Almost. He leaned over a sheet of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration, his expression intent.
Moving slowly, not wanting to draw his attention, Emma sat higher to get a better view. What she saw held her spellbound. Using a crayon, Christo deftly sketched a couple of lines that turned into a whiskery, canine face wearing an almost comical expression of longing. A few more sure strokes and a body emerged with short legs and a curling tail. Finally he completed the picture by adding a large bone, almost as big as the dog, which explained the animal’s hungry look.
He was good. Very good. The dog had such character, she could imagine it trotting around the corner of the villa, dragging that oversized bone with it.
Anthea laughed with delight, the sound as bright as sunshine. Emma’s lips curved in response. The little girl was gradually relaxing here in Corfu and smiled more often. But she was still withdrawn and shy. Hearing her so exuberant was wonderful.
Emma shafted a curious glance back to Christo.
For once he wasn’t aware of her scrutiny, focused instead on the girl beside him.
‘More!’ Anthea was so excited she knelt beside him, her tiny hands on one muscled knee as she leaned over to look at the drawing.
‘Why don’t you draw a friend for the dog?’ He pushed the paper towards her and held out the crayon.
After a moment’s consideration she nodded, her small fingers plucking the crayon from his broad palm.
Emma’s chest squeezed at the sight of them together. It wasn’t that she was eager for a baby, but she had imagined Christo as the father of her children some time in the future. Had imagined those powerful arms cradling their baby.
Seeing him now, gentle and patient as Anthea scribbled what looked like a woolly sheep across the rest of the page, Emma couldn’t prevent a pang of loss. Silly to pine for a man who wasn’t real. The Christo Karides she’d fallen for was a façade, deliberately constructed to gull her into marriage.
Yet, watching her husband, she couldn’t help mourning the loss of what might have been. If only Christo had been genuine.
‘Tell me about what you’ve drawn,’ Christo murmured.
‘’Nother dog. See?’ Anthea leaned in, the tip of her tongue showing between her teeth as she added another figure, this time with an oversized head and stick legs. ‘And me.’ Another lop-sided figure appeared. ‘And you.’
She sat back, beaming, and Emma had a perfect view of Christo. His face changed, an expression of surprise and pleasure making him look years younger than thirty-one. It made her realise how often he looked older than he was—still devastatingly attractive, but as if he carried an unseen burden that kept him too serious. That was, she supposed, what came of running a successful multinational company.
Then he seemed to collect himself. ‘Wonderful! Should we put in anything else?’ He looked across the terrace to where Dora’s old cat watched them.
‘Emma!’ Anthea leaned across Christo, chose a blue crayon and held it up. ‘Put in Emma.’
At the little girl’s words, he lifted his head, his gaze colliding with Emma’s.
This time the impact wasn’t so much a sizzle as an immediate burst of ignition. Emma felt it like a whoosh of flame exploding deep in her belly.
But now there was more too. For Anthea followed his gaze and saw her awake. Immediately she grabbed the picture and brought it over, excitedly pointing out the dog and identifying the figures she’d added. As Emma smiled, nodded and praised the little girl, her gaze met Christo’s in a shared look of understanding and pleasure. A mutual relief that Anthea was starting to come out of her shell.
Perhaps it was crazy, but to Emma it felt like a rare, precious moment of connection.
As if, for once, she and Christo were on the same side. As if their shared purpose in providing for Anthea drew them together.
As if they weren’t really enemies.
Except thinking like that had got her into this mess in the first place.
The spell was broken as Anthea held out the paper to him. After a moment he took it. But, instead of adding another figure to the crowded page, he turned it over.
She watched, fascinated, as he began to draw. Random lines coalesced and separated. Shapes appeared, familiar features. When he was done Anthea clapped her hands.
‘Nice Emma.’ The little girl crooned the words and held the page up.
