She still didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she said quietly, “Now I know.” Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
The silence went on. And on.
She kept on holding his hand, her thumb rubbing against the side of his finger giving closeness, contact, comfort.
But he couldn’t take any more than that.
“That’s why the answer is no, Anny. Because I’m not using you. I’m not taking. I don’t know why you think you love me. And I hope to God you’re wrong. When you make love again, you should get it in return. You deserve it. And I haven’t got any left.”
CHAPTER NINE
NOW YOU KNOW.
Anny kept hearing his voice saying those same three words over and over in her head. She didn’t sleep a wink.
The determined detachment followed by the bitter pain in Demetrios’s voice would have been enough to keep her awake. But imagining the nightmare that had been his marriage kept her tossing and turning the whole night.
She—like everyone else in the world—had thought Demetrios Savas’s self-imposed exile had been to come to terms with the loss of the woman he so deeply loved, a woman he’d lost to a mysterious virulent infection of the blood.
It was tragic, certainly.
How dare the reality be so much worse?
She wanted desperately to go to him, to comfort him, to assuage all the pain and anger in him.
At the same time she knew that nothing she could offer would do that. There were some losses so deep that people were never the same after. There was always the aching speculation about what might have been, the hollowness that couldn’t be filled.
But wasn’t it possible to go on? She wondered. To relearn the ability to love? A man as deeply devoted to his family, as genuinely interested in others, as kind and caring as he’d been to her had to know what love meant.
The fact that he’d denied himself the pleasure of physical release because “it wouldn’t be fair to her” was, perversely, a kind of love in itself.
But she couldn’t tell him that. She couldn’t tell him, either, that she didn’t need him to be the perfect man he’d seemed in her youthful fantasies. Or the perfect man he seemed to expect himself to be. She’d fallen in love with the man he was now, scars and all. And if those scars were deeper than she’d ever imagined, it didn’t mean she loved him less.
If anything she loved him more for overcoming the pain, for fighting his way back to a productive life, a spectacular career, a compassion for others.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have love for other people, Anny decided. It was that he didn’t have any for himself.
For the next four days Demetrios kept to himself. The weather turned fine so there was no reason not to focus on making the fastest time possible. He kept conversation to a minimum, said he didn’t have time to go for a swim or while away the evenings talking under the stars.
He had a screenplay to write, he told her. And she had a dissertation. So when he wasn’t actually sailing the boat or eating a meal, he shut himself in his cabin.
You’d think she’d get the point.
But Anny acted like he hadn’t spilled his guts and told her what a mess his marriage had been. Her smiles still seemed genuine. Her questions about sailing, about fishing, about recipes his mother had made, for heaven’s sake, didn’t abate. She didn’t give him pitying glances, thank God.
But she was still Anny. And she wore his NYU shirt and his shorts too damned much.
He should ask for them back. She had stuff she could wear now. She’d bought that damn bikini and a couple of shirts and other shorts and pants as well, hadn’t she? But while she wore them, it seemed to him she wore his NYU shirt more.
As if she were silently declaring a bond between them. As if the shirt was hers. As if he was.
He wasn’t, damn it! But the awareness that existed between them still hummed loudly, even though Demetrios assured himself it would go away.
It would, but Anny didn’t.
He’d always thought Theo’s yacht was a decent size. It had always felt spacious, roomy, enough for a whole family. He was wrong.
The boat was tiny. Cramped. Everywhere he went, there was Anny. Even when he was on deck, alone, there she was, below him somewhere, in the galley making dinner, or working on her dissertation in her cabin.
After four days he couldn’t take any more. Nothing made any difference. She’d got under his skin. She made him want things he swore he’d never want again, prayed he’d never be tempted by again.
Not because she flirted or teased or promised anything special. She’d done it simply by being Anny.
So when they sailed into the harbor at the tiny Greek island of St. Isaakios the following afternoon, Demetrios felt as if he’d got an answer to his prayers.
Anny watched with growing amazement as hordes of people gathering on the waterfront of tiny St. Issakios. The tiny Greek island where they had put in for the night was celebrating its namesake’s feast day.
She had thought Demetrios would give it a miss. But he seemed keen to go ashore. It was the first thing he’d seemed keen on since the night he’d turned her down. She supposed grimly that it was good that something appealed to him.
But she knew she wasn’t being fair. He was a man in pain. But the truth was, she wasn’t exactly thriving on all this rejection herself.
So when he’d suggested stopping, she said, “Why not?”
“You don’t have to go ashore,” he told her.
But she’d had enough of being on a boat with a man who looked away every time she came into view. She wanted noise and bright lights and hordes of people as much as he did.
“I can hardly wait,” she told him recklessly and was gratified to see his dark eyebrows raise.
The transformation of what was surely the normally sleepy island home of a few hundred fishermen and their families was well underway by the time they climbed into the inflatable just past dusk. Waiting until dark was the one concession they made to the desire for anonymity.
When they finally got ashore, Anny found she didn’t have her “land legs” yet and stumbled as she started up the dock. Luckily Demetrios caught her and set her back on her feet. But just as quickly, he let her go again.
