by Jane Porter
Once his thighs had cleared the water he did a quick turn and sat down. Pano swiftly draped a towel over Kristian’s shoulders and threw another one over his lap, but not before Elizabeth had seen as much of Kristian’s front as she had seen of his back.
And his front was even more impressive. His shoulders broad and thick, his chest shaped into two hard planes of muscle, his belly flat, lean, and his…
His…
She shouldn’t be staring at his lap, it was completely unprofessional, but he was very, very big there, too.
She felt blood surge to her cheeks, and she battled shyness, shame and interest.
His body was so beautiful, and his size, that symbol of masculinity—wow. Ridiculously impressive. And Elizabeth wasn’t easily impressed.
No wonder Kristian was so comfortable naked. Even after a year plus in a wheelchair he was still every inch a man.
“I thought we had a deal,” Kristian murmured, dragging the towel over his head and then his chest.
“We did. We do.” Flushing crimson, Elizabeth jumped to her feet and twisted her damp skirt yet again. “Maybe I should go get some dry clothes.”
“A good idea,” Kristian said, leaning back on his hands, face lifted. He was smiling a little, a smile that indicated he knew she’d been looking at him, knew she’d been fascinated by his anatomy. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”
“No.”
His lips curled, and the sunlight played over the carved planes of his face, lingering on the jagged scar, and she felt her heart leap at the savage violence done to his Greek beauty. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
See her at dinner.
He couldn’t see her, of course, but he’d meet her, and her heart did another peculiar flutter. “Dinner tonight?”
“I thought I was to eat all my meals with you,” he answered lazily. “Something about you needing to socialize me. Make me civil again.”
Her heart was drumming a mile a minute. “Right.” She forced a tight, pained smile. “I’ll look forward to that…then.”
Elizabeth turned so quickly that she stubbed her toe. With a hop and a whimper she set off at a run for the sanctuary of her room, lecturing herself the entire way. Do not get personally involved, do not get personally involved, no matter what you do, do not get personally involved.
But as she reached her tower bedroom and began to strip her wet clothes off she almost cried with vexation.
She already was involved.
CHAPTER SIX
OUTSIDE IN THE garden, as Kristian struggled to make his way back to the villa, water dripped from the chair and his cushion sagged, waterlogged.
Thank God he was almost done with this wheelchair.
Falling into the pool today had been infuriating and insightful. He hated how helpless he’d felt as he went blindly tumbling in. He’d hated the shock and surprise as he’d thrashed in his clothes in the water. But at the same time his unexpected fall had had unexpected results.
For one, Elizabeth had dropped some of her brittle guard, and he’d discovered she was far less icy than he’d thought. She was in many ways quite gentle, and her fear about the deep end had struck home with him. As a boy he’d been thrown from a horse, and he hadn’t ridden again for years.
Getting back into the wet wheelchair had been another lesson. As he’d been transferred in, he’d realized the chair had served its purpose. He didn’t want it anymore—didn’t want to be confined or contained. He craved freedom, and knew that for the first time since his accident he was truly ready for whatever therapy was required to allow him to walk and run again.
Water still dripping, he cautiously rolled his way from grass to patio, and from patio toward the wing where his room was.
But as he rolled down the loggia he couldn’t seem to find his bedroom door. He began to second-guess himself, and soon thought he’d gone the wrong way.
Pano, who’d been following several paces behind, couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Kyrie, your room is just here.” And, without waiting for Kristian to find it himself, the butler steered the wheelchair around the corner and over the door’s threshold.
Kristian felt a tinge of annoyance at the help. He’d wanted to do it alone, felt an increasing need to do more for himself, but Pano, a good loyal employee of the past fifteen years, couldn’t bear for Kristian to struggle.
“How did you end up in the pool?” Pano asked, closing the outside door.
Kristian shrugged and tugged the wet towel from around his shoulders. “Ms. Hatchet was pushing me toward the shade and misjudged the distance to the pool’s edge.”
“Despinis pushed you into the pool?” Pano cried, horrified.
“It was an accident.”
“How could she push you into the pool?”
“It was a tight corner.”
“How can that happen? How is that proper?” The butler muttered to himself as he opened and closed drawers, retrieving dry clothes for his master. “I knew she wasn’t a proper nurse—knew she couldn’t do the job. I knew it.”
Kristian checked his smile. Pano was a traditional Greek, from the old school of hearth and home. “And how is she not a proper nurse?”
“If you could see—”
“But I can’t. So you must tell me.”
“First, she doesn’t act like one, and second, she doesn’t look like one.”
“Why not? Is she too old, too heavy, what?”
“Ohi,” Pano groaned. “No. She’s not too old, or too fat, or anything like that. It’s the opposite. She’s too small. She’s delicate. Like a little bird in a tiny cage. And if you want a little blonde bird for a nurse, fine. But if you need a big, sturdy woman to lift and carry…” Pano sighed, shrugging expressively. “Then Despinis Elizabeth is not for you.”
So she was blonde, Kristian thought after Pano had left him alone to dress.
And Elizabeth Hatchet was neither old nor unattractive. Rather she was fine-boned, slender, a lady.