It was a remarkable piece, considering it was executed with a thick child’s crayon on cheap paper. Christo really was talented. But what held Emma’s attention was the unexpected beauty of what he’d drawn. Not merely that the portrait was well-executed and recognisable as her. But that, for the first time in her life, Emma looked beautiful.
Her brow crinkled. What had he done to make her appear different? It looked so like her and yet on the page she was...more.
‘Beautiful Emma.’ His words feathered across her bare arms and wound themselves down her spine.
‘Hardly.’ She lifted her eyes to his, angling her chin. ‘There’s no need to exaggerate.’
He didn’t so much as blink. ‘I never exaggerate.’
No. He just implied more than was true. Such as making out he cared for her to get her to agree to marry him.
Swinging her legs over the side of the lounger, Emma got up, belatedly catching the spill of Anthea’s books.
‘It’s a lovely picture, Anthea, but I like the one you drew better. Perhaps you could make another one for me to keep while I go inside and work? I’m sure Christo would love to help you.’
She didn’t even look at him, just waited to see Anthea happily settled down with another sheet of paper, then turned on her heel and headed indoors.
Christo could look after his niece for once. Emma needed to work on her plans if she was ever going to turn the villa into a viable business.
But it wasn’t business on her mind as she walked away. It was that strange moment of connection she and Christo had shared over Anthea’s head. The instance of common purpose and understanding. It had felt profound. Even now Emma felt its echo tremble through her, making her skin shiver and her insides warm.
Or perhaps, more dangerously, it was a reaction to Christo’s assessing stare that she felt trawl down her body as she walked.
She told herself she imagined it, yet her step quickened. She needed to get inside. Away from the temptation to turn back and see if she’d imagined the spark of something new in Christo’s eyes.
* * *
To Emma’s surprise, he stayed with Anthea for the next hour. Whatever had held the little girl back from him earlier had vanished. Whenever Emma looked out—and, to her chagrin, that was often—the pair had their heads together, poring over drawings then Anthea’s books.
She heard the deep murmur of Christo’s voice, a rich velvet counterpoint to Anthea’s higher voice, and satisfaction stirred. In the couple of weeks Anthea had been there, Emma had grown fond of the girl. It was good to think that she was beginning to build a relationship with her only relative.
Curiosity stirred about that family. Emma sensed there was more to their story than the death of Anthea’s mother. She recalled the dark edge to Christo’s voice as he’d talked of his stepsister and couldn’t douse her desire to know more.
Desire. There it was again. That word summed up too many of her feelings for Christo.
‘Emma?’ She jerked round to find the man himself in the doorway, still almost naked in black swim shorts. Why didn’t he put on some clothes? Emma hated the way her heartbeat revved at the sight of all that bare, masculine flesh.
She looked past him but saw no sign of Anthea. Instantly she was on alert, hyperaware that her visceral response to him made her vulnerable. Emma tried to spend as little time as possible alone with Christo but somehow that never quite worked.
‘Anthea is with Dora, having a snack.’
Had he read her nerves? The thought was intolerable. Emma got up from the desk where she’d been working on her business plan but Christo was already padding
across the room towards her.
‘We need to talk.’
Her brow pinched. His tone and his watchful expression told her she wasn’t going to like this.
‘About Anthea?’ A couple of weeks ago her thoughts would have gone instantly to their tenuous marriage arrangement. Strange how even the outrageous could seem almost normal after a while.
‘No.’ He paused and she sensed he marshalled his words carefully. The idea sent a premonition of trouble skittering through her. ‘About our marriage. The paparazzi has got hold of the story.’
Surely he’d been prepared for that? Christo had insisted on fencing the estate with high-tech security infrastructure to keep out trespassers. He’d been convinced news of their very private wedding would score media attention. When she’d protested he’d spoken of protecting her and Anthea, which had ended her arguments. The little girl had been through enough without being hunted by the press.
‘Is that all? It had to happen some time.’ The tension pinching Emma’s shoulders eased.
