Ready for sex. That was how she felt. With her trembling limbs and that pulsing point down between her thighs that urged her to move closer to Christo. There was an aching hollowness inside and her breasts seemed fuller than before, eager for contact, her nipples impossibly hard. If she followed that animal instinct she would rub herself against him, purring and pleading for follow through.
Her own weakness terrified her.
‘I said I don’t want to go to bed with you.’ Her voice was too loud and too wobbly.
For answer he released her hand which wavered uselessly in the air then slowly dropped to her side. Instead of moving back he stroked his fingertips over her cheek. All she had to do was pull her head back a couple of centimetres to sever the contact but she couldn’t do it. Instead she stood as if mesmerised by the caress of long, hard fingers that worked magic with each touch.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Why should he?
That was what terrified her. Not Christo’s practised seduction but the fact that, after all he’d done, she still had no defences against him, or more precisely against her wilful body’s craving for satisfaction.
The breath shuddered through her lungs. She felt herself sway, but managed to pull back at the last moment.
Christo followed.
Emma felt his warm breath on her cheek, the heat of his frame close to hers. She dragged in that leather, wood and male spice scent that made something inside her fizz like champagne bubbles.
Then those warm lips brushed her jaw. So lightly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But there was no mistaking the scorching trail of heat curling from her chin to her ear and then along to her mouth.
Emma had stopped breathing, stopped thinking. Her hands pressed to Christo’s bare body which was part of the spell he wove. His smooth flesh and springy muscle invited exploration.
He kissed his way to the corner of her mouth then paused, hovering half a breath away.
Her lips tingled with want as she waited for him to kiss her properly. Not as he’d kissed her in the church, just a brief salutation to satisfy custom. Not as he’d kissed her when they’d got engaged, tenderly but too short and too chaste.
What Emma wanted, what she craved, was full-blown passion. She wanted to fall into that whirlwind of rapture she’d read about, and that her body assured her was waiting for her if she’d just let go and give herself to Christo.
She might detest him but she had no doubt he could allay the terrible gnawing hunger inside. The hunger he’d created. All she had to do was...
‘Say it, Emma. Invite me into your bed. You’re aching for me. I’ll make it good for you.’
Of course he would.
But then, afterwards, what about her self-respect?
How could she hold her head up?
She’d let this man sweep her off her feet into a hazy romantic cloud that had about as much link to reality as unicorns prancing along the white sand of the beach below.
Seconds later Emma found herself in the doorway to her room, hands braced as if to stop herself reaching for Christo. She couldn’t remember telling herself to step back. It must have been some primal survival instinct so deeply buried as to be almost automatic.
For there was no doubt now that Christo was the most dangerous man she’d ever met. He wasn’t just cunning and ruthless, he’d introduced her to desire, and now her frustrated body had imprinted on him as the one man who could satisfy her.
It was ludicrous and appalling.
It scared her witless.
She grabbed the handle of the French door.
‘I don’t want you. I’ll never want you.’
He stood, arms folded, watching as she tugged the door closed. In the instant before it snicked shut, she heard his voice, soft, deep and, oh, so sure.
‘We both know that’s a lie, Emma. But take your time. When we finally have sex it will be worth the wait.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHRISTO PULLED HARD through the water, forcing his body to the limit in an effort to weary himself. Anything to douse the frustration that had him wound so tight.
How had he ever thought winning Emma over would be simple? She had more determination, more sheer obstinacy, than any negotiator he’d ever confronted.
Her insistence on resisting him, despite the fact she clearly wanted him, was infuriating. He told himself if it weren’t for the fact he was committed to her he’d walk away.
Christo had given her more than he’d ever given any woman. His name, his word, his promise for the future. Yet she looked at him with those glittering hazel eyes as if he were the devil incarnate.
Christo gritted his teeth and quickened his stroke till his shoulders and legs ached and his lungs were ready to burst.
Treading water, he hauled in a needy gulp of air and turned. In the distance the villa nestled into the curve of the bay, gracious and charming.
He’d thought Emma was just like that too, a mix of gentle ways and unobtrusive prettiness. An easy fit for his needs.
His harsh laugh echoed across the water.
Easy!
Anyone less easy he had yet to meet.
Oh, she certainly did her best to avoid direct confrontation. These last three weekends, whenever he’d arrived from Athens, she’d been the perfect hostess.
Christo ground his teeth. It was true he’d wanted a woman who could do him proud when entertaining, but it was something far more personal he wanted from her.
Far more personal. Despite the cool water and his fatigue after the sprint swim, he still felt that frustration low in his body.
Three weeks! He couldn’t believe she’d held out for three weeks. He’d thought she’d break by now. For, try as she might, she couldn’t hide her desire for him.
That first night here he’d almost had her in his arms and in his bed. She’d been like a fragrant summer rosebud, unfurling into his hand, velvet-soft and exquisite. His groin throbbed at the memory. But his little bride had an unexpectedly thorny resolve. Besides, he’d given his word. He’d promised to wait till she was ready.
