Achilles leaned back in his seat and smiled. ‘We will be on our way to Greece.’
She lifted a brow. ‘Honeymoon already?’
‘Of course. I didn’t want to wait. We’re headed to the airport now and the jet will take us to Athens and then on to Heiros, a little island not too far from Santorini.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘I thought you might appreciate some sun.’
It struck her then, almost forcibly, that, while everything else might have been for show, the honeymoon wasn’t. He didn’t need it to fulfil the terms of the will. All he’d needed was her name on the marriage licence and eventually a child.
The honeymoon had been because he wanted her.
Not just anyone. Her.
There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t let that matter to her, so many reasons why it shouldn’t be important, but right now, with a ring that didn’t mean anything on her finger and wearing a wedding gown that was just for show, it did feel important.
The hard, cold knot in her chest unravelled completely.
‘Yes.’ She smiled, something she hadn’t done in far too long. ‘I think I would appreciate that very much.’
They took a helicopter to London and, from there, Achilles’ private jet to Athens. Somehow a passport had been got for her, as had several suitcases that apparently contained all she would need for a honeymoon in Greece.
No one batted an eyelid at her wedding gown as she boarded the jet, but by then she’d long got over any self-consciousness. There were too many other things to look at. The novelty of being on a plane, for example, and the excitement of take-off and landing. The view through the windows of the world beneath them and the glimmer and glint of cities as they soared over the continent.
Willow forgot about trying to be distant and cool, too busy alternately staring out of the window and leafing through a magazine about the Greek Islands, all the while firing questions at Achilles lounging opposite her. He looked ostensibly as lazy as a sleepy panther, but every so often, when he looked at her, she could see the glow of blue deep in his gaze. A hungry glow.
It was exciting. It made her want to get up and go to him herself, see what he’d do if she kissed him, if she laid her hands on him. But despite everything, she still felt a little shy, so she didn’t.
A few hours later they landed in Athens, only to be taken to a helicopter that flew them straight out across the Aegean and to Heiros, Achilles’ private island.
The villa was the most perfect house Willow had ever seen. It was built of white stone and perched high on a clifftop overlooking the sea, and walking into it felt like walking into the interior of a cloud. The inside was white, white walls and a white stone floor, nothing to compete with the views of the intense blue sea outside, the rocky cliffs and the deep green trees clinging to those cliffs. The couches and chairs were all deep and cushioned, covered with white linen, and colourful cushions were scattered here and there.
The outside of the villa was wrapped in ivy and there was a stone terrace that led straight out from the front living area, shaded by an ivy-covered pergola.
Willow, drawn by the view, stepped straight onto the terrace, looking down to see a path cut into the rocky cliffside that led to a pool that had also been cut into the cliffside. The water was as blue as the sea below it and incredibly inviting...
It was so different to Yorkshire, the house she’d grown up in and the forests around Thornhaven. This was all blue sea and rocky cliffs and heat, while Yorkshire was green and cold and rainy.
It was so beautiful. She wanted to stay here for ever.
In the villa behind her, she heard Achilles speaking to his staff as they carried in the last of the bags, and then the door closing behind them as they left.
There was no one else here, just her and Achilles.
Her mouth dried, her heartbeat suddenly picking up. The air around her was warm, smelling of salt from the sea, and she could hear the cry of the gulls in the air.
And then she felt his hands settle lightly on her hips, the heat of his body right behind her. ‘And now, Diana,’ Achilles murmured in her ear, ‘I believe I owe you a wedding night.’
He’d been good the whole day. Right from the moment she’d stepped into the church and he’d watched her walk up the aisle to him, a vision in white and silver gilt.
The gown had been perfect, her hair a braided golden crown on her head, threaded through with flowers and covered by a silvery veil. His tall goddess now a fairy queen.
The cream of society had watched her marry him. In the church where his own parents had been married and where Ulysses had been christened. He’d been christened there too, but that had been before his parents had realised that he would never replace the boy they’d lost. That he didn’t measure up. That he was faulty.
His father had told him the night of his sixteenth birthday, after Achilles had handed him the scholar’s prize he’d won for his year, hoping to impress him, that it didn’t matter what marks he got. It didn’t matter how good at school he was, or how impressed his teachers were with him. None of that mattered. The only thing that did was that he was supposed to be Ulysses. Ulysses, who had been good at rugby and who’d loved going fishing with his father in the lake. Who had wanted to go hunting and who had already been learning how to use a rifle and was a crack shot.
Ulysses, who’d been good at everything that Achilles wasn’t.
That was the night that his father had also mentioned that the only reason Achilles had been born was to replace the son they’d lost. Ulysses was the heir, Achilles the spare. And the spare was all he’d ever be, because the heir had gone and nothing could replace him.
And that was also the night that Achilles had left Thornhaven with nothing but the clothes on his back and his passport. He’d gone to Greece, but not to find his mother—she’d died years earlier, and besides, it had been obvious what her choice had been the day she’d divorced his father and left without looking back. He’d wanted to get away from England, get away from his father and the constant hope that refused to die that one day his father would let Ulysses go. That Andrew Templeton would move on from his grief and love the son he had just as much as he loved the one who’d died.
