by Zoey Oliver
Sophie’s already staked out a spot for us. This stretch of beach is accessible only by the Satyros villa, along with the two closest neighbors, so she has her choice of locations anyway. She’s lying on a blanket on the light golden sand, wearing a bikini I wouldn’t have the nerve to wear even at my current age, let alone when I was eighteen.
I sit beside Sophie, who stretches and sits up, a pouty look on her face. “Would you do my back?” She passes over a tube of suntan oil.
Squeezing out a handful of the slick oil, I coat Sophie’s back. Then pass her the oil to do her legs as I get settled, prepared to spend the next couple of hours reading my book before I even start to think about dipping my toes into the ocean. To have the time to read is a rare and beautiful thing, and I plan to take advantage of every second.
Soon, though, the sun is so bright that it prevents me from seeing the words. After a few pages, I give up and lie on my stomach, watching Sophie who is charging fearlessly into the lapping waves. Was I ever that young and lighthearted? It seems impossible to think so. My adolescence pretty much ended with the death of my mother, and the marriage of convenience to Jayson forced me to finish growing up in a hurry. His social circle is full of sharks, and I needed to learn how to navigate among them in a hurry, to avoid leaving blood in the water, so to speak. Maybe not the best analogy as I watch Sophie swimming, but it’s the one that comes to mind.
Still, several of Jayson’s associates and friends do seem like predatory sea creatures out to devour anything they can. The idea makes me grin at first, but my grin fades when I think about it. Amusement turns to deep melancholy. I lost so much during the last three years: the typical college experience, dating, sex, and maybe worst of all, independence.
When Sophie waves from the water, I lift a hand to wave in return. Truth be told, I also gained a lot. Sophie’s come through the worst time of her life with only a few emotional scars. I know she would have been very different if left to her own devices or heaven forbid, if she were banished to Greece after her father’s death. I know I’m a big part of that, and it’s important to me.
I also traveled more places than I could have ever afforded on a botanist’s salary and learned about art and culture firsthand. And charity work I’ve done has made a difference in at least a few lives.
So, I don’t know why I’m sad.
Not having sex is a small tradeoff for all the wonderfully positive things I’ve gained. So why can’t I stop thinking about it? Okay, yes, it’s probably because I am so close to being free...or maybe it’s Jayson’s sudden, and alarming, approachability? Regardless of why, I just need to stop thinking these kinds of thoughts. And I should avoid being alone with Jayson as much as possible.
The hot sun beats down on my back, so bright I’m still squinting. Folding my arms, I lay down my head, letting my thoughts drift as I relax.
I jerk awake sometime later. Before I have time to process where I am, or that I fell asleep on the beach, warm oil trickles over my back. Still drowsy, my eyes are half-mast as Sophie rubs suntan oil on my skin. “Thanks,” I say sleepily.
“You’re welcome,” Jayson purrs. “It’s bright out here. I wouldn’t want you to burn.”
Stiffening, I’m not sure how to react. It seems rude to pull away and sit up, but his hands are making me feel things I shouldn’t. And making me wet where I shouldn’t be. “Jayson, what are you doing? You should stop.” Fuck. Is that throaty rasp really my voice?
He makes a noncommittal sound as he continues stroking my back. I probably should protest, but his touch feels so good. As he trails his fingers up my spine I want to moan.
“You’re so tight.” Jayson probes my shoulders and neck with his fingers. “Are you stressed about something, Harper?” he whispers in a husky voice.
“Slept wrong.” Somehow, I push the words through gritted teeth, determined not to betray a positive reaction as Jayson drizzles more of the sun-warmed oil on my upper back and shoulders. A breeze carries the coconut scent of the oil to my nose, where it mingles with the tangy salt air and the manly smell that is Jayson. I can’t help myself and I inhale deeply, savoring the combination.
“You know how to avoid that problem.”
Clenching my hands into fists to stifle any signs of pleasure from his massage, I ignore his words. Despite my best intentions, a whimper escapes when he works at the kinked spot in my neck.