The taut weight in his lower body testified to the toll his self-imposed patience was taking on him.
At least in one area she’d lived up to expectations. Her relationship with Anthea. Whenever he saw them together the brittle aura of containment around his niece chipped a little more. As for Emma, her policy of not getting involved had lasted about two seconds. Increasingly Anthea turned to Emma rather than the nanny paid to care for her.
Despite her obstinacy, Emma had a soft side. She was ruled by emotions. Plus she suffered from the same sexual frustration he did.
Christo’s mouth curled up. All he had to do was take advantage of the opportunities that arose. Ignore his pride and chagrin that she hadn’t already come to him and make those opportunities happen. Remind her again of the unfulfilled desire sizzling between them.
He lowered his head and began a steady overarm stroke towards the shore.
Half an hour later, a towel slung over his shoulder and his body warm from the sun, he strolled up the path from the cove and through the garden. A fat bee droned in the sunshine and the smell of roses caught his nostrils.
The irony of it didn’t escape him. The drowsing villa with its secluded garden and scented roses might have been Sleeping Beauty’s bower. Somewhere inside was Emma, his bride, waiting to be woken by his touch.
She’d never admitted it but he suspected she was a virgin. Those tell-tale blushes and the slight clumsiness of her kisses had raised his suspicions. Which was one of the reasons he hadn’t pressed her too hard.
Once they were lovers, once they’d shared intimate physical pleasure, he knew there’d be no more holding back.
He rounded a corner and stopped. It seemed his imagination was more accurate than he’d suspected. For there was Sleeping Beauty herself.
Emma lay fast asleep on a sun lounger.
His gaze tracked her from her honey-toned hair spl
ayed around her shoulders to her bare feet. Afternoon sun gilded her toned legs where her lacy white skirt rucked up high above her knees. Christo’s pulse quickened and his throat dried as he imagined exploring that satiny skin.
With each gentle breath her breasts swelled up against the vivid red of her sleeveless top, riveting his attention.
Even in sleep she was more striking than she’d been in Australia.
Because of her bright clothes? Or because he’d begun to appreciate she was far more than the docile bride he’d assumed?
A couple of children’s books were tumbled across her lap, making her look as if she hadn’t intended to fall asleep.
That was when he saw movement beside her and stiffened. At the same moment little Anthea, who’d been sitting on the flagstones half-hidden by the sun lounger, looked up.
Big brown eyes met his and Christo felt again that stifling sensation in his chest. It was as if the years scrolled back and he was looking into the wary eyes of his new stepsister, Cassie. Cassie had been older, almost a teenager, yet those eyes were the same. And so was the suffocating shadow of guilt that chilled his belly.
He hadn’t been able to help Cassie all those years ago. In fact his casual attempt at kindness to the nervous little girl had backfired spectacularly. Because of him her whole future had been blighted. Was it any wonder he found it difficult being with Anthea? She might be tiny, but she was so like Cassie he couldn’t look at her without remembering.
Christo waited for Anthea to turn away as she usually did. Proof again that he’d done the right thing organising a new mother and a nanny to care for her, since patently he wasn’t cut out for it.
To his surprise, instead of shrinking back, his step-niece took her time frowning down at something she held then looked up at him again. Her eyes were bright and her look trembled between excited and tentative. As if she wanted to share with him but was afraid of being rebuffed.
Slowly she lifted a large piece of paper for him to see. It was covered in green crayon scrawls.
Christo felt something give deep in his chest, like a knot suddenly loosening, cutting the tension that stiffened his body. His breath drifted out, making him realise he’d been holding it.
He told himself he should leave her be, simply walk away. For he knew, even if she didn’t, that he wasn’t the person she needed.
But her expression, turning now from expectation to disappointment at his lack of response, slashed through his caution.
How could he resist?
He padded barefoot across the warm flagstones to Anthea. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she tilted her head up to look at him.
Christo’s heart gave an unsteady thump. How his business competitors would laugh if they could see him now, scared of a little girl, or more precisely of somehow doing the wrong thing for her. He didn’t know children. He had virtually no experience of them. And the one time he’d actually bonded with one it had ended in disaster.
Breathing deep through his nostrils, he hunkered down before her. It was a relief to look away from that intense brown stare and focus on her drawing.
Amongst the swirl of circles he discovered four downward strokes that might have been legs. ‘You drew this?’ he said, buying time. He still hadn’t a clue what it was.
Gravely Anthea nodded, watching expectantly.
Christo frowned, his brain racing. Clearly she expected more.
‘It’s very good.’ Did he sound as stilted as he feared?
‘Nice dat.’ They were the first words Anthea had spoken directly to him and he should have celebrated this sign of thawing, except he had no idea what she meant.
Till she lifted one dimpled hand and pointed. ‘Dat.’
Christo followed her hand and saw a white cat stretched out in the shade of a tree, one ear twitching, as if following their conversation. He looked back at the drawing and enlightenment dawned. There, he spied two triangles that might have been feline ears and a curling line that could be a tail.
‘You drew the cat?’
She nodded emphatically.