“You don’t have to stick with me if you’d rather not,” Anny said.
Demetrios looked at the milling crowds of people, half of them already drunk and the other half well on their way in that direction. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said gruffly. “Come on.”
The waterfront was jammed with people. Thousands of tiny fairy lights were strung along the streets near the harbor. The heavy bass from the beach concert made the ground shake under their feet. Hurrying to keep up with him, Anny stumbled again.
This time he caught her and hung on. The crowds were growing thicker and more boisterous as they moved away off the dock and onto the street facing the harbor. The noise was deafening and after all their days on the water, this sea of humanity was overpowering.
“It’s insane!” she yelled, jostled by a group of boys running through the square. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people were singing and dancing and shouting, drinking and yelling and throwing each other into the sea.
“You want to go back to the boat?” he shouted the words in her ear.
Someone on the beach was setting off fireworks. Someone else was shooting bottle rockets. Photographers’ flashes were like sparklers, glittering and incessant. Anny shook her head. “No.” There would only be solitude on the boat. She didn’t want that. “It’s amazing,” she yelled back. “We don’t have anything quite like this in Mont Chamion!”
“Lucky you! Let’s find a place to eat.”
They walked away from the waterfront and found the crowds and the noise dwindled a bit. When they did find a restaurant with an empty table, Demetrios was in no hurry for once.
He’d bolted his meals with her the past four days. But that was when they’d been alone. Now he seemed quite con
tent to eat slowly and order another beer. He didn’t talk about anything personal. She did her best with Madame’s “conversation starters,” but he was immune to all of them. When he did talk, he talked about ideas for his screenplay or about people he needed to talk to when the trip was over—as if he could hardly wait.
Anny listened. She took her time over her meal, too. She knew that they would be in Santorini tomorrow. This was the end of the road. And if this was all she was going to get of Demetrios Savas in her life, she would hang on to the evening for as long as she could.
She did her best. Even so it seemed no time at all—though it was probably at least a couple of hours—until Demetrios said, “We should get an early start in the morning. I talked to Theo today and he wanted to know what time we’d be in. I figure we can be there by late afternoon.” He even smiled, as if he were counting the minutes until he got rid of her.
Anny just nodded and said, “I’m looking forward to meeting your brother.”
Demetrios blinked, as if the notion hadn’t occurred to him. Was he going to shuffle her off to a hotel before she could even meet Theo?
He didn’t say. But abruptly he called for the check and paid for the meal, standing up as if she didn’t still have a half a glass of wine in front of her. “We should get going,” he said.
The crowds in the streets had dispersed somewhat now, some moving into tavernas to get down to some serious drinking, others onto the roofs of local houses where small parties continued.
The main party had moved from the beach to the agora—the small open-air market area—which faced the harbor. The loud rock band had dispersed—probably into the tavernas or away in boats—and a smaller group playing more traditional music was delighting the crowd. Couples were dancing, arms around each other, moving to the music, to each other. Anny slowed her pace, watching them, envying them.
“Come on.” Demetrios caught her hand so they could skirt around the crowd.
But caught by a combination of music and desire, Anny dug in her heels. “Dance with me.”
“What?” He stopped abruptly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. He gave her hand another tug.
Anny didn’t move. “Just one dance.” She looked at him beseechingly.
His jaw tightened. “Anny—”
But she wouldn’t be gainsayed. Not now. “One dance, Demetrios. One.”
The musicians weren’t great. The music was tinny and sometimes out of tune. It didn’t matter. Their trip was almost over. She knew Demetrios wasn’t going to wake up and discover that she wasn’t Lissa, or anything like her.
She couldn’t argue him around to believing that. Just as she couldn’t argue him around to loving her.
So she’d take what she could get: one dance.
She wanted to feel his arms around her one more time. Not making love. But loving. Loving him.
Tomorrow or the next day these memories would be all she’d have left to relish, to savor. She looked up at him, her eyes speaking to him.
His mouth twisted. He rubbed a hand over the stubble that was now a reasonably respectable two-week-old beard. If he danced with her she could turn her head, press her cheek to his jaw and feel that beard. She’d only felt it in her imagination until now.
If they danced, she’d have one more memory to sustain her.
“Just a dance, Demetrios. To remember.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh hell. Why not?”
It was hell—and heaven—all rolled into one.
The minute he slipped his arms around Anny to dance with her, the moment he felt her body fit itself to his, Demetrios knew he was done for.
He would have laughed bitterly at his own foolishness, if the desire for her weren’t so intense, if the longing weren’t so real. Anger and desperation he could fight.
He couldn’t fight this.
It was like having his dreams come true. It was like being offered a taste of all he’d ever longed for. A single spoonful that would have to last him for the rest of his life.
“To remember,” Anny had said, like it was a good thing.
How could it be good to have a hollow aching reminder of the joy he’d once believed was his due. It wasn’t. He didn’t believe in promises anymore. Yet, as much as he tried not to give in, he couldn’t resist.