Kristian tried to picture her, this ladylike nurse of his, who hadn’t actually nursed in years, who proclaimed Cosima kind, and as a child had stayed at hotels with a nanny to look after her.
But it was impossible to visualize her. He’d dated plenty of fair English and American girls, Scandinavians and Dutch, but he would have wagered a thousand euros Elizabeth was brunette.
But wasn’t that like her? So full of surprises. For example her voice—melodic, like that of a violin—and her fragrance—not floral, not exotic spice, but fresh, clean, grass or melon. And then last night, when she’d leaned close to his bed to adjust his pillows, he’d been surprised she wore her hair down. Something about her brisk manner had made him assume she was the classic all-business, no-nonsense executive.
Apparently he was wrong.
Apparently his Cratchett was blonde, slender, delicate, pretty. Not even close to a battleaxe.
In trying to form a new impression of her, he wondered at her age, and her height, as well as the shade of her hair. Was she a pale, silvery blonde? Or a golden blonde with streaks of warm amber and honey?
But it wasn’t just her age or appearance that intrigued him. It was her story, too, of a six-year-old who’d once been a daring swimmer now afraid to leave the shallow end, as well as the haunting image of a child trapped, swimsuit ties tangled, in that pool’s powerful drain.
* * *
In her bedroom, after several lovely long hours devoted to nothing but reading and taking a delicious and much needed nap, Elizabeth was dressing for dinner as well as having a crisis of conscience.
She didn’t know what she was doing here. Kristian didn’t need a nurse, and he certainly didn’t need the round-the-clock supervision her agency and staff had been providing.
How could she stay here? How could she take Cosima’s money? It was not as if Kristian was even letting her do anything. He wanted to be in control—which was fine with her if he could truly motivate himself. He really would be better off with a
sports trainer and an occupational therapist to help him adapt to his loss of sight rather than someone trained to deal with concussions, wounds, injuries and infections.
And, to compound her worry, she didn’t have the foggiest idea how to dress for dinner.
She, who’d grown up in five-star hotels all over the world, was suffering a mild panic attack because she couldn’t figure out what to wear for a late evening meal, at an old monastery, in the middle of the Taygetos.
One by one Elizabeth pulled out things from her wardrobe and discarded them. A swingy pleated navy skirt. Too schoolgirl. A straight brown gabardine skirt that nearly reached her ankles. She’d once thought it smart, but now she found it boring. A gray plaid skirt with a narrow velvet trim. She sighed, thinking they were all so serious and practical.
But wasn’t that what she was supposed to be? Serious? Practical?
This isn’t a holiday, she reminded herself sternly, retrieving the gray plaid skirt and pairing it with a pewter silk blouse. Dressing, she wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Ugh. So not pretty.
But why did she even care what she was wearing?
And that was when she felt a little wobble in her middle—butterflies, worry, guilt.
She was acting as if she was dressing for a dinner date instead of dinner with a patient. And that was wrong. Her being here, feeling this way, was wrong.
She was here for business. Medicine.
And yet as she remembered Kristian’s smile by the pool, and his cool, mocking, “I thought we had a deal,” she felt the wobble inside her again. And this time the wobble was followed by an expectant shiver.
She was nervous.
And excited.
And both emotions were equally inappropriate. Kristian was in her care. She’d been hired by his girlfriend to get him back on his feet. It would be professionally, never mind morally, wrong to think of him in any light other than as her patient.
A patient, she reminded herself.
Yet the butterflies in her stomach didn’t go away.
With a quick, impatient flick of her wrist she dragged her brush through her hair. Kristian couldn’t be an option even if he was single, and not her patient. It was ridiculous to romanticize or idealize him. She’d been married to a Greek and it had been a disaster from the start. Their marriage had lasted two years but scarred her for nearly seven.
The memory swept her more than ten years back, to when, as a twenty-year-old New York socialite, she had been toasted as the next great American beauty.
She’d been so young and inexperienced then, just a debutante entering the social scene, and she’d foolishly believed everything people told her. It would be three years before she fully understood that she was adored for her name and fortune, not for herself.
“No more Greek tycoons,” she whispered to herself. “No more men who want you for the wrong reasons.” Besides, marriage to a Greek had taught her that Mediterranean men preferred beautiful women with breasts and hips and hourglass figures—attributes slender, slim-hipped Elizabeth would never have.
With her hair a smooth pale gold curtain, she headed toward the library, since she didn’t know where they were to eat tonight as the dining room had been converted into a fitness room.
Be kind, cordial, supportive, educational and useful, she told herself. But that is as far as your involvement goes.
Kristian entered the library shortly after she did. He was wearing dark slacks and a loose white linen shirt, and with his black hair combed back from his face his blue eyes seemed even more startling.
He wasn’t happy, though, she thought, watching him push into the room, his wheelchair tires humming on the floor.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, still standing just inside the door, since she hadn’t known where to go and didn’t feel comfortable just sitting down. This was Kristian’s refuge, after all, the place he spent the majority of his time.
He grimaced. “Now that I want to walk, I don’t want to use the wheelchair.”
