by Julia James
And then, with a rasp of reality, she surfaced, pulling away from him. She was shocked, trembling.
'No—' The denial breathed from her, eyes distended. Heart pounding.
What was she denying? she thought wildly. Denying his helping himself to her? Denying that a moment's brief human comfort had suddenly been transformed into a sensuousness so overwhelming she was reeling with it?
Or more? Denying—and her stomach clenched as she faced
up to what she was really denying—denying that never, ever in her whole life had she ever dreamt it was possible to feel such sensations...
He had not let her go, she realised. Although she had pulled away, he was holding her still, his hands in the small of her back. She was arching back, away from him, totally unaware of how the gesture thrust her breasts towards him, making him ache to bend his head and touch his mouth to their swollen fullness, aroused, all against her knowledge, to crested peaks.
'No—' she breathed again. Her hands came up to the corded strength of his arms and tried to dislodge them.
He felt the pressure on them and released her immediately, though it went against every primal instinct, which was to keep her close against him, closer still, press her warm, ripe body against his, moulding her to him, feeling every rich curve, every soft, delicious inch of her...
Theos, but he wanted her! Wanted her with an urgent aching that was nothing, he realised, nothing at all like the controlled, detached sexual desire that he felt for Esme, or Xanthe—or any other woman he had ever bedded, he realised with a shock.
Was it because this woman here, now, was to be his bride, his wife? Was it the primeval emotion of bonding, cleaving, that had released something in him he had never known existed?
Until now?
A rush of fierce possessiveness surged through him. It was like a revelation. He had never felt possessive about his women before—had always known that for them he was just one more male, just better-looking, richer—or both—than most of the men they took to their beds. Exclusivity, on either side, was not a word applied to the relationships he had enjoyed. He knew perfectly well that Esme Vandersee had a whole court she picked her lovers from, depending on her whim and their availability in her hectic globe-trotting life. And Xanthe—well, he was not the only man keeping her in the luxury she enjoyed so much. Of course she was skilful enough, tactful enough, never to let her lovers catch a glimpse of each other, but Nikos could have named a handful of wealthy Athenians who enjoyed her carefully disposed favours.
It didn't bother him.
Not like the thought of Andrea Coustakis thinking about another man...
The rush of possessiveness intensified. It was as alien as it was heady, and he gave himself to it totally.
Then, as the rush consumed him, he realised that he was going too fast—much too fast. Too fast for him—and certainly too fast for her.
His eyes focussed on hers.
She was standing, backed against the balustrade, still close enough for him to reach and pull her to him, but he did not. The expression in her eyes stopped him.
They were shocked, staring.
For a moment exultation speared him. She felt the same way he did! As if a revelation had suddenly made her see the world in a completely different way. Then, with a sobering recognition, he realised that her reaction to what had just happened was more complex than his.
More fearful.
'Andrea,' he said softly, 'don't be alarmed. I'm sorry—I'm rushing things too much.' A wry smile tugged at his mouth as she stared at him, half of her mind drinking in the male beauty of his face, the other still too shocked to take in anything at all. 'You must blame your beauty,' he told her. 'It is too lovely to resist.'
She shivered. He fancied her, and so, on the briefest acquaintance imaginable, he had pounced on her?
'Don't look at me like that,' he said ruefully. 'I will not touch you again until you want me to. But you must not blame me—' the tug of wry humour came again to his well-shaped mouth in a way that did strange things to her insides '—if I try very hard to make you want me to touch you again...'
He stepped back a pace, giving her more space.
'Come,' he said and his breath was more ragged than he preferred, 'take my hand, if nothing else, and let us talk a while. We have, after all, much to talk about.'
He took her hand, and she let its cool strength curl around her fingers and draw her away from the balustrade. They began to head down towards the far end of the terrace at a leisurely pace. The night air fanned Andrea's heated face and gave her a moment's breathing space.
But her mind was racing as fast as her heart!
What was she doing out here on a starlit terrace with a man who took her breath away, who had casually kissed her as she had never been kissed in her life?
A man she didn't even know.
But who had promised to make her want him touch her again...
What was it he had said? she wondered. "We have, after all, much to talk about.”
Puzzlement suffused her. Was that some kind of Greek pickup line? Or was he simply trying to take the pressure off her and make polite chit-chat again?
She looked up at nim as they walked.
'Why have we got so much to talk about?' she asked. Her voice was still husky, even though she did not mean it to be. It was also puzzled.
He glanced down at her. His lashes were extraordinarily long, she found herself thinking irrelevantly. It made her completely miss what he said in answer.
Except for one word.
She stopped in her tracks.