Christo stopped so close, she saw herself in his eyes. She hitched a silent breath and shoved her hands into the pockets of her skirt.
‘Unfortunately it’s not just the wedding they know about. There are reports that you ran away before the honeymoon and that we’ve separated.’
Storm-dark eyes bored into her and Emma realised Christo had just received this news. The last three weeks he’d been annoyingly at ease while she’d fretted about their impossible relationship. Now he hadn’t had time to bury his anger under a façade of calm.
‘It’s close enough to the truth.’
His mouth tightened. ‘Not the story we’re going to give them.’
Emma frowned. ‘Do we have to give them any story? Surely you don’t have to comment? You’re Christo Karides. I thought you were above worrying about gossip.’
‘I will not be pilloried in public as a deserted husband, or as some sort of Bluebeard who frightened off his bride.’
Even if you did?
The words danced on Emma’s tongue but she didn’t say them. She read his implacable expression and knew there was no point saying it. It would only inflame the situation.
Papou had taught her that no Greek male worth his salt would allow a slight to his masculinity. Being seen as an undesirable husband clearly fitted under that heading.
‘You’ll need to start wearing your rings.’ His gaze dropped to her bare left hand.
Emma froze on the spot, remembering the day she’d last worn them. Her wedding day.
‘That’s not necessary. Besides,’ she hurried on when he opened his mouth to speak, ‘I can’t. I left them in Melbourne.’ She’d dragged off the dainty gold band and the enormous solitaire diamond and left them with Steph for safekeeping. The memory of that moment of disillusionment and despair left a rancid taste in her mouth.
Christo’s eyes narrowed but instead of berating her he merely paused. ‘They can be replaced.’
Which proved just how little those symbols of their vows to each other meant to him.
Emma swallowed, hating the scratchy sensation as her throat closed convulsively.
‘Me wearing a wedding ring won’t be enough to convince anyone all’s well with our marriage.’
‘Of course not.’
The look of calculation on his face made her nervous. Emma crossed her arms.
‘So how are you going to convince everyone?’
Christo’s mouth curled up in a slow smile that simultaneously set her hormones jangling and sent a cold chill across her nape.
‘Not me. We.’ He paused, watching her reaction. ‘You’re coming with me to Athens this week. Together we’re going to present a united front as a pair of deliriously happy newlyweds.’
As Christo’s words sank in, Emma realised two things. That he was utterly serious. And that it wasn’t just determination she read in his face—it was anticipation.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMA PROTESTED. SHE flat out refused to go.
But Christo was as immovable as Mount Pantokrator looming imperiously over the island. He refused to countenance her refusal.
She’d been ready to fight him over his need to appear macho and perfect. The adoring public saw him as a shining light in difficult economic times, a beacon of hope for the future. Frankly she’d enjoy seeing him taken down a peg.
But to her chagrin he cut off her arguments quickly. His character and status were inseparable from the success of his company. Especially now he’d turned from his usual international focus to concentrate on a major redevelopment in Athens. Persuading investors to come in with him was tough when Greece still suffered hard economic times, but he was determined to contribute to a resurgence.
If it came out that she’d run from him, the scandal could undermine confidence in his character and decision-making. His business would be affected. So would the livelihoods of his employees and contractors. As would others who relied on his continued success. Like her uncle.
But if they gave the paparazzi opportunities to see them as a couple the press would soon shift to other stories.
The prospect of being hounded wherever she went chilled her blood. And Anthea would be caught in the media circus too. It was in everyone’s interest to minimise gossip.
Which was how Emma found herself staring across the Athens skyline from Christo’s penthouse. The silhouette of the Acropolis was reassuringly familiar, as was the distant bright metal shimmer of the sea in the early evening light.
Yet Christo’s Athens bore little resemblance to hers.
First there’d been the private jet. Then the discreet security detail. Emma had been prepared for the plush limousine, but not to have it waved through a stationary traffic snarl by a policeman who’d all but saluted as they’d passed. Then the no-expenses-spared shopping trip which had made Emma’s eyes bulge.
