The Greek's Virgin Captive_She was wrong for him in every way but one...

by Clare Connelly

  Like a horny schoolboy.

  “You bet I am.” She snapped the dress over her body, and moved to the edge of the boat. He followed, neatening his clothes as he went. She was as rigid as a board, staring at the island.

  He stared at her, watching the sharp inhalations of her breath, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry if you thought that there was more going on between us, Eleanor, but that’s not my fault.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t get to have it both ways! You don’t get to seduce me and play with me like I’m the woman you fell in love with back in London, and then treat me like one of your father’s whores when things get serious.”

  Her words cut deep into his chest. “You were a virgin. What was I meant to do? Throw you over my shoulder and take you against a wall?” Like he’d wanted to the moment he’d seen her back in Ras el Kida. “Your first time should be special. I wanted to give you that.”

  “You’ve given me a whole new raft of regrets. This should never have happened!”

  “Yeah! Damn straight! But it did. We both wanted it. We both went into this with our eyes wide open.”

  “That’s what I thought.” And she turned to face him, her expression grim. “I knew I loved you, even in Ras el Kida. Feelings like we had don’t just go away. I had my eyes open all along. I knew you had to be angry with me, and that it would take time, but I was sure you would realise you loved me too. Because you do love me, Apollo. You’re angry about the article, but that hasn’t stopped you loving me—,”

  “This is a fantasy of your construction,” he spoke, the words cold despite the thunderstorm of panic that was bursting through him. “Think back to every conversation we’ve had and ask yourself at what point I’ve ever given you a reason to think I loved you?”

  “You’re saying you don’t?” She demanded, her eyes latched to his in a way that did funny things to his gut. “Tell me right now that you don’t love me. Look into my eyes and tell me that you haven’t spent this week falling in love with me.”

  And because his own sense of danger was infuriating to him, he leaned forward, his face close to hers, so that he could see every sweet shift in her expression. “I don’t love you.”

  The pain those words caused her! He saw it, he felt it, he heard it, and it brought him no pleasure. It pained him equally and he couldn’t have said why, only that he was glad. That he felt he deserved it.

  He straightened and turned away from her. And it was like walking through an odd nightmare. He could see the real world but it was just out of his grip. He was right to be honest with her – he couldn’t care for her. It was impossible and forbidden and he wouldn’t allow himself to forget what she’d done and who she was.

  But when he tossed a careless look over his shoulder and saw her back moving as she obviously sobbed, he swore.

  He was angry with her, but he wasn’t a complete bastard. He closed the distance between them, putting a hand between her shoulder blades. She flinched away from his touch.

  “Don’t touch me,” she cried, the words panicked. “Never again will I let you use my body for your pleasure.”

  “It’s for your pleasure too,” he said with a smile that was intended to lighten the mood.

  But she sobbed once more. “And I hate that. I hate that even now you could kiss me and I would weaken. I hate that I can feel this for you when you feel nothing for me. Beyond sex,” she clarified immediately. And then, with a shake of her head, she looked back towards the island. “I’d like to go home, please.”

  Impatience zipped in his gut. “Fine. I’ll have the boat taken back to the island.”

  “I don’t mean the island.” The words were deathly quiet. “I want to go home to London.”

  And there it was: utter panic and revulsion, splintering him apart. She turned to face him and she was devastated, he could see that. He could see it in the paleness of her skin and the tightness of her jaw, the hollow look in her eyes and the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. Her face was tear-stained and her voice was thin.

  He hated seeing her like this. But he hated the idea of her going back to London even more.

  “No.”

  She blinked and staggered back, as though she’d been struck. “No?”

  He clenched his teeth together. “I said a week or two. I need to know the deadline for the damned article has passed. I need to know you won’t write it.”

  “You’re just going to have to trust me,” she whispered.

  But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “You know my answer to that.” And he turned and stalked towards the control centre of the yacht, disappearing from site.

  A moment later, the boat started to move back to the island, but Eleanor felt nothing. She saw nothing. She was part-asleep. Or was it partway to dead?

  He didn’t look at her when they disembarked, and she was glad. She couldn’t look at him either. But once they were back in the house, he turned to face her. “I’m going to Athens for a few days,” he said.

  “What?” She frowned. “And I’m meant to what? Languish here?”

  “You will hardly be languishing,” he pointed out. “Carlotta will take very good care of you.”

  “Damn you, Apollo! You can’t do this to me! You can’t keep punishing me for a mistake I made three years ago. Have you never made a mistake? Never got something wrong?”

  “I’m looking at the biggest mistake I’ve ever made,” he said darkly and the insult just exploded inside of her like a bomb.

  “I hate you,” she said, the words ricocheting from so close within her heart, that she knew it wasn’t hate but love she felt.

  His smile was lacking any pleasure or humour. “Perhaps you do. Perhaps that’s our purpose here, Eleanor. To take what was once a beautiful connection between two people and ruin it beyond repair.” He stepped backwards. “Carlotta can contact me if needed. Try to stay out of trouble.” And he strode towards the front door, so that she followed after him.