“But you can’t give up the chair yet. Though I bet you tried,” she guessed, her tone sympathetic.
“I suppose I thought that, having stood, I could also probably walk.”
“And you will. It’ll take some time, but, considering your determination, it won’t be as long as you think.”
Pano appeared in the doorway to invite them to dinner. They followed him a short distance down the hall to a spacious room with a soaring ceiling hand-painted with scenes from the New Testament, in bold reds, blues, gray-greens and golds, although in places the paint was chipped and faded, revealing dark beams beneath.
A striking red wool carpet covered the floor, and in the middle of the carpet was a table set with two place-settings and two wood chairs. Fat round white candles glowed on the table and in sconces on the wall, and the dishes on the table were a glazed cobalt blue.
“It looks wonderful in here,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish in her gray plaid skirt with its velvet trim. She should be wearing something loose and exotic—a flowing peasant skirt, a long jeweled top, even casual linen trousers came to mind. “The colors and artwork are stunning. This is the original ceiling, isn’t it?”
“I had it saved.”
“Is the building very old?”
“The tower dates to the 1700s while this part, the main monastery building, was put into service in 1802.” Kristian drew a breath, held it, and just listened. After a moment he added more quietly. “Even though I can’t see what’s around me—the old stone walls, the beamed and arched ceilings. I feel it.”
“That’s good,” she answered, feeling a tug on her heart. She could see why he loved the renovated monastery. It was atmospheric here, but it was so remote that she worried that Kristian wasn’t getting enough contact with the outside world. He needed stimulation, interaction. He needed…a life.
But he’s still healing, she reminded herself as they sat down at the table, her place directly across from Kristian’s. Just over a year ago he’d lost his brother, his cousin and numerous friends in the avalanche. He’d been almost fatally injured when his helicopter had crashed trying to look for survivors. Kristian had been badly hurt, and in the blunt trauma to his head he’d detached both retinas.
Sometimes, when she thought about it, it took her breath away just how much he’d lost in one day.
The housekeeper served the meal, and Pano appeared at Kristian’s elbow, ready to assist him. Kristian sent him away. “We can manage,” he said, reaching for the wine.
Kristian held the bottle toward Elizabeth, tilting it so she could read the label. “Will a glass hurt, Nurse Hatchet?”
His tone was teasing, but it was his expression which made her pulse quicken. He looked so boyish it disarmed her.
“A glass,” she agreed cautiously.
He laughed and carefully reached out, found her glass, maneuvering the bottle so it was just over the rim. He poured slowly and listened carefully as he poured. “How is that?” he asked, indicating the glass. “Too much? Too little?”
“Just right.”
He slowly poured a glass for himself, before finding an empty spot on the table for the bottle.
The next course was almost immediately served, and he was attentive during the meal, asking her questions about work, her travels, her knowledge of Greek. “At one point I spent a lot of time in Greece,” she answered, sidestepping any mention of her marriage.
“The university student on holiday?” Kristian guessed.
She made a face. “Everyone loves Greece.”
“What do you like most about it?” he persisted.
A half-dozen different thoughts came to mind. The water. The people. The climate. The food. The beaches. The warmth. But Greece had also created pain. So many people here had turned on her during her divorce. Friends—close friends—had dropped her overnight.
A lump filled her throat and she blinked to keep tears from forming. It was long ago, she told herself. Seven years. She couldn
’t let the divorce sour her on an entire country. Maybe her immediate social circle hadn’t been kind when she and Nico separated, but not everyone was so judgmental or shallow.
“You’ve no answer?” he said.
“It’s just that I like it all,” she said, smiling to chase away any lingering sadness. “And you? What do you like best about your country?”
He thought about it for a moment, before lifting his wine glass. “The people. And their zest for life.”
She clinked her glass against his, took another sip, and let the wine sit on her tongue a moment before swallowing. It was a red wine, and surprisingly good. She knew from the label it was Greek, but she wasn’t as familiar with Greece’s red wines as she was the white, as Nico preferred white. “Do you know anything about this wine?”
“I do. It’s from one of my favorite wineries, a local winery, and the grape is ayroyitiko, which is indigenous to the Peloponnese.”
“I didn’t realize there were vineyards here.”
“There are vineyards all over Greece—although the most famous Greek wines come from Samos and Crete.”
“That’s where you get the white wines, right?”
“Samian wine is, yes, and the most popular grape there is the moshato. Lots of wine snobs love Samian wine.”
It was all she could do not to giggle. Nico, her former husband, was the ultimate wine snob. He’d go to a restaurant, order an outrageously priced bottle, and if he didn’t think it up to snuff imperiously send it away. There had been times when Elizabeth had suspected there was absolutely nothing wrong with the wine. It was just Nico wanting to appear powerful.
“You’re a white wine drinker?” Kristian asked.
“No, not really. I just had…friends…who preferred white Greek wine to red, so I’m rather ignorant when it comes to the different red grape varieties.”
Kristian rested his forearms on the table. The corner of his mouth tugged. “A friend?” His expression shifted, suddenly perceptive. “A male friend?”