But it was a hope that had never materialised and so he’d killed that hope stone dead.
He wanted to build his own life on his own terms, to not feel like a ghost haunting the rooms of his own house, pouring himself into filling a dead boy’s shoes.
But things had changed now. His father’s will had changed it, and now the woman meant for Ulysses was his, and he was going to make that true in every possible way there was.
He couldn’t wait. He’d been dreaming of this the whole week, of having her to himself. Of taking her here to his island and unleashing her fire. He wanted to know what it would look like and how it would feel. Whether she’d be as difficult as she’d said she was, and oh, he hoped so. He was desperate to match himself against her, watch her ignite, watch her blaze. And for him. Just for him.
Gently he tugged her back against him, so that she was pressed against the length of his body. She was soft, the sweet scent of her winding around him. He had been fantasising about peeling that dress from her, then unbraiding the crown of golden hair on her head, the flowers woven into it scattering everywhere.
Greece was the territory he’d claimed for himself rather than the estate where he’d always felt like an interloper, and so bringing her here appealed to his sense of possessiveness. A good decision, he thought as the breeze from the sea stirred her veil, bringing the scent of salt and sunshine. There were no ghosts in Greece. Of course, there was his mother, but she was long gone, and anyway, she’d lived in Athens.
He felt Willow tremble slightly and then she turned around, looking up at him.
There was something in her expression he couldn’t read. It reminded him of that day in his office,
when she’d become so tense, and he’d taken hold of her hands, and she’d told him that he had to be careful of her.
‘What is it?’ he asked, cupping one cheek in his palm, her skin warm and silky to the touch. ‘Are you afraid? I won’t hurt you, Diana. I know what I’m doing when it comes to pleasure.’
She shook her head, yet he could feel the tension in her body. Could see it in her golden-brown eyes. She stared at him. ‘This...this is for me, isn’t it? The honeymoon. Because you wanted me.’
There was a raw edge to her voice, a glitter in those beautiful eyes. Wanting it to be true and yet...afraid that it wasn’t.
He remembered that feeling. Every time he’d looked at his father, hoping that this would be the day that it wouldn’t be Ulysses he saw when he looked at Achilles. That this would be the day he’d finally feel like his father’s son and not the ghost he’d been made into.
But his father had never looked at him that way, and now he never would.
You’ll always remain a ghost.
Achilles forced away the thought, stared down into the fear in Willow’s eyes, and he knew that there was no part of him that could lie to her. Or to himself.
Of course this was for her. He could have bedded her in Thornhaven straight after the wedding if it had simply been about claiming her. If it had all been about taking his dead brother’s promised wife.
But it wasn’t just about that. It was about her. Willow. His golden goddess. About the chemistry that leapt between them. About the way she made him feel, as if there was fire inside of him too instead of only ashes and shadows.
And she was here because he wanted her to ignite him, just as he wanted to ignite her. It was about sex, yes. But he couldn’t pretend it was only about that. If it had been, the master suite at Thornhaven would have sufficed. He wouldn’t have brought her here, to the place where he felt the most alive, and for an entire week.
You cannot make this mean anything.
Achilles stroked his thumb over the satiny skin of her cheekbone. Oh, it wouldn’t mean anything, no fear of that. Though it was perhaps a little deeper than purely physical, it wasn’t much deeper.
His emotions, such as they were, were shallow things, and shallow was where they needed to stay.
‘Yes,’ he said, no seductiveness in his voice now. ‘This is for you. Because I want you. But don’t make it mean anything.’ He stared down at her, watching the currents shift and turn in her eyes, knowing he had to say it. That he had to make it clear so there could be no misunderstandings. ‘What is between us is physical only. Nothing more.’
Some fleeting emotion he couldn’t read flickered through her gaze, then was gone. ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded thick. ‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ Achilles slid his thumb across her cheek again, brushing the corner of her lovely mouth. ‘And I want a week, wife of mine. Not just one night. Will you give me that?’
She looked at him for one long, uncounted second. And then she abruptly rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
The smouldering fire inside him ignited.
The taste of blackberries and sunshine filled his head, a bright explosion of sweet and tart, and suddenly he couldn’t think. It felt as if he’d been waiting half his life for this moment, for her mouth under his and the sweet taste of her on his tongue.
He wanted more. And he wanted it now.
Everything fell away. His father. His brother. His mother. All the pain in his heart that he told himself he didn’t feel and all the anger underneath it. The creeping sense that he had sometimes that he was the one who had died, not Ulysses.
All of it was gone. There was only this. Only her. Her sweet mouth and the heat that leapt between them. And the hunger that followed hard on its heels.
He’d had plans for her. Plans to make this special, to go slow and take his time. Ease the trepidation he’d sensed in her the week before in his office. Gradually coax her flame high and hot, and only then would he take her.
But all those plans burned to ashes on the ground.