  “You can’t just leave me here!” She railed against him, pushing at his chest.

  He grabbed her wrist, holding it by his side. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not your prisoner!”

  “You think?”

  And he walked out, taking advantage of her shock to escape her wroth. Eleanor stared at the door and then collapsed against the wall, sliding to the floor.

  She didn’t know how long she stayed there. Long enough to hear the rotors of his helicopter as he passed overhead. Long enough for them to fall silent.

  Long enough for all hope to wither and die inside her chest.

  *

  Apollo hadn’t even stepped out of the chopper onto the rooftop of his highrise in Athens before the weight of what had just happened came crushing down on him.

  She’d accused him of kidnapping her when he’d taken her from Ras el Kida but he’d made his peace with what he’d done because he’d known it was imperative to get her safely out of Raffa’s country. He’d known there was danger there – to Chloe, yes, but also to Eleanor. He’d been acting to save, not hurt.

  And this?

  Keeping her on his island while he fled to Athens and the all-important space he craved?

  It was cowardice, and it was criminal. He was keeping her on the island because he wanted her there. He wanted her where he could have her at any time, where he could kiss her and she would laugh, where he could watch her swim, he wanted things to go back to the way they’d been before the yacht. God, he wished he could simply leave her on the island forever – his guilty little secret. No one need ever know.

  But she would.

  I want to go home.

  The plaintive statement and the sob were etched into his mind, sounds he’d never forget, emotions that would plague him for the rest of his days.

  He strode out from the helicopter, moving towards the rooftop stairs. His assistant was waiting, her expression unflappable. “Welcome home, sir.”

  Home.
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  I want to go home.

  He grunted his acknowledgement. She began to speak, keeping him up to date with operational concerns, but he barely listened.

  “Stop.” He held a hand up to silence her when he reached the door to his private floor of the building.

  She froze, a look of confusion on her face.

  And he didn’t blame her. If he looked even halfway as panicked on the outside as he felt on the inside, then she must have thought the world was about to end.

  Apollo Heranedes didn’t do panic. He didn’t do drama. He didn’t do uncertainty.

  He made an effort to pull himself together, but all he could see was Eleanor’s face, the way she’d stared at him as though he’d threatened to kill a clutch of kittens.

  He stifled a groan.

  “I have a houseguest on Prasino nisi,” he said after a beat, his heart sinking at what he was about to do. Knowing it was a risk to set her free, but knowing that he couldn’t justify keeping her locked up on the island, just because it suited him. “Have Carlotta organize the plane to take my guest to London. And a driver to meet her at the airport,” he added for good measure.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “ELEANOR JONES.” The signboard was impossible to miss. Eleanor’s breath hitched in her throat at the top of the airport escalator, and she forced her gaze to travel casually past it, moving to the doors with hope.

  Her suitcase, phone and passport had been stowed on the airplane. Apparently Apollo had ensured they were brought from Ras el Kida. She wasn’t sure when, but she was glad to have seen them when she boarded the flight. Glad to have some kind of talisman to her old life, glad to have a reminder of who she’d been before he’d kidnapped her and made her fall all the way back in love with him again.

  The man with her name on a sign had no idea that he’d be an accomplice-after-the-fact. That the blood of her broken heart would be on his hands.

  She had no intention of going with him, in any event.

  For he was Apollo’s servant, and she needed to get as far from Apollo as possible. Memories of the yacht had tormented her the entire way across Europe. The things he’d said, the certainty with which he’d spoken that had, at last, convinced her of his truth.

  He didn’t love her.

  He would never love her.

  She’d created a fantasy based on her own hopes and expectations and they were all false.

  She kept her head bent as she stalked past the driver, her expression frigid enough to turn fire to ice, and she kept walking, sailing right out of the airport doors and into the waiting arms of a taxi.

  Only once settled in, the driver given her address, did she pull her sunglasses down over her face and give into the heavy rock of grief that had settled inside of her. She stared at London as it sped by, and silent tears slipped down her cheeks.

  When the cab pulled up, she looked through the window, wondering that she felt nothing like relief to see the small block of flats she called home.

  The cab driver spun around, and she met his gaze, expecting him to ask for the fare.

  Instead, he said, in a heavy cockney accent, “Want to talk about it, love?”

  Eleanor closed her eyes and saw the confidentiality agreement, and a brittle laugh strangled in her throat. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” she said honestly.

  He nodded. “Here.” He handed her a tissue. “You’ve got a little boy waiting to see his mummy’s smile.”

  Eleanor looked towards the building and there was Josh at a window, waving frantically.

  Her heart burst and a smile finally found its way to her lips. She didn’t bother to correct the taxi driver with his mistake. Instead, she reached into her bag and handed him her eftpos card.

  “Thanks for caring enough to ask,” she said, as he tapped the card and then handed it back to her.

  “Chin up. It can’t be that bad.”

  She nodded, stepping from the cab, and looking towards Josh. His smile was filled with all the joy and delight in the world, his chubby little hand waving giddily.