‘Do you like cats?’
Another nod.
Now what? Clearly he was meant to contribute more.
Briefly Christo thought of the work he could be doing, the calls he should make. Of waking Emma or rousting out Anthea’s nanny to take over.
Was he really so craven?
‘Would you like me to draw a cat for you?’ He wasn’t consciously aware of forming the words but suddenly they were out and she was nodding again, a hint of a smile curving her mouth. Warmth trickled through Christo’s chest.
He settled more comfortably on the flagstones and took the drawing she held out. But, instead of turning it over and drawing on the back of it, he chose a purple crayon from those scattered nearby and wrote her name on one corner, sounding out the letters as he went.
‘There, now everyone will know it’s yours.’
Fascinated, Anthea traced the letters with her finger, one dark plait falling forward and brushing his arm. It seemed she’d forgotten to be wary of him.
‘Now you.’ She pointed to the blank pages nearby. ‘A dat.’
Once more Christo was rocked by a moment of déjà vu. It had been years since he’d drawn. Since that weekend when he’d amused his shy young stepsister with sketches and cartoons to make her smile. In those days drawing—or doodling, as his father had scathingly called it—had been a habit. A hobby that had distracted him from the pressures of his father’s demands and their uncomfortable family life.
But not after that weekend.
Christo swallowed the sour tang of bile as old memories stirred. Setting his jaw, he shoved all that aside. It was over, dead and buried.
He took a sheet, glanced at the cat, now sitting up watching them, and began to draw.
At his side, Anthea watched, apparently entranced, as a few swift lines became a cat half-asleep in the sun. Another couple of lines and the cat was dozing over a book that looked rather like the picture book beside Anthea’s stack of crayons.
Christo heard a childish giggle and added a striped sun umbrella similar to the one behind Emma. Anthea giggled again but shook her head when he went to give it to her.
‘Put your name.’
This conversation was the most she’d ever said to him and it felt like a victory. Not that he had any illusions about ever being particularly close to Anthea. She’d already bonded with Emma and that relationship would strengthen with time.
Christo would provide a comfortable home, protection and support, but as for being a close father figure... He shook his head even as he wrote his name in clear letters for Anthea.
He’d never known love from either of his parents. To one he’d been a convenience and to the other something to be moulded into the perfect heir to the Karides commercial empire. The heir to a man who married trophy wives and expected his son to be as ruthless and successful as he.
Christo’s lips twisted in a shadow of a smile as he thought how proud the old man would be if he were still alive. For Christo was far more successful than his father had ever been, having expanded the family business to a completely new level. As for ruthless—he’d always tried to be more humanitarian than his father. But when the pressure was on, when he really needed something, like a mother for Anthea, it turned out he was every bit as unrelenting as the old man.
The knowledge was a cold, hard lump in his belly.
He ignored it, for there was no point pining over things that could never change. Instead he leaned over the paper and concentrated on a new drawing for his eager audience.
* * *
Emma drifted out of her doze to the sound of Anthea’s excited voice. She heard another voice answer, a deep, reassuring blur of sound that soothed her back towards slumber.
Blearily Emma tried to summon the strength to move, fighting the fog that enveloped her. She never napped during the day but last night, knowing Christo was in the room next to hers, she’d been un
able to sleep.
It was like that each weekend when he returned to the island. In the beginning she’d wondered if he’d break his word, try to ‘persuade’ her into his bed. But as the days and nights had passed and he’d kept his word that fear had subsided.
Yet she was still on tenterhooks.
Because it’s not Christo you’re afraid of.
It was herself. She hadn’t yet been able to banish that simmering attraction she felt. The physical awareness whenever he was near. For, despite his promise to wait, Christo was often near, not crowding her or touching her, but close. She’d feel his stare and look up to discover she had little defence against the heat in his eyes. Inevitably answering need flared.
She told herself again and again he didn’t really want her, except as a convenient child minder. But her besotted self, the one who’d once tumbled headlong into the romantic mirage he’d created, refused to listen.
Finally she forced her eyelids open to squint at the sunlight. She moved and the books on her lap slid sideways. Panic stirred. Anthea. Was she okay? Emma was supposed to be minding her while the nanny had her afternoon off.
‘Dog now. Pease.’
Emma turned towards the little girl’s voice and would have fallen off the lounge if she hadn’t been lying down.
For there was big, bad Christo Karides, down on the pavement with his niece.
Emma blinked and rubbed her eyes, wondering if this was some hard-to-shake dream. But the image remained. The little girl in her shorts and T-shirt, looking up earnestly at the man beside her.
Christo Karides in nothing but damp, black swim shorts and acres of bare, muscled body, was spectacular. A shot of adrenalin hit Emma’s blood, making her heart kick into a frantic rhythm. Ever since the night on her balcony she’d been haunted by thoughts of his body. But he looked even more impossibly delicious in broad daylight.
It struck her that for the first time he didn’t wear the closed expression that usually clamped his features when he was around Anthea. He seemed at ease.
Modern Romance May 2019: Books 5-8 Page 24