The Santorini Bride

by Anne McAllister

  And then, exhausted and exhilarated, they took the fruit and bread and olives they’d brought—along with the bottle of wine Theo had added to the rest of their purchases—to the narrow beach where he fed her grapes and strawberries. And she licked his fingers, and they shared the wine right from the bottle—and tasted it on each other’s lips when he kissed her.

  Theo’s kisses were headier than the wine. Warm and intoxicating. His touch was urgent. Passionate. Arousing. One thing led to another. And another. And another.

  They made love.

  She tried telling herself it was just sex. No strings. Yada, yada. It didn’t work. Because it wasn’t just sex. It was sex with Theo.

  Granted, she hadn’t had a vast amount of experience in the sex department. Well, none that had gone as far as this had gone. But she didn’t imagine it could ever have gone this far with anyone other than Theo.

  Not Julian. Never Julian.

  Julian would never have taught her so many secrets of her body. He would never have taken the time, have kissed and lingered, touched and teased.

  And she would never have felt this free with Julian. Never would have laughed and teased and played with him the way she did with Theo.

  Theo made her moan and shiver and cry out his name. He made her laugh and wriggle and squirm. He let her play. He let her explore every inch of his body. He let her paint him with water colors!

  “Just a little graffiti,” she promised. “Lie still.”

  “My turn next?” he queried, obediently lying there while she painted her way up the backs of his legs, twirling the brush at the curve of his knees and making him twitch.

  “You had your turn,” she said. He had wrung her out. “Painting is mine. Don’t move.” She dipped the brush in blue and brush-stroked her name upward along the back of his thigh.

  “Martha.” It was a murmur and a warning.

  She smiled and stopped. “Mmm-hmm.” She dipped the brush in purple and began to write on his other thigh. She wrote his name. She wrote sexy and magnificent and hot all in red.

  “Asking for trouble,” Theo murmured.

  “Am I?” Martha suppressed a giggle. “Wouldn’t want to do that, would I?” Ostentatiously proper, she moved up and covered his back with further scandalous adjectives, all of which were absolutely appropriate. Then she leaned down and ran her lips along Theo’s ear. “Roll over.”

  For a few seconds he held absolutely still, didn’t even breathe. But then, slowly, he rolled over. “See what you’ve done,” he muttered.

  She saw. She nodded. She smiled. “Oh, yes.”

  She dipped the paint brush again, then drew a line down his chest, swirled it around his navel, moved south.

  “Martha!” Her name hissed through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m just showing you how I feel.”

  “Let me show you how I feel.” And he grabbed her and hoisted her over his legs so she straddled him and took him in. She never did finish her painting.

  It was a day Martha would never, ever forget.

  She wasn’t likely to forget the next day—or any other day that week, either.

  Every single day was spent with Theo. They sailed and hiked and climbed. They shopped. They cooked. They laughed.

  They made love.

  It would have been hard for Agnetta or anyone else—Martha included—to believe they weren’t a couple when they so clearly were.

  Of course she knew it had begun as a deal—a means of getting Agnetta out of his hair on the one hand and a way for her to get Julian’s betrayal out of her mind on the other. But within the space of a few days it took on a life of its own.

  It wasn’t about Agnetta or Julian now.

  It was all about her and Theo.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow,” Agnetta said Friday morning. She paused and glared down at Theo as he sprawled on the sofa and stared at the newspaper in his hands.

  He hadn’t been reading it. He’d been remembering waking up with Martha in his arms that morning. Remembering the way she’d snuggled closer and sighed. Remembering how instead of easing himself out of bed, he’d buried his face in her curls and breathed in the scent of her. And now he looked up and said, “Huh?”

  “I said, we’re leaving tomorrow and we’ve barely seen you all week,” Agnetta said with some asperity in her normally sultry voice.

  Theo wanted to tell her that had been the whole idea, except he was fairly sure she knew it. He was also fairly sure she didn’t think what was going on between him and Martha was a lie anymore.

  God knew it looked—and felt—too damn real.

  Scarily real.

  He tossed the newspaper aside. “Yeah. You’re right. We should spend some time together.”

  Agnetta’s eyes widened. Her smile dawned. “Really? Oh, I knew you would not be able to resist!”

  “I’ll tell Martha you and Cassie are coming with us,” he said, abruptly getting to his feet.

  “Martha? You are telling Martha?” Agnetta stared at him, shocked.

  “Absolutely!” It was a great idea. “We’ll have a wonderful time, all four of us.”

  At least, that was the way it was supposed to work out. And why shouldn’t it? Theo asked himself. Agnetta and Cassie couldn’t possibly think that he was interested in either of them. He’d spent the week making sure they knew he was interested in Martha.

  And Martha?

  Well, she didn’t want anything from him anyway. She’d made that abundantly clear at the outset.

  Yeah, she was fun to be with, enjoyed the same things he enjoyed, laughed at the same jokes, grew impatient at the same stupidities and made love like—well, like no woman he’d ever had before.

  But so what?

  Theo didn’t get involved. Period. Taking Agnetta and Cassie along would help him keep things cool.

  Or it should have.

