He only had eyes for Tristanne.
She wore something blue tonight that seemed spun from clouds, so effortlessly did it dance over her curves, calling attention to the bright spark in her warm eyes, the golden glow of her skin. Her hair swept over her shoulders in dark blonde waves, calling to mind the golden Kefallonian sands as they basked beneath the Greek sky. She was too alive, too vibrant. Too beautiful.
And he was keenly aware that this was the last night she would seem so. That he would crush the very thing he found so intoxicating about her from her as surely as if he planned to do it with his own foot.
He could not make sense of the churning in his gut, or his own inability to carry through with his plan with all the comfort of the righteousness that had been his only companion these many years. Why should he regret that she must feel the consequences of her family’s actions? That she must pay for the loss of three lives? Why should he regret anything?
As if she could feel his gaze upon her, she turned away from the guests she was talking to and smiled at him. He watched her excuse herself with a word and her perfect social smile, and then he allowed himself to sink into the vision of her as she crossed the deck to him.
He let himself pretend, for just one moment, that she would truly become his bride in the morning. His wife.
He could not deny the sense of rightness that spread through him then, spiraling out from the part of him that had told him she was his since the start and taking him over in a heady kind of rush. But it did not matter what he felt, he reminded himself grimly, forcing himself back under control. It only mattered what he did. What he had vowed he would see through to the bitter end.
“You look forbidding,” she said, her voice light, though her eyes searched his. He caught the faintest hint of her perfume, something fresh and enticing, that made him want to put his mouth on her. He did not know how he refrained.
“I find I am less interested in parties than I was once,” he said. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, wishing they were hidden away in the villa, where he would already be naked and she would already be astride him. Why could it all not be as simple, as elemental as that?
She smiled, as if she could read his mind. “This party is in your honor,” she pointed out, angling her body toward his. “You could smile. Or at least stop frowning. I don’t think it would ruin your mystique.”
He smiled without meaning to, and then wondered how he could be so susceptible to her. How he could let his control slip so easily. He had ignored the way she had watched him over the past weeks, her brown eyes grave and thoughtful. He had ignored the way he had gone to her, then held on to her as if he could hold back the night, keep reality at bay. He had ignored everything.
But tonight, his resolve seemed to have been left behind when the boat left the shore in Assos. He looked at her, her face so open and trusting, and wanted more than anything to be the man she thought he was. The man he ought to be.
But that man did not exist—and what possibility there might have been of his becoming that man had been snuffed out by the Barberys ten years ago. Why was that so hard to remember when she was near?
“And that is important to you?” he asked idly. He wished that it was done. He wished that he had finished with this act of revenge already, and that it was behind him. He told himself it was the drawing out that was killing him, the waiting even now, at the eleventh hour. “You feel I should pretend to be friendly and approachable for the benefit of wedding guests who, presumably, already know perfectly well I am neither?”
She laughed, and it hurt him, though he refused to acknowledge it. Her eyes were so warm, so happy as she looked up at him.
“Oh, Nikos,” she said, as if she was still laughing, as if the words bubbled up from within her like a mountain spring, fresh and clean and pure. “I do love you.”
He felt himself turn to stone.
He knew who he was. He knew what he must do.
And he did not believe in love.
Even hers.
Tristanne felt him freeze solid beneath her hands. Her words hung there between them, taking over the night, seeming to gather significance—seeming to echo back from the cliffs.
“I did not mean to say that!” she whispered, stricken. Appalled at herself and her carelessness.
He looked like a stranger suddenly—so faraway, so alien—though he had hardly moved a muscle. Panic and dread exploded inside of her, making her feel almost drugged—heavy and close to tears, where seconds before she had felt like air.
“I’m so sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I did not know I was going to say it!”
“Did you not?” His voice was so cold. So distant. Condemning. “Perhaps you meant it in the casual way. The way one loves a car. Or a shoe.”
He sounded almost uninterested. Almost as if he was poking at her as he’d used to. But Tristanne could see something that looked like anguish in his eyes, turning them very nearly black.
She sucked in a breath, skimmed her hands over his wide shoulders. Took another breath, and met his gaze. For a moment she did not know if she could do this. She, who had stood up to him when her very knees threatened to give out. She, who had argued with him when she would have been better-served trying to protect herself.
But if she could not keep herself safe, she could pretend to be brave.
“I did not mean to say it, but it’s true,” she said, her voice soft, but sincere. “I do, Nikos. I love you.”
He only stared at her, as the party seemed to dim and disappear around them. His eyes were so dark as he looked down at her, with no hint at all of gold. No trace of something like tenderness she’d thought she’d seen there on occasion. It was almost as if he could not make sense of her words.
Something passed between them, heavy and unspoken, thick. Tristanne felt her eyes well up, though she did not cry, and saw a muscle twitch in his jaw—though she sensed he was not angry. He was nothing so simple as angry.
