‘I don’t like it,’ Arthur interjected, his sherry glass empty now, and his focus on Marnie once more.
Marnie had expected this, and yet still she heard the words with an element of disappointment. ‘Why not?’ she queried quietly.
‘I have never thought he was right for you. I still don’t.’
There was nothing inherently offensive in the statement, but it was the reasoning behind it that Marnie took exception to. Six years ago she’d let the implication hang in the air, but now she was older and wiser and significantly less worried about upsetting her parents. ‘For what reason, Dad?’
He reached for the sherry once more and Anne Kenington, across from Marnie, stiffened visibly.
‘He’s just not right.’
‘That’s not a reason.’ Marnie’s smile was forced.
‘Fine. He’s different. From you. From us.’
‘Because he’s Greek?’ she asked with an assumption of mock innocence.
‘Don’t be obtuse,’ he snapped.
Anne stood, moving her slender figure across the room towards the large glass doors that opened out onto the rolling green grass of the East Lawn. A large oak broke up the expanse of colour a little way in the distance, casting dark shadows beneath its voluminous branches.
‘Is there any point in having this discussion?’ she asked wearily.
‘Meaning...?’ Marnie asked softly.
‘Your plans appear to be set in stone,’ Anne continued, her pale eyes skimming over the gardens, her face a mask of calm despite the storm Marnie knew to be raging beneath.
Was that the only thing they had in common? Their steadfast commitment to burying any display of emotion? Keeping as much of themselves as possible hidden from prying eyes?
Marnie shifted her gaze back to her father. He looked as if he was about to pop a blood vessel. He was glaring at the sherry decanter, his fingers white around the fine crystal glass.
‘One hundred per cent.’ Marnie nodded. ‘I hope you can put the past behind you and be happy for us.’
Arthur’s harsh intake of breath was smothered by Anne’s rushed statement. ‘You’re a grown woman. Who you marry is your choice.’ She practically coughed on the statement.
Marnie stood, not sure what else she could add to the conversation. ‘Thank you.’
A ridiculous way to end the conversation but, then again, what about the circumstances of this wedding wasn’t ridiculous?
She slipped from the room, the muted voices of Arthur and Anne chasing her down the long corridors of Kenington Hall. She emerged onto the front steps and breathed in deep. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin warm. She moved deliberately away from the East Lawn, wanting to be far from her parents.
She walked with innate elegance until she reached the edge of the rose gardens. Then she slipped her pumps from her feet and cast one last glance towards the house. She began to move as she’d wanted to since she’d first seen Nikos again. As though the earth had turned to magma and was burning through the soles of her feet. She couldn’t stand still; she could no longer be composed and calm.
And so she ran.
She ran as though the ghosts of the past had taken animal form: they were lions and tigers and they were chasing her, making her tremble with fear and terror.
‘No daughter of mine is going to throw her life away on a no-hoper like that! You will end it, Marnie, or you will be out of this house faster than you can say inheritance.’
Arthur’s hateful declaration was a cheetah, fierce and gnashing its teeth.
‘I don’t care about money! I love him!’
She sobbed as she remembered her impassioned cry, her belief that if she could only get her parents to understand what a good man Nikos was they would shelve their dislike.
But their dislike hadn’t had a lot to do with the man he was so much as the man he wasn’t.
‘He’s got no class. He will never make you happy, darling.’
At least Anne had tried to couch her objections gently. But her meaning had been clear. No class. No money. No social prestige.
Even then she’d stood fast. She’d fought for him.
‘We’ve been through enough this year, for God’s sake!’ Arthur had finally shouted. ‘We’ve already lost one daughter. Are you going to make us lose you, too?’
Marnie ran until her lungs burned and her eyes stung with the tears the wind held in check. She ran past the lake that she’d fallen into as a child, before she’d learned to love the water and to navigate its murky pull; she ran around the remnants of the tree house where she and Libby had spent several long, sticky summers, pretending they were anywhere but Kenington Hall. She ran to the very edges of the estate, where an apple orchard shielded the property from the curious view of a passer-by.
Finally she came to an abrupt stop beneath a particularly established tree, bracing her palm against the trunk and staring back at the sprawling stone mansion.
Her whole life had been lived within its walls. She’d learned to walk, she’d played hide-and-seek, she’d read book after book, she’d been a princess in a castle. It was her place in the world.
But why hadn’t she left when her parents had taken a stand against Nikos? Why hadn’t she moved to London like most of her friends?
Because of Libby.
A sob clogged her throat. She swallowed it.
They’d lost Libby. And it had changed them for ever. Maybe they would have been difficult and elitist, anyway. But their grief had made it worse. And it had made Marnie more forgiving.
How could she run away from them and leave them alone after burying one of their daughters?
She groaned now, shaking her head.
So she’d put her life on hold. She’d remained at home, under their roof, managing the gardens, working in her little home office, pretending she didn’t resent them for their heavy-handed involvement in a relationship that had been so important to her.
Was this marriage to Nikos a second chance? Might they even fall in love again?