“Does it hurt?” asks Jayson, sounding concerned. His hands stop moving.
I shift restlessly despite myself, eager for his hands to continue exploring my skin under the guise of a massage. “No. Not at all. It feels really good, actually.”
He works at the knot until my muscles are loose and my body languid. My eyes drift closed, but they pop open with surprise when his hands move to my front. During the process of rubbing my shoulders, he slipped the spaghetti straps down my arms, and now I realize his fingers are gradually moving lower. He’s inches away from breaching the neckline of my suit. My nipples tighten at the thought of his hands cupping my breasts, his slick oiled fingers gliding over the hard nubs out here in the summer sun.
Frozen with indecision, I hold my breath, not sure if I want his hands to go on, or if I want him to stop. If I don’t do something soon, he’s going to make the decision for me. Is that what I want?
To give away all responsibility? I squirm with the wetness between my legs, imagining him lying on me from behind, thrusting into me as he bites the back of my neck, hands on my breasts, owning me.
Conflicted, I stay silent as his touch becomes increasingly light and sensual, stroking across my slippery skin. It’s a relief, but also frustrating, when Sophie comes running back from where she was chatting with a boy on the beach, plopping down on the towel beside us.
Immediately, Jayson withdraws his hands. His casual posture reveals no trace of tension, and I wonder if he’s as frustrated as I am. If so, nobody would ever know, I think sourly.
I decide to sit up, and take off my hat to run my fingers through my tangled hair. From the corner of my eye, I observe Jayson, waiting for a reaction when I arch my back to better display my cleavage. His gaze doesn’t even flicker in my direction as he speaks with Sophie.
“Loukas invited me into town with some of the others, so I thought I’d do that?” Sophie words it confidently, but I can tell she’s still subtly seeking Jayson’s approval.
Jayson grins. “Are you sure you want to miss a stuffy party with us old people in favor of getting together with your friends?”
She rolls her eyes. “It sounds so fun, Theo Jayson, but I think I’ll force myself to go out with Loukas and his friends instead of attending your party.”
I frown. “What party?”
“Caesar Kakos has invited us to a dinner party this evening.”
Smothering a groan, I know there’s no good reason why we shouldn’t go. We’ve got no other plans, and if Sophie’s going to be gone, I better not be alone in the house with Jayson. As much as I don’t want to hang around with his friends—the sharks—it pales in comparison to resisting Jayson’s urges.
And my own.
Despite giving the opposite impression, the draping of the dress I put on for the party conceals more than it shows. It looks almost as if it might fall off if I turn the wrong way. The sheath curves around, baring to low-back, and falls to the middle of my calves in a whisper of silk. The blue-gray shade reminds me of the Hudson on a stormy day, making me feel a little homesick.
To avoid another half-dressed encounter with Jayson, I brought the clothes into the nursery. My legs have a nice tan from the time spent on the beach, so I skip pantyhose in favor of some oily moisturizer that gives them a subtle sheen. I slip on silver heels, and sort through the small jewelry box I brought on the trip, looking for a pair of earrings Jayson gave me on our first anniversary. I know Sophie was behind this present and she felt terrible when I let that slip, but they’re still my favorite pair, nonetheless. A light, translucent silver wrap and my
evening bag and I’m ready to go.
No more excuses.
With a sigh, I leave the nursery, not surprised to find Jayson waiting for me in the bedroom. The dark linen evening suit caresses his body the way my fingers itch to, and I try to occupy them by clenching my hand around the purse I’m carrying.
Sure, I can’t deny his attractiveness.
Nobody can.
And I’ll never be able to get over that, despite successfully eliminating any other inappropriate feelings I might have for my husband.
Chapter 6
Jayson
I arch a brow as I let my eye roam over her from head to toe. “Beautiful.”
She manages a small smile. “I’m ready if you are.”
I nod, but don’t move for another long second. “Our anniversary.”
Her eyes widen. “That was months ago.”
Shaking my head I go to her, taking her arm in what might have been a polite gesture, if I hadn’t pulled her so close against me. “I’m talking about the earrings. I gave them to you on our first anniversary.”