“This wedding has addled your brain,” he said, hoarsely, after moments—or years—had passed. “How can you love me, Tristanne? You hardly know me. You have no idea what I am capable of!”
She remembered the words she had thrown at him on the cobblestones in Portofino, and shivered involuntarily. Had that been foreboding? A premonition? Had she been waiting, since then, for the other shoe to fall?
“I know you,” she said softly. She squared her shoulders, and met his gaze straight on. “Better than you think.”
“Very well then,” he said then, biting the words out. So cold, so far away suddenly. “I hope that knowledge brings you great comfort in the days to come.”
“You mean when we are married?” she asked, not quite following him, but feeling somehow that they were poised on the edge of a great disaster.
“Yes,” he said, his mouth twisting, bitterness thick in the air between them, though she could not understand it. “When we are married.”
Chapter Fifteen
TRISTANNE stood before the floor-length mirror in the villa’s master suite, staring at the vision before her. Her hair was caught back in a clasp at her crown, then tumbled about her bare shoulders in a cascade of dark blonde waves. The ivory dress clasped her tight around the bodice, then skimmed to the ground, light and airy, simple and elegant. Her makeup was flawless, calling attention to her eyes, her lips, and making her complexion seem to be a deep cream, with a glow within. She wore her mother’s pearls and behind her, near to the chair where Vivienne sat clasping her hands to her chest in delight, a bouquet bursting with fragrant white flowers graced a low table.
Tristanne was the perfect vision of the perfect bride. And yet she could not seem to shake the terrible sense of foreboding that had gripped her ever since Nikos had left her side the night before. Ever since she had told him she loved him and he had stared at her as if he’d never laid eyes on her before. She trembled again, now, thinking of it.
“You are a beautiful bride!” Vivienne cried from behind her,
as if she were neither fragile nor upsettlingly pale.
“Am I?” Tristanne was hardly aware of having spoken. She felt as if she was in a dream. How could this be her wedding day? How could she be dressed to marry a man that she did not quite trust, who did not love her, who might never care for her as she did for him? How could it all have come to this? Surely, on this day of all days, she should feel some kind of certainty about the man she was about to vow to spend the rest of her life with. Instead all she could see was that odd, cold look in Nikos’s dark eyes last night. All she could feel was a low-level panic, making her faintly nauseous, slightly dizzy. And she could not seem to do anything but stare at herself, as if her reflection held the answers, were she only to look hard enough.
The logical part of her mind knew exactly what she should do. It had spent the long night drawing up exit strategies and outlining escape plans. She could not possibly marry a man who had reacted to her declaration of love in such a way. A man whom she did not trust, who, as he had said himself, she barely knew. What was she thinking? She was the result of a hasty marriage, had grown up watching her mother beg for the scraps of her father’s attention—and she had vowed she would never put herself in that position. How could she possibly sentence herself to the very same fate?
But the logical part of her mind was not the part that had dressed in this gown, allowed her hair to be teased into place or her makeup to be applied with such care by her attendants. The logical part of her had nothing to do with the serene bridal vision she saw reflected in her mirror. And the truth was that Tristanne had no idea what she should do—what she wanted to do.
Except…that was not the truth, was it?
Tristanne felt something click into place inside of her then, as realization finally dawned, the fog that had invaded her brain seeming, finally, to clear.
A woman who was appropriately appalled by the fact that Nikos had, very clearly, wanted nothing to do with her declaration would have done something about it. She might have left, called off the wedding, or found Nikos to demand that he explain himself. A woman who was not afraid to push the issue would…have pushed. But Tristanne was afraid. She was afraid that if pushed, Nikos would disappear. Hadn’t she been afraid of this very thing since the evening he had proposed? So instead, she had allowed herself to be carried along by the age-old rituals of the bride’s toilette. She had chosen what she wanted by pretending not to choose.
“You must come and see,” Vivienne said then, her thin, breathy voice breaking in to Tristanne’s reverie. “Look at this fine sight, Tristanne!”
Tristanne blinked, feeling as if she was waking from some kind of drugged sleep. She turned to find that her mother had moved across the room to peer out of one of the windows that looked out over the villa’s sculpted gardens where the civil ceremony was supposed to take place. Tristanne walked over to join her there, feeling the caress of her gown against her legs, the brush of her curls against her shoulders. Her skin felt too sensitive, as if Nikos was in front of her, that half smile on his dark face and molten gold in his eyes. Her body knew what it wanted. What it always wanted and, she feared, always would. No matter what.
She stood at her mother’s side and looked down into the sun-kissed garden. Guests were already taking their seats in the rows of chairs set to face the gleaming blue sea. White flowers flowed from baskets, and birds sang from above. It was a beautiful scene—as if ripped from the pages of some glossy wedding magazine and brought to life.
All that was missing was the groom.
“No, I am sure he will come,” Tristanne said at first, when the appointed time had come and gone. The guests’ murmurs had turned to open, speculative conversation that Tristanne could hear all too well from the windows above.
But he did not come. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Then forty-five minutes, then an hour, and still Nikos did not appear.