Her heart turned over in her chest as she remembered the exquisite emotions he had evoked in her as a teenager. She had loved him fiercely then—but not enough. Because she’d walked away from him instead of staying and fighting and there was no turning back from that.
* * *
Goose bumps danced along her soft skin. ‘This is beautiful.’
And it was. The house was nothing like she’d imagined. Set high on a hill on the outskirts of Athens, it was crisp white against a perfect blue sky. Geraniums tumbled out of window boxes, creating the impression that the flowers had sprung to life there and decided to blow happily in the light, balmy breeze. Clumps of lavender stood proud from large ceramic pots and the fragrance of orange blossom and jasmine hung heavy in the air.
‘I’ll give you a tour tomorrow—introduce you to the household staff.’
‘Staff?’ That was interesting. ‘How many staff?’
He put his hand in the small of her back, propelling her gently towards the front door. ‘My housekeeper, Eléni, and her husband, Andréas. Two gardeners...’
‘That’s good,’ she said with a nod.
His laugh was a short, sharp bark. ‘Did you think it would be just you and me?’
Of course she had.
He leaned closer, so that she could see the hundred and one colours that danced in his irises.
‘Don’t worry, agape mou.’
The heat of his words fanned her cheek.
‘They will give us plenty of space in the beginning. We are on our honeymoon, after all.’
Her stomach lurched. Desire was swarming over her body, making her pulse hammer. Moist heat slicked through her. It felt as if she’d been waiting an eternity to be possessed by this man. The time was almost upon the
m, and anticipation was flicking delicious little sparks over her nerves.
He pushed the front door inwards. A wide tiled corridor led all the way to glass doors that showed the moonlit Aegean Sea in the distance.
‘Are you hungry?’
Despite the fact that it was their wedding day, she hadn’t eaten more than a piece of wedding cake after the ceremony. A sip of champagne to wash it down and Nikos had whisked her away from the disapprovingly tight smiles of her parents.
Her stomach made a little growl of complaint. ‘Apparently,’ she said, with an embarrassed smile.
His smile was the closest thing to genuine she’d seen on his face. It instantly offered her a hint of reprieve.
‘There is food in the fridge. Come.’
She fell into step behind him, taking in the blur of their surroundings as she walked at his pace. Beautiful modern artwork gave much-needed colour to a palette of all glass and white. The home was obviously new, and it was a testament to minimalist architecture. While beautiful, it was severely lacking in comfortable, homely touches.
The kitchen housed a large stainless steel fridge. He reached in and pulled out a platter overflowing with olives, cheese, bread, tomato and dolmades. Another selection of bread was complemented with sliced meats and smoked fish.
‘Wine, Mrs Kyriazis?’
The name splintered through her heart. ‘I thought I’d keep Kenington,’ she said, though in truth she’d barely contemplated the matter.
He poured two glasses of a pale, buttery-coloured wine, his face carefully blank of emotion. ‘Did you?’
She shrugged. ‘Lots of women do, you know.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But you are not “lots of women”. You are my wife.’
He said it with such a sense of dark ownership that she was startled. Marnie couldn’t have said if it was surprise at being spoken of almost as an object that inspired her sense of caution, or the fact that his passionate statement of intent was flooding her with desire and overarching need. A need that made rational thought completely impossible.
She sipped her wine in an attempt to cool the fire that was ravaging her central nervous system. It didn’t work.
She nodded jerkily, at a loss for words.
‘I want the world to know it.’
The statement hung between them like a challenge.
Her stare was direct. ‘I’m not planning on hiding my identity.’
He reached for a cube of feta and lifted it towards her lips. Surprised, she parted them and he slid the cheese into her mouth, watching with satisfaction as she chewed it.
‘No.’ His eyes bored into hers, holding her gaze for several long, fraught seconds. ‘My wife will bear my name.’
There it was again! That flash of pleasure in her abdomen. A sense of rightness at the way he wanted to claim her. To possess her. The desire to subjugate herself completely to his will terrified her. She bucked against it even as she wanted to move to him and offer her submission.
‘Will she, now?’ she murmured.
‘Of course it is not too late to back out of this agreement.’ He shrugged. ‘Our marriage could be easily dissolved at this point, and I have not yet spoken to your father about his business concerns.’
Something lurched inside her. She stared across at him, needing her wine to banish the kaleidoscope of butterflies that were panicking, beating their wings against the walls of her stomach.
‘Are you going to threaten me whenever I don’t let you have your way?’
His laugh was without humour. ‘That was not a threat, Mrs Kyriazis. It was a summation of our current circumstances.’
‘So if I don’t take your name you’ll divorce me?’
His lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘At this point I believe we could simply seek an annulment.’
‘You should have put it in that damned pre-nup,’ she said with a flick of her lips.
Anger flared inside her and beneath the table she turned the ring on her finger, looking for comfort and relief.
‘I would have if I had known you were going to be so irrational about such trivialities.’
‘It’s not a triviality!’ she demurred angrily, tipping more wine into her mouth.