Now this. The expansive sitting room seemed all glass and marble against that multi-million-dollar backdrop.
Emma had been into luxurious homes, assisting with lavish celebrations. She knew quality, and this was it.
Everything spoke of wealth, but not ostentatiously. No over-gilded ornamentation or fussiness here. Just the best of the best, from the soft furnishings to the custom-made furniture and original art.
She wandered through the room, past a modern fireplace which was in itself a work of art, to stop before a wall hanging that turned out to be a traditionally woven rug in deep crimson and jewel colours. The richness of its tones and tactile weave drew her hand. But she didn’t touch. It was probably worth a fortune.
Emma’s pulse skipped. Speaking of fortunes...
The hand she’d raised dropped to the delicate fabric of her dress. She’d never worn a designer original.
Involuntarily her gaze darted to the mirror above the fireplace. A stranger looked back.
The sheen of dark green silk accentuated the dress’s close fit. Emma blinked. The change wasn’t just that, or her newly styled hair. Nor the prohibitively expensive shoes.
She tilted her head. Was it the subtle smokiness of her new eye make-up? Or the lustre of the almost nude lipstick she’d never have chosen on her own?
When Christo had mentioned shopping for clothes, Emma had wanted to refuse anything bought with his funds.
But she knew the importance of appearances. The casual clothes she’d packed for her honeymoon would look rustic in a sophisticated city venue. She wanted to scotch the stories about their mismatched marriage, not add to them.
Yet she’d resented being foisted on a cousin of Damen, Christo’s best friend, whom Christo had lined up to take her shopping. But for once her husband had been right. She’d needed someone like Clio, with an eye for fashion and experience navigating Athens’ most exclusive boutiques.
To Emma’s surprise the other woman, despite her dauntingly glamorous appearance, had proved to have an irreverent sense of humour, a warm heart plus an unerring eye. She...
Her thoughts s
kittered to a halt as footsteps sounded from the corridor. Firm, masculine footsteps.
Everything inside Emma stilled, except her fluttery pulse that beat shallow and fast, like a moth trapped against glass. She spun round, lifting her chin.
Christo was a tall figure in the shadows at the far edge of the room, his expression unreadable. Was it a trick of the light that made that firm jaw look tense?
The air surged with sudden energy, like a giant heartbeat. She felt her nerves quicken, waiting.
Till she realised this was all her reaction to Christo. Freshly shaven and wearing a made-to-measure tuxedo, he looked good enough to eat. Her mouth dried as her imagination detoured in that direction and she forced herself to concentrate.
Did he like what he saw?
Furiously she told herself it didn’t matter whether he did or not. While she wouldn’t adopt this look every day, she liked it. That was what mattered. And that she looked sophisticated enough to pass as the wife of Greece’s sexiest billionaire.
Christo had refused to be made a laughing stock in public. But how much worse for her to be the woman everyone knew he’d married for convenience, not love?
The thought sent a judder of revulsion through her. Come hell or high water, she’d play her part in this masquerade. She refused to be a figure of pity.
Still Christo said nothing. That brooding silence got on her nerves.
She turned towards the lounge where she’d put the wispy wrap and tiny evening bag that matched her jewelled green shoes. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Unless you want a drink to fortify yourself?’ Out of her peripheral vision she saw him step into the room.
‘I’d rather have a clear head, thank you.’ Emma felt the familiar knife-twist of pain in her middle. The pang of hurt that even now she couldn’t kill her attraction to him.
‘I have something for you.’
Emma turned sharply, alerted by a note of something she hadn’t heard before in Christo’s voice. She couldn’t place it.
But she did recognise the flare of heat in those dark blue-grey eyes. A thrill shot past her guard to resonate deep within her core. Her fingers curled into her purse, digging like talons into the fragile silk.
Modern Romance May 2019: Books 5-8 Page 25