her smile.
“You did a really good job.” Her smile grew wider, creasing her cheeks, making the bloom of rose on her skin shine with a glossy glow. “You’ve made your grandparents happy.”
Then Natalie, this female, touched him too. Patted his arm with her long, elegant fingers.
The chain inside him tightened again. Squeezed and strangled. Finally, it cut right through his heart, right through to his long-forgotten soul.
He swore he would have fallen if his grandmother’s arms weren’t still around him.
The witch’s velveteen eyes widened. “Aetos? What is it?”
Exactly. What is it? This chain cutting him, slicing away at everything he believed he wanted long ago when he’d left here. This place.
His place.
Chapter 18
“No, no,” his giagiá chided. “Natalie, watch me once more.”
The gnarled hands rolled the dough into a smooth ball before dropping it onto the cookie sheet where another dozen balls marched in straight lines. “Deíte? Aplí̱.”
Nat laughed. She’d learned quite a bit of Greek during the last ten days. How could she not have, with the constant flow of family and chatter running through the farmhouse? But she couldn’t agree this task was simple. She’d tried a dozen times to mimic the older woman’s skill in baking without much success.
Up to this point.
However, she was determined to master this. Hell, she’d managed to mas
ter her mother’s recipes as a young girl. She remembered the halushki cookies her mother and aunts made every Christmas. As a kid, she’d observed the women roll the dough out while they laughed and talked. Sometimes her mother allowed her to stir the kutia pudding, seeing the poppy seeds and rice disappearing in the bubbling cream.
If she’d managed to conquer Ukrainian cooking, she could do so with Greek. Determined, she plucked another piece of dough up and rolled and rolled.
The ball of batter plopped right next to the rest of the balls.
The old woman cooed with delight. Nodding her head in approval, she whisked the cookie sheet over to the shiny new stove and popped open the oven door. Immediately, the scent of vanilla and spice filled the kitchen. With a deft move, his giagiá slipped out one sheet of baked cookies and replaced it with the other.
The heat of him came from behind her. Every cell in her body came to quivering attention. Just as they did every night as he slid into bed beside her, even though she had her back to him.
“I think you need someone to do a taste test.” He’d been safely in the other room, playing backgammon with his grandfather. She’d been relieved since lately, she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything when he was around.
“Óchi!” His grandmother swatted his hand away as it dangled above the steaming cookies.
He grinned, a quick flash of white teeth, a quick flash of light in his eyes.
Nat sucked in a breath, sucked in the scents of Christmas cookies and family and him. The warm heat of belonging swept through her while the clean crispness of his skin’s scent tingled in her mouth.
A mix of pleasure and pain.
Every night she got into the bed and turned away from him. Every morning she awoke with his side of the bed empty, yet still warm. Every time, she couldn’t help it, she slid her hand across the sheets where his heat lingered.
And thought about pleasure. And tried to remind herself of the inevitable pain.
Surely it was only dreams she remembered. Fevered imaginations of being close to his heated body, of feeling his arms around her keeping her warm. A burning desire for his hands in her hair and his mouth on her skin had made her delusional.