  Trouble was, keeping his hands off Martha all day didn’t solve the problem. It only made it worse. He got to look at her all day, but beyond a bit of hand holding and putting his arm around her waist as they walked down the street, he never got to touch her. Agnetta insisted they go out, all four of them, for a farewell dinner. Another two hours of staring at her across the table and not being able to even touch her.

  “I need to get home,” he said at last. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “Of course we will go home,” Agnetta said. “Poor Theo.”

  “Poor Theo,” Cassie echoed.

  “If you have a headache, you’d probably rather just rest,” Martha said when, as soon as they got there, he dragged her off toward the bedroom.

  “No,” he said flatly. “I wouldn’t. You’ll make me feel better.”

  She made him feel much better.

  So much better that he lay awake all night worrying about how much he still wanted her, worrying about how he couldn’t keep his hands off her. And he didn’t just worry about wanting sex with her, he worried about things he wanted to tell her, places he’d seen he wanted to show her, and things he loved to do alone that he began to feel he’d so much rather do with her.

  He worried about wanting things he’d told himself he would never want. Especially he worried about the last thing she’d said to him before she fell asleep.

  She had turned in his arms and kissed him. “That was wonderful. You’re wonderful. I can hardly wait until they leave tomorrow and we’ll be together—just us.”

  She was alone in bed when she awoke.

  Last night Theo had offered to take Agnetta and Cassie to the ferry this morning, an offer which had been eagerly accepted. Martha had intended to go with him, but one glance at the clock told her she had overslept.

  That was a shame. She was sorry she had missed saying goodbye to them—especially to Cassie, whose genuine enthusiasm and friendliness had made Martha warm to her easily.

  But, having missed the walk to the ferry, now she would at least have time to grab a quick shower, then make breakfast and get
it on the table before Theo came back.

  A fitting start, she decided, for the next two weeks. Almost like playing house.

  Don’t jump the gun, she cautioned herself. But after a quick shower, she couldn’t stop humming happily as she squeezed some Spanish oranges for the fresh juice and got out yogurt and cherries and sesame bread. She set the table in the alcove with the window overlooking the sea. Then she put on a pot of strong coffee, savoring the smell of the freshly ground beans. All her senses were heightened in anticipation when, at last, she heard the front door open.

  “Hi!” she sang out. “I’ve got breakfast on the table. I can make an omelette if you want one.”

  “No, thanks.” Theo appeared in the doorway, lean and tan and gorgeous in a pair of low-slung khaki shorts and a red T-shirt.

  Martha felt a surge of happiness at the mere sight of him. “Sorry I didn’t wake up in time. You wore me out,” she admitted with a laugh. “Did they get off all right?”

  “Right on time.” He didn’t smile, didn’t come into the kitchen, just stayed where he was, one hand braced against the doorjamb.

  Martha picked up the coffeepot and waved toward the alcove. “There’s juice and yogurt and cherries and bread. I’ll just pour you some coffee.”

  “I already ate.” His tone was flat and distant.

  Martha turned and looked at him closely. Theo wasn’t looking at her.

  “That’s all right,” she said after a moment’s silence. “I’ll just pour you some coffee then.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ll just—”

  “I don’t have time,” Theo said sharply. “I’m leaving.”

  She almost dropped the pot. Then convulsively her fingers tightened on the handle. “Leaving?” A cold shiver ran down the length of her spine.

  She could no more ignore the feel of cold dread than she could ignore the defiant, determined look on Theo’s face. Where was the charm now? What had happened to the smiles? The touches? The kisses?

  The love?

  Or—the possibility chilled her to the bone—had it just been mind-blowing sex after all?

  Surely not! It couldn’t have been! Her whole being rebelled at the thought. How could he have done what he’d done, acted the way he’d acted, said what he’d said, if it had all been a sham?

  But really, what had he said?

  Certainly not that he loved her. Nothing really—other than when she’d asked if they were friends. And he’d said, “Of course.”

  Dear God.

  Looking at him now, he didn’t look friendly in the least. He looked distant and remote. “There’s a boat in Newport I need to have a look at.”

  “Now?” He had mentioned a boat. He had mentioned Newport. There had never been any urgency. “Why now?”

  He shrugged. “There’s no reason to hang around, is there? Agnetta’s gone. And well convinced,” he added with an approving nod in her direction that very nearly made her see red. “You did a good job.”

  Was that what she had done? A job?

  Martha felt cold.

  “I appreciate it,” he added. Was there a little awkwardness in his tone? No, of course not. She was just imagining it. Just hoping he might feel something of what she felt. Clearly though, he didn’t.

  Martha swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course,” she said, glad that her voice was steady. She even managed an edge of what she hoped would sound like flippancy. “All part of the service.”

  Their gazes met. Locked.

  Then Theo gave a quick curt nod of his head. “Fine. That’s all right then.”

  Was it?

  Martha’s temper flared. “So you got what you wanted and now you’re throwing me out?”

  “No. Of course not. You said you wanted to stay three weeks. Fine. Stay as long as you want. I’m the one who’s going.” He shot one more quick glance in her direction, then turned away abruptly. “I’ve got to pack.”