“He would not do this,” Tristanne said, her voice wooden. She had said it several times already—to her mother’s drawn and anxious face, to her increasingly furious brother—both before and after the necessary announcement had been made to the assembled guests.
She had shut herself down. Her stomach might heave, her head might spin, and she might be fighting back tears that seemed to come from her very soul—tears she was afraid to give into because she did not think she would ever stop—but she would not show it. She could not show it!
“Would he not?” Peter spat this time, whirling to face her. “He has no doubt lived for this moment for the past ten years!”
“You do not know what you’re talking about,” Tristanne said, automatically jumping to Nikos’s defense, even as she heard the desperate edge in her voice. How could this be happening? How could he have done this?
Please…she cried inside her mind. But she remembered that bitter undercurrent to his words. That bleak look in his eyes.
“It had to be Nikos Katrakis, didn’t it?” Peter sneered. His pacing had rendered him red-faced and slightly shiny, and his cold eyes slammed into her. Ordinarily she would heed these warning signs and try to maintain a safe distance from Peter’s rage—but she could not seem to move from the chair she had sunk into when the clock had struck an hour past the time she had been meant to walk down the aisle. She could only stare at him, willing herself not to break down.
Not in front of Peter. She had never broken down in front of Peter. Not even when he used his hands.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, with admirable calm. From a distance, she thought, she might even look calm, while inside she thought she might already have died.
“You had to pick out the one man alive who could make our situation worse! We will be the laughingstock of Europe!” Peter hissed. “I knew this would happen—I told you this would happen! You selfish, irresponsible—”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” Tristanne heard herself saying, with fight and spirit that felt completely foreign to her. As if she cared about Peter, or, perhaps, it was that she no longer cared at all, about anything. “I am not the one who lost the family fortune.”
She heard her mother gasp in horror, but she could not tend to Vivienne just then. She could not even tend to herself. She could only sit there, her hands clenched in her lap, her dress stiff and uncomfortable all around her, trying to make sense of what was happening. What could not be happening. What was, it became clear with every passing second, really and truly happening after all.
He would not do this! something inside of her howled. Not after she had told him everything. Not after all that had passed between them. She thought of that archway in Florence—the way that he had held her then. The fierce, consuming way he had made love to her. So raw, so desperate. How could none of that be real?
Peter laughed, unpleasantly. “I hope you enjoyed your low-class love affair while it lasted, Tristanne. I hope it was worth the humiliation we will now face in front of the entire world! Our father must be turning over in his grave!”
“Something must have happened to him,” Tristanne said, but even she could not believe it at this point. Two hours and thirty-six minutes, and Nikos was not here. He was not coming. He was not coming. Though, in truth, she was still hoping. That he had been in a car accident, perhaps. His broken body in a hospital bed, and wouldn’t they all be so ashamed of their revolting speculation—
But then there was a commotion near the door, and one of his servants stood there, looking embarrassed. And she knew before he said a single word.
“I am so sorry, miss,” he said, not making eye contact, wringing his hands in front of him. “But Mr. Katrakis left this morning. He took the helicopter into Athens, and he has no plans to return.”
Tristanne got up then. It was that or simply collapse into herself. She launched herself to her feet, and moved away from the chair, looking desperately around the stark, white room as if something in it might calm her, or make this nightmare better somehow. He has no plans to return.
“What a surpri
se,” Peter snapped, advancing on her. His face was screwed up with rage, and that black hatred that had always emanated from him in waves. “He remembered that he is a Katrakis and you are a Barbery! Of course he could not marry you! Of course he chose instead to humiliate you! I should have expected this from the start!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she told Peter, through lips that felt numb. She wanted to scream, to run, to hide…but where on earth could she possibly go? Her old life in Vancouver? How could it possibly fit her now? How could she ever pretend she had not felt what she had felt, nor loved as she still loved, even now, in the darkest of moments? It was choking her. Killing her. And she had the strangest feeling that even should she survive the horror of this moment, what she felt would not diminish at all. She knew it in the exact same, bone-deep way that she had known that Nikos Katrakis would ruin her. She knew it.
“Did you think he wanted you, Tristanne?” Peter hissed. “Did you imagine he was sufficiently enamored of your charms? The only thing you had that Katrakis wanted was your name.”
“My name?” She felt as thick, as stupid, as Peter had always told her she was. “Why would he care about my name?”
“Because he loathes us all,” Peter threw at her. “He swore he would have his revenge on us ten years ago, and congratulations, Tristanne—you have handed it to him on a silver platter!”
“Peter, please,” Vivienne murmured then. “This is not the time!”
But Tristanne was watching her brother’s expression, and a prickle of something cold washed over her.
“What did you do?” she asked. Her fists clenched, as if she wanted to protect Nikos from Peter—but no, that could not be what she felt. She wanted to make sense of what was happening, that was all. There had to be a reason he had abandoned her—there had to be! “What did you do to him?”
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