How could she possibly explain her feelings? Explain how essential it was to hold on to at least a part of her identity? How terrified she was that she was married to a man who despised her, who was using her to avenge an ancient rebuff, who was determined not to care for her—a man she had always loved?
‘You are my wife.’
‘And taking your name is the only way to be your wife?’ She had to force herself not to yell.
‘Not the only way, no.’
His teeth were bared in a smile that sent shivers down her spine. Need spiked in her gut. She wouldn’t acknowledge it. She couldn’t.
‘Fine.’ She angled her head away. ‘Whatever. I don’t care enough to fight about it.’
That bothered him far more than the suggestion she might not take his name. The way she’d rolled over, acquiesced to his wishes at the first sign of conflict. Just like the last time he’d challenged her and she’d almost immediately backed down.
Arthur and Anne had insisted she couldn’t be involved with him. Had she argued calmly for a moment and then given up? Given him up, and with him their future? Had they invoked her dead sister, knowing that Marnie had never felt she measured up to St Libby? Had they compared him—a poor Greek boy—to Libby’s blue-blood fiancé, with his title and his properties? Had she looked from Nikos to Anderson and agreed that, yes, she needed someone like the latter?
‘These olives are delicious,’ she said quietly, anxious to break the awkward silence that was heavy in the room.
But when she lifted her gaze slowly to his face she saw he was lost in thought, staring out of the kitchen windows at the moonlit garden. It allowed her a moment to study his face and see him properly. He looked tired. No, not tired, exactly, she corrected, so much as...what? What was the emotion flitting across his face? What did she see in the tightening of his lips and the darkening along his cheekbones? In the knitting of his brow and the small pulsing of that muscle in his jaw?
‘Fine.’ He blinked and turned to face her. ‘I’ll show you the house now.’
She nodded out of habit.
It was enormous, and modern throughout. Wide corridors, white walls, beautiful art, elegant lighting...
‘It’s like a boutique,’ she murmured to herself as they finished their tour of the downstairs rooms and took the stairs to the next level.
‘This will be our room.’ He paused on the threshold, inviting her silently to precede him.
Our room. Did he expect her to argue over their sleeping arrangements? She had no intention of giving him the pleasure.
‘It’s very nice.’ Her almond-shaped eyes skimmed the room, taking in the luxurious appointments almost as an afterthought. King-size bed, bay window with a small seat carved into the nook, plush cream carpet and a door that she imagined led to a wardrobe.
She spun round, surprised to find him standing right behind her. They were so close her arms were brushing his sides.
She stepped back jerkily. ‘I’m going to need an office space.’
‘An office space?’ His laugh was laced with disbelief and it irked her to the extreme.
‘Yes. Why do you find that funny?’
‘Well, agape, offices are generally for work.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She nodded with mocking apology. ‘Work like you do, I suppose you mean?’
He crossed his arms over his chest, drawing Marnie’s attention to the impressive span of musculature.
‘Yes, generally.’
Her temper snapped, but she didn’t show it. She’d had a lot of practice in keeping her d
eepest feelings hidden—she could only be grateful for that now.
‘I need an office.’ She said the words slowly and with crisp enunciation. ‘For my work.’
‘What work?’
Curiosity flared in his gut. Six years had passed and he’d presumed she was still simply Lady Marnie Kenington, daughter of Lord and Lady Kenington, employed only in the swanning about of her estate, the beautifying of herself and the upholding of the family name. It had never occurred to him that she might have done what most people did and found gainful employment. Frankly, he was surprised her parents had approved such a pedestrian pursuit.
‘Does it matter? Do you care? Or are you just surprised that I haven’t been rocking in a corner over the demise of our relationship since you left?’
Though frustrated by her reticence to speak honestly, he liked seeing the spark that brought colour to her cheeks and impishness to her eyes.
It intrigued him. He far preferred it to the obedient contrition she’d modelled in the kitchen. Instantly he thought of other ways in which he might inspire a similar reaction.
He nodded, concealing his innermost thoughts. ‘Fine, have it your way. I do not need to know about your employment if you do not wish to speak of it.’ He shrugged, as though the conversation was now boring him. ‘I’ll have a room made available. Just let my assistant know what you need in terms of infrastructure and he’ll see you’re set up.’
‘He? You have a male assistant?’
It was Nikos’s turn to act surprised. ‘Yes. Bart. He’s been with me five years.’
She laughed quietly and shook her head. ‘I guess that makes sense. I can imagine you’d run through female secretaries pretty damned fast, given your track record for taking any woman with a pulse to bed.’
‘Jealous, agape?’
She’d been jealous, all right. For years she’d followed his exploits in the gossip columns. Like watching a train crash, she’d been powerless not to stare at the pictures. They’d come to life in her over-fertile imagination so that she hadn’t simply looked at an attractive couple coming out of some hot spot so much as imagined them in bed, or perhaps on the dining table, or the kitchen floor, while she lay in her own bed. Alone, untouched, able only to dream of Nikos rather than feel his hands on her body...
Bought for the Billionaire's Revenge Page 5