  She didn’t go after him. What was the point?

  He’d said everything there was to be said—except to tell her that she was a fool for falling in love with him.

  And he didn’t have to tell her. She already knew it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE WEDDING invitation came out of the blue.

  As a rule, whenever expensive elegant formal envelopes turned up in his mail—particularly ones bearing a Greek surname on the return address—Theo began making plans to be on the other side of the earth.

  A Greek wedding always meant running into his parents, hearing about a score of eligible women, any one of whom would make, in his mother’s words, “the perfect Savas bride.”

  And no matter how many times Theo diplomatically told her that when he wanted one, he’d find his own, she didn’t listen. So heading far, far away was always a good move.

  In this instance, however, he was already about as far from the New York City postmark as he could possibly get.

  Two weeks ago he had arrived in New Zealand’s lush green Bay of Islands to spend a month of gorgeous hot summer in the middle of a northern-hemisphere deep-freeze winter, visiting friends and sailing for fun before he sailed a corporate yacht from Auckland to its new Italian home.

  But as he flipped the invitation over to toss it in the trash, his parents’ names on the return address stopped him.

  What the—?

  Quickly he slit it open, ripped into the inner envelope, and stared in amazement at the news that Mr. and Mrs. Socrates Savas requested the honor of his company at the marriage of their daughter Thalia Anastasia.

  Tallie?

  His sister?

  His baby sister? Getting married?

  The last time he’d seen his rough-and-tumble, anything-youcan-do-I-can-do-better little sister had been five months ago when he’d stopped briefly in New York City on his way to Newport to check out a new boat.

  At the time she had been in a funk about her new job as president of some marine company their old man had saddled her with—another of Socrates’ deals “acquired” on the golf course.

  Tallie, of course, hadn’t considered herself “saddled.” She loved all that corporate nonsense, was always trying to impress their dad. She’d been fuming and sulking when Theo had been there, though. But not, as he vaguely recalled, about the company.

  She’d had a man on her mind.

  Theo, who’d had a woman on his mind right then, hadn’t paid much attention to Tallie’s problems.

  Now, staring at the invitation, he noted the name of the groom. And the world—and his stomach—seemed to flip beneath his feet.

  Elias Aeneas Antonides?

  Antonides?

  Good God, yes. There it was in italic black-on-ivory. He blinked, willing the words to disappear. But when he opened his eyes again, Tallie was still marrying Elias Aeneas Antonides the first Saturday in February at two in the afternoon.

  Bloody hell.

  It was shock enough to learn that tomboy Tallie was getting married. But to Martha’s brother? He dropped into the chaise longue, feeling as if his legs would no longer hold him.

  Martha.

  And just as if he had pulled his finger out of the dam, the memories came flooding back. He’d resisted them for months, ever since the day he’d sailed away from Santorini and refused to look back.

  Of course it had been an incredible week, that week in July when he and Martha Antonides had set the world—and each other—on fire.

  But it was just that—a week. Nothing more significant than a shipboard fling—on shore. Intense and passionate and, by definition, brief.

  Exactly what she’d asked for.

  Exactly what he’d wanted.

  And that had been the end of it.

  Now, though, because there was no way on earth he was going to be able to avoid going to his sister’s wedding, he was going to have to see her again.

  And probably he would have to see her occasionally for the rest of their lives. For better or w
orse, he thought grimly, she would be part of his family now.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself, reining in the odd combination of elation and dread that simultaneously assailed him. It was, in fact, probably a good thing.

  Of course it was.

  It would be good to see her again. She had been a nice kid. It would be good to find out how she was doing, what she’d been doing—and assure himself that she hadn’t done anything stupid like go back to that moron who’d betrayed her.

  She wouldn’t do anything so idiotic. Would she?

  Who knew what the hell she’d do? Theo thought, his thoughts turning savage as he remembered when he’d come back to Santorini to see her.

  Yes, he’d left. He had obligations. He wasn’t at any woman’s beck and call. But he’d returned to Santorini before Martha’s three weeks were up.

  He’d wasted very little time deciding that the boat in Newport would do just fine. He’d arranged to have some work done on her there. But then he’d flown to Crete and caught the ferry to Santorini.

  Martha’s flight had been scheduled for Thursday. He got there Monday afternoon. He’d spent the entire trip anticipating her surprise and imagining her eagerness when he swept her up into his arms and carried her off to bed.

  But Martha wasn’t there.

  The house had been shut up. She’d left the keys with Costas at the shop where they’d been when he’d first arrived on Santorini.

  “Your girlfriend dump you, did she?” Costas eyed him with smug satisfaction.

  It would have been pointless—and impolite—to say she wasn’t his girlfriend. She’d worried about the islanders’ perceptions, he recalled. So he’d simply taken the key without any reply at all.

  “She went back to New York,” Costas told him with a shrug. “Said it was beautiful here but she had to get back to her real life.”

  Her real life. With Julian the jerk?

  She’d be an idiot if she did!

  Theo balled the invitation in his fist and tossed it over the rail and into the sea.

  That was how much of a damn he gave what Martha did!

  And when he saw her at the wedding next month, that was how much of a damn he’d give then.