Fabric ripped as he clawed her gown from her, buttons scattering on the stone floor of the terrace. He wasn’t seductive or sensual. He was a beast as he tore away the material and then pulled at the fragile lace of her underwear.
She didn’t protest, her entire body shivering as he bared her, her mouth as hot and hungry as his, her arms tight around his neck as she pressed herself against him.
Yes, he’d had plans. A wide, soft bed upstairs strewn with rose petals, and champagne to toast their marriage.
Instead he barely had enough time to get her to the living room. He laid her down on the couch, her body long and lithe and a pale, creamy gold. Slender thighs and shapely hips. High, perfect breasts with the prettiest pink nipples. A soft nest of golden curls between her legs. Utterly and completely beautiful.
He didn’t pause to look at her, to appreciate her the way he’d planned. He didn’t stroke her to ease any nervousness she might have had. He didn’t kiss his way down her body the way he should have, or murmur seductive praise as he did so.
Because she reached up to him and pulled him down, her mouth demanding on his, and then he was pushing her thighs apart while clawing at his zip. Getting his suit trousers undone and getting himself ready.
And then he positioned himself.
He should have waited then, should have tried to build even the smallest amount of anticipation.
But it was beyond him.
Then she wound her arms around his neck, arched her back, closed her legs around his waist and he was pushing inside her, and then there was nothing but fire.
She shuddered, gasping against his mouth, her hips lifting against his, trembling.
He kissed her harder, deeper, tasting her, exploring her. She felt so hot around him, so slick. Clasping him so tightly. Her body was a wonder, silky and smooth, and he felt his grip on reality loosen.
He began to move, an insistent, demanding rhythm, slipping a hand beneath the small of her back, guiding her to match him. And she did. Her kiss became feverish, her legs around his waist tightening.
He felt feverish himself, half-crazed. He moved harder, deeper, faster. Her scent was around him, sweet and musky, and somehow her hair had come down from its braided crown and was in his hands. There were flowers scattered all around them, crushed between them and scenting the air.
And, as he’d thought, she was fire in his hands and she was burning. And so was he. Fire and magic, and raw, intense pleasure. It was everything that had been missing from his life and he hadn’t even known until this moment. Everything he had never thought he wanted.
Her passion made him real, somehow. Made him feel as if he existed, as if he was alive. Truly alive, not just going through the motions of it.
You want more than a week.
The thought was crystal in his brain, sharp edges and glittering planes.
And then she writhed beneath him, her teeth closing demandingly on his bottom lip, and the thought exploded into sparkling shards in his brain.
There was no thought any more, only the most primitive of physical responses and the pleasure that spun like molten mercury through every part of him, searing him straight through.
He moved inside her, driving them on, and there was no time to savour. No time for anticipation or for being lazy and easy. There was only the fire of her and her gasps of pleasure in his ear, the hoarse demands she made.
Her nails dug into him, and he had enough of himself left to ease a hand between them, down to where they were joined, giving her her pleasure first. And then as she cried his name, he took his own.
It came for him in a blaze of light, the bonfire of her rising up around him, consuming him. And he flung himself into the flames and burned himself to ash in her arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WILLOW LAY BENEA
TH ACHILLES, panting, feeling as if every part of her had shattered and then been put together in a strange and new and wonderful way.
Pleasure echoed through her like the tolling of some vast bell, a pulsing deep inside that made her shiver and shake. And for a second all she felt was wonder. His weight was heavy on her, but she didn’t feel crushed. She could hear his breathing, as fast as hers, and she swore she could almost hear the thudding of his heart too.
She’d never been this close to anyone before, not physically, and the feeling of being surrounded and contained made her feel calm and safe, and relaxed for the first time in what felt like years.
So different to how she’d felt out on the terrace, where a sudden burst of fear had taken her. That somehow being here on this beautiful island was for show too, that she’d misunderstood, and that all of this wasn’t for her after all. Even that he didn’t want her as much as he’d implied.
She’d had to know. So she’d turned and looked up into his dark blue eyes, and asked him straight out. But the truth had been there in his gaze and in the heat of his body, in the stroke of his thumb across her cheek. Desire burned there and she knew it was for her.
This was only physical, he’d told her, but she didn’t need anything more.
Right now, that was enough. Especially when she’d kissed him and the veneer of the lazy playboy had cracked apart completely, leaving a hungry panther in its place.
Oh, she’d wanted him so badly. His heat and his hands on her. Wanted the electricity that danced between them. Wanted his danger, his wicked edge. Wanted his hunger for her to consume him as much as she was consumed by her own.
And it had.
She’d loved him ripping her wedding gown from her and her lacy underwear too. Loved how he’d picked her up in his arms and carried her to the couch, laying her down on it. Loved how he hadn’t even stopped to undress, before spreading her thighs, and thrusting deep inside her.
It hadn’t hurt. It hadn’t even felt strange. It had felt right and perfect, as if he was supposed to be there. As if they were supposed to be joined in this way, a raw, elemental meeting, creating magic between them.
The World's Most Notorious Greek (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 10