It was like trying to resist gravity. Like agreeing to step off a cliff—then refusing to let himself fall.
Impossible.
He drew her closer, looped his arms around her and rested his cheek against her hair. It was so soft, tendrils like butterfly wings tickled his nose. He breathed in the scent of her—a heady combination of citrus and the sea, and permeating everything something indefinably essentially Anny.
They barely moved as the music played on. They simply held each other, swaying, savoring, dreaming—
The camera flash came like a shot in the dark. Once. Twice. Half a dozen times. Blinding him as it moved in and around them in quick succession.
Not, he realized at once, just aimed at him. Aimed at Anny, too. And the rapid repeat fire speed of the shutter flashes told him it wasn’t a tourist’s camera. Paparazzo.
He swore under his breath as he felt her stiffen in his arms. He drew her close, shielded her. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’ll get him. I’ll stop him!”
But almost instantly she stepped back, looking as stunned as he was, but immediately laying a hand on his arm. “No. It’s all right. It happens.”
She sounded calm, collected. He was furious. “It’ll be in every damn tabloid on the continent. Totally misconstrued.”
Lissa had loved that sort of thing, delighted in the notoriety. But he was surprised that Anny wasn’t more upset.
“I’ll talk to him.” She was already looking for the jerk.
“Talk?” Since when did you talk to paparazzi?
But Anny was hurrying after the photographer, calling out in perfect fluent Greek, “Please stop. Come talk to me.”
Please? Demetrios rolled his eyes.
But the photographer stopped. Demetrios would have happily grabbed his camera and throttled the man on the spot.
Anny was all charm. “Isn’t the festival wonderful?” She smiled at the photographer. “How long have you been here? Did you get lots of good shots? Have you had a good day?”
Her and her bloody “conversation starters”! But it worked. And while Demetrios watched, Anny used an arsenal of charm and camaraderie to disarm and enchant the man who had stolen their privacy.
She didn’t take his camera and destroy his pictures. She gave him a story to go with them, explaining that she was getting her Ph.D. in archaeology and did he know about the nearby ruins? She’d always wanted to see them and her dear friend Demetrios, whom she’d chanced to meet up with at the festival in Cannes, had offered to bring her today.
Not a word of it was untrue. She never said they’d actually seen the ruins. She never said she’d spent close to two weeks on a sailboat with him. She said they’d had a wonderful time and a wonderful meal and who could resist dancing after such a wonderful day?
Then she said with an impish smile, “Will you dance with me?”
The photographer almost dropped his teeth.
“I’ll hold the camera,” Demetrios offered helpfully.
But the photographer was no fool. “Nice try,” he laughed. “But even a dance with a princess isn’t worth the price of these photos.” And giving them a quick salute he hurried away.
“You would have crushed his camera,” Anny said flatly.
“Damn straight.”
She sighed, then shrugged. “Well, you have your way and I have mine.”
“He’ll print the pictures.”
“Yes. But it won’t embarrass my father when he sees them.”
Demetrios sat silently with his hand on the tiller of the inflatable’s small engine all the way back to Theo’s boat. He had closed in on himself in a way that shouldn’t have surprised her.
He�
�d been more and more reclusive since he’d told her about his marriage to Lissa. But this felt different. He didn’t seem bitter so much as thoughtful. He was probably upset about the photos, thinking she had been a fool. She didn’t think so. Her father had taught her never to be adversarial unless it was absolutely necessary. It hadn’t been.
But she felt sad now. Happy she’d been able to defuse the situation with the photographer. But at what cost?
The end of her closeness with Demetrios. The flashes had come like the clock striking midnight in the middle of Cinderella’s last dance. And now whenever she remembered their dance, the memory wouldn’t be the one she wanted.
But they couldn’t go back to the agora and recapture it. The photographer had departed happily enough, and she wasn’t worried about what he would say in his story. But their anonymity had departed with him.
Now everyone stopped to look at them. To whisper. To stare. To nudge.
“A princess,” they whispered. “With Demetrios Savas—he is Greek, you know.”
So they’d gone to the dock and came straight back to the boat. She got a rock in her sandal and didn’t even stop to shake it out until they were on the boat.
Now, after he’d tied the inflatable onto the stern of the sailboat, Demetrios helped her out, then hauled the inflatable aboard after them.
“Can I help you stow it?” Anny offered, knowing the answer before she even asked the question.
“I can manage.” He made quick work of stowing it.
Anny, having lost her chance at the dance, still wouldn’t give up on the moment. She sat down on the bench in the cockpit and took off her sandals while she watched Demetrios work.
The sound of the music carried across the water. Sweet hummable, danceable music that made Anny remember the way Demetrios’s arms had felt around her, the way his beard had felt against her cheek. Her throat ached. She curled her toes, then relaxed them again, then rubbed the muscles on the sole of her foot.
“Let me.”
She looked up, startled, to see Demetrios sit down next to her and pull her foot up onto his lap and begin massaging her instep. She wanted to whimper.
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