Harper blinks. “You remember that?”
I grin. “Of course. I also remember how embarrassed I was when Sophie accidentally told you she’d chosen the earrings.” Shrugging, I add, “But she has good taste. They look perfect on you.”
We leave the room, heading down the stairs to the car waiting outside. “It was no big deal. I’d already figured out the gift was her idea.”
Waiting for her to slide into the limousine before joining her, I wonder aloud,“Why?”
Her voice comes back in a careless, offhanded way. “Why would we celebrate milestones in a fake marriage?”
I grimace but don’t reply as the car drives away from the villa. The silence might have been welcome, but right now, it feels awkward and uncomfortable. Often we’ve sat in companionable silence, each of us usually involved in our own activities, but nothing feels easygoing about this quiet. As much as she might have wanted to avoid the evening’s party, she breathes a sigh of what seems like relief to arrive at the Kakos villa a few moments later.
“This landscaping is gorgeous,” says Harper as we exit the car. “The sheer number of plants! The home is lovely, too, but it can’t compare to the beauty of our villa.” She draws up short. “Your villa, I mean. Nothing of the Satyros empire belongs to me, of course.”
“Of course it’s your home,” I say quietly. I don’t add anything about the future. That will remain up to her.
“For now.” She smiles and looks away.
Warm lights lend a welcoming glow to the house as we walk up the stairs to the entrance. Harper stiffens when I take her hand. She tries to tug it away, but I tighten my grip just enough to let her know I want to keep it. The strength I exert isn’t enough to hold her fast, but just enough that she’d cause a scene if she wanted to wrench her hand free. She glares at me, resentment clear on her face.
Well, I can’t argue with her. Our usual performance involves walking together, but we have had a tacit agreement to avoid touching as much as possible. So what? She’s my wife, and after her reaction to that massage today, I’ll touch her hand. I know part of her likes my touch.
People fill the home’s large salon, and I catch sight of the wait staff circulating among the guests. Their crisp white uniforms are a stark contrast to the glittering finery of the guests. Harper looks as good as any of them, or better. But I know she couldn’t name a designer to save her life. It was another oddity that set her apart from the women in my social circles. She probably doesn’t think I appreciate that about her, but I’d rather she name rare plants than designers any day.
Within moments, we mix into the party, and Harper maintains at least the façade of a happily married woman enjoying a night of sophisticated company. I know her enough that I’m sure curling up in the huge tub with a paperback calls to her as the sister of our host babbles on incessantly about the new wardrobe she’s commissioning. Somewhere between hearing about every detail of importing the correct fabrics to arranging to bring the designer directly to Trini Island, I watch as Harper manages to finish a glass of champagne and slowly slip away from the small group of vapid women surrounding Hestia Kakos.
“Hello,” says a familiar voice, breaking my concentration.
“Maia,” I answer. “It’s been a while.”
Her black bandage dress hugs her curves. Curves I know all too well.
Chapter 7
Harper
I retreat to an alcove to survey the partygoers, willing to admit only to myself that I’m searching for Jayson. Some of the men in the room may be his height or have similar hairstyles or frames, but only Jayson makes my heart stutter when my gaze finally finds him. His back is to me, but I would know him anywhere.
My heart skips another beat when I see his companion. Heat suffuses my face, and I lean against the wall for support. The last time I saw Maia Papadas, she wasn’t wearing a sexy black bandage dress.
She wasn’t wearing a thing.
During the last trip to the island, when I half-convinced myself I was in love with Jayson, despite his lack of awareness of my existence, I spent a lot of time moping in the gardens surrounding the villa. One afternoon, I wandered the paths, looking for a place to sit and pour out the adolescent whining of my heart into my secret journal, when I heard passionate moaning.
Curiosity overwhelmed me, and ignoring the voice of caution, I stopped to seek out the source. Peeking through a thick growth of short Chaste trees, I saw two bodies entwined in a passionate embrace: Jayson lying on his back, his hands cupping Maia’s breasts as she rode him.