  She waved back and wondered if the cab driver didn’t have a point. Maybe one day, she couldn’t say when, she would wake up from the fog of this heartbreak and be happy once more.

  *

  “Oh my god!” Elizabeth wrenched the door open, her eyes wide at this unexpected turn of events. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back today.” And she threw her arms around Eleanor’s shoulders, hugging her tight.

  Eleanor forced a smile to her face. “It all happened very suddenly,” she said.

  And she sounded fine. Normal. But Elizabeth was no ordinary sister. They were twins, and they were best friends, and they knew each other like bread knew butter.

  “Nell? What is it?”

  Eleanor pulled back, her smile over-bright. “What do you mean? Nothing. How are you?”

  “Nell! Nell!” Joshua’s little body catapulted itself at Eleanor’s knees and, grateful for the reprieve of Elizabeth’s enquiring gaze, Eleanor crouched down. “You’re back!”

  “Yes, I’m back.” She hugged him close, inhaling his sweet baby fragrance, the gorgeous softness of his curls a delight beneath her chin.

  Elizabeth and Eleanor were both slight with dark hair and fine-boned features, and while Joshua had brown hair, his complexion was far darker than theirs, his skin naturally tanned, his eyes almost jet black. He had a dimple scored deep in either cheek, and he was big for his age – at three, he looked closer to four or five years in age, with his sturdy build and height.

  “I missed you so much.” She pressed a kiss to his head, then lifted him on her hip, walking with him around their small but tastefully decorated apartment. “What have you been up to, huh?” She moved to the kitchen table. “I see. Painting. Very good.”

  “Nell?” Elizabeth’s voice, though quiet, rung with a natural authority. “This isn’t over.”

  Eleanor spun away, swallowing past a lump in her throat. “Is this a tree?” She asked Josh, but she was distracted, wondering how she was going to fool the person who knew her better than anyone.

  It wasn’t until much later that night, when Josh was settled into bed after several renditions of Twinkle Twinkle and Elizabeth had made two mugs of hot cocoa, that she returned to her earlier question.

  “Where have you been?”

  Eleanor’s smile was vague. “I can’t say.”

  “What? That’s crazy. I’m not asking you to reveal state secrets…”

  “The article is under embargo,” she murmured, without meeting Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’d lose my fee if I spoke about it.” Her heart sunk as she thought of the fee she truly had lost – and how hard and fast she’d have to work to make up for it.

  “But something happened? Other than the professional?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve looked like you’ve been fighting tears all afternoon.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “You’re mistaken. I’m just exhausted.” She stood up, cradling the mug of cocoa in the palms of her hands. “I might take this to bed. I can hardly stay awake.”

  “Nell,” Elizabeth sighed. “We don’t have secrets.”

  Eleanor’s smile was wistful. “Don’t we?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Who’s Josh’s father?”

  It was an unfair shot and Eleanor regretted it as soon as she saw Elizabeth sag in the sofa.

  “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I just… sometimes it’s okay to have a secret.” She bent down and pressed a kiss to Elizabeth’s cheek, then disappeared – along with her broken heart – into her bedroom.

  Days passed in a blur. Determined to keep busy, Eleanor wrote maniacally. Articles she’d had on the backburner suddenly became urgent. Blog pieces she’d been asked to submit moved to the top of the pile. She wrote all the words that were in her mind in the hope that eventually they’d scour the picture of Apollo from
her heart.

  But nothing worked. No matter how many words she poured onto the page, there was no getting rid of his image. There was no removing from her mind what he meant to her. So that every night, she fell into her bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.

  Elizabeth’s worry was evident and Eleanor hated that. She worked overtime to appear bright and bubbly, but there was no hiding her true feelings from her twin.

  Three weeks after coming back from the island, in the middle of the night, Eleanor sat up in bed, clicked her bedside lamp to life, and stared at her suitcase. It was in the corner of her room, untouched since she’d returned to London.

  Maybe if she were to unpack it, that would be the end of this. Maybe that would get rid of all her grief and all her sadness?

  She threw the bedcover back and closed the distance between herself and it, unzipping the case frantically and tipping the contents onto her bed. Clothes from Before spewed across the duvet, as well as some books, makeup. Nothing important. But beneath it all, there was an envelope.

  With her name on the front.

  And Apollo’s confident, dark writing.

  She reached for it, her fingers shaking, and damn it all, her heart bursting with a sensation she recognized as foolish hope. She slid her finger beneath the seal and pulled the fine piece of paper from within. It was blank. She turned it over, a frown on her face, and then, she let out a muffled sob.

  It was a cheque.

  No words, nothing.

  Just a cheque for ten thousand pounds.

  She stared at it, at all those zeroes, and she thought of him writing it, and wondered what he might have thought and felt. She wondered if he imagined it was a suitable price. If he was absolving himself of the hurt he’d caused; wondered if he was mentally slotting her into the ‘dealt with’ box of his life.

  She ripped the piece of paper up before she could even think about it. She ripped it into dozens of tiny shreds and then stared at her reflection in the mirror of her room and she felt every single emotion she’d been trying to write into oblivion come soaring to the surface.