Devastated, I fled from the scene and locked myself in the room I’d been assigned for the vacation. For the rest of the trip, I didn’t set foot in the garden, and neither did I speak to Jayson. He clearly hadn’t noticed, but it made me sick to my stomach even to look at him.
With the passing of time, I realized his actions were normal and healthy, and that he hadn’t betrayed me. Suffice it to say, I got over it.
Or at least I thought I had.
It’s a shock to react so strongly to the mere sight of my husband talking to his former lover.
Or... maybe she isn’t his former anything? Perhaps they continued their relationship. What do I know about Maia? Nothing. For that matter, I know very little about Jayson’s personal life. He’s never shown it to me. Until this trip, he’s been mostly occupied with work.
My stomach turns and I look away from them, randomly walking up to another group. They’re gossiping, so I tune them out and focus on the rim of my glass, until one of the women says Maia’s name.
“Disgraceful,” says another woman.
Maybe it’s the champagne or maybe it’s just morbid curiosity, but before I can stop myself I ask, “Why is she disgraceful?”
“Her husband was barely dead before she was on the hunt for another one,” says a woman with an English accent. “There is more than speculation that she was looking before Stavros died. And besides, he was much older than she was, so his death wasn’t exactly unexpected.”
Nodding despite myself, I’m surprised to hear them condemning the other woman. These kinds of actions aren’t unheard of among their circles.
“Everyone thought she had her claws in Salus Valokis.”
“Many women breathed a sigh of relief,” interjects a stunning Greek woman in her mid-forties, who looks like she’s never had to worry about competing for men’s attention.
“Until he married his assistant without a hint of warning,” says the Englishwoman, who was sporting a wedding ring set with a diamond the size of an ice cube.
“Seems like she’s on the hunt again.” They cluck and shake their heads.
I hide a grimace by turning to take another glass of champagne from a waiter, who holds out a silver tray and then moves on.
“It’s disgraceful how she continues to pursue Salus,” says the older Greek woman.
As one, all the women turn their
gazes to Maia, who is still talking to Jayson. “Maybe she has found a new victim,” says the Englishwoman.
The older woman shakes her head. “There is nothing new about that victim, Liv. Jayson Satyros and Maia were once engaged.”
I choke on my sip of champagne.
“My dear, are you all right?” asks the older woman.
I nod. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I pity his wife,” says the youngest woman. “He keeps her hidden away, and now he is openly humiliating her with his ex-fiancée.”
The Englishwoman scoffs. “I hardly think he’s humiliating his wife by talking to someone he knows.”
“Perhaps, Liv, you still don’t fully understand our ways,” says the older woman, not unkindly. “Many Greek husbands are philanderers, and Greek wives are expected to turn a blind eye. Look at those two and tell me their conversation is perfectly innocent.”
Trying to detach my perceptions from the equation, I eye my husband and the other woman as impassively as possible. Maia leans in close to Jayson, her hand on his shoulder possessively. While Jayson doesn’t appear to be as eager to touch her, he’s definitely not backing away.
“Excuse us. We’re being terribly rude to discuss this in front of you without the benefit of proper introductions,” says the third woman suddenly, turning to look at me. “I am Sophie Russo. This is Calista Kakos,” she says, gesturing to the older woman, “and Olivia Volakis.”
The Englishwoman extends the hand with the heavy rings. “It’s actually Harcourt-Volakis, and I prefer Liv.”
I take her hand, putting off the moment where I must reveal my identity as the wife to be pitied. “Are you related to Salus?”
She nods, sending waves of black hair rippling around her face. “I’m married to his brother, Ioseph.”
Aware that they’re waiting for my name, I release Liv’s hand, take a long drink of champagne, and say, “My name is Harper Satyros. I’m the wife of Jayson Satyros.” As the other women gasp and quickly look away in their discomfort, I drain the glass of champagne and stroll away, hoping I look half as composed as I strive to, instead of revealing the tattered mass of nerves I am on the inside.