'Say that again,' she said. Her breathing seemed to have stopped.
Nikos smiled down again at her, his eyes warm.
'I said, my sweet bride-to-be, that perhaps we should start by talking about our wedding.'
Andrea's breathing stopped totally.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was as if, in front of his eyes, she had changed. Like some alien shape-shifting from a harmless creature into some terrifying monster.
She thrust her hand from him, backing away, freezing as she did so.
'Our what?
'Our wedding,' he repeated. His voice was tighter now, automatically responding to the visible rejection her whole body was projecting.
She was staring at him as if he had grown another head.
'Our wedding?” She could hardly get the word out. Then, as terror seized her, she found her voice.' Only a frail one. 'Oh, my God,' she breathed, as the only possible truth dawned, 'you're some kind of lunatic—'
She swirled around, catching at the narrow skirt of her dress, forcing her legs—weak, suddenly—to hurry back along the stone terrace towards the lights—the safety—of the open French windows at the other end.
He caught her wrist before she could even take a single frantic step.
'What did you call me?'
The circle of his strong fingers crushed her bones. She tugged to free herself, but to no avail.
'Let me go!' The fear was naked in her voice now, her eyes wide with panic.
His face darkened. 'What the hell is going on?' he demanded. 'I simply said we ought to discuss our wedding—I am quite prepared to give you as free a hand as possible, but I have to say,' he went on, still at a loss to account for the bizarre reaction he was getting from her, 'I would prefer to be married here in Greece.'
'Married?' She echoed die word with total incredulity.
'Yes, married. Andrea, why on earth are you behaving like this?5 There was impatience in his voice, as well as bewilderment.
'Married to you!’
His mouth thinned. It was the way she said that, as if it was the most outrageous idea in the world. He glared down at her.
He let her hand go abruptly. She rubbed her wrist, and would have tried to bolt to the doors leading inside, but he was blocking her back against the stone balustrade.
'We need to talk,' he said abruptly.
Andrea
shook her head violently. The only thing she needed to do was to get inside, away from this lunatic who had suddenly gone nuts and started talking about weddings and getting married...
'Answer me,' he commanded. 'Why did you let me kiss you just now if you did not believe that I would marry you?'
Her heart was plummeting around all over the place inside her. Panic was nipping at her, ready to explode again at any moment. Now it did.
'Oh my God, you are completely nuts!' She tried to push past him, but he was an immovable block.
Nikos, not moving an iota, gave a heavy, impatient sigh and tried hard to hold on to his patience. Why she was throwing this fit of hysterics was incomprehensible. Could it really be that she did not know about their marriage? How could that possibly be? Of course she knew! She must know! So why the hysterics now?
Did she not want to marry him?
The thought enraged him suddenly! How dared she lead him on as she had this evening, letting him taste the sweetness of her lips, inflaming his desire with the allure of her body, if she did not agree to their marriage? And why should she not agree? What, if you please, was so very wrong about the idea of being his wife?
Perhaps because you are the bastard son of a barmaid and an unknown sailor?
The poisonous root took hold and would not be shaken loose. His jaw tightened. If she had objected to their marriage on those grounds she had had time enough to make her opinions clear to her grandfather.
And was Yiorgos Coustakis the kind of man to listen to his granddaughter's objections about the social origins of her intended husband?
He thrust the thought from him. It was irrelevant. Right now he simply had to stop her throwing a full-scale fit of hysterics.
'Be still. You are not going anywhere until you have calmed down—'
His words were cut off by a sharp expletive as he registered pain in his shins. Then, as he was caught off-balance, Andrea thrust him back with all her strength and hurtled as fast as her evening dress would allow towards the open doors at the end of the terrace.
Pain forgotten, Nikos surged after her and intercepted her at the threshold to the dining room.
'Enough!' He was angry now. His hands closed over her shoulders and he gave her a brusque shake. 'Behave yourself! There is no need for such a ludicrous reaction to what I have said!'
As he spoke, it dawned on Nikos that that was what was angering him most of all—her instant and total rejection of the notion of marrying him! He found it intolerable! Here he was, having steeled himself for the past couple of weeks to doing the unthinkable—marrying at all, and to a complete stranger— and then finally, tonight, to have all his worries so deliciously and unexpectedly set aside by seeing just what a peach the Coustakis heiress actually was... and here she was having a fit of hysterics over it! As if the prospect of marrying Nikos Vassilis was the most repellent in the world!
Andrea arrowed her hands and forearms up between his and jerked them sideways with a violent movement to free herself.
Her heart was pounding now—panic, disbelief and above all hot, boiling anger was pouring through her.
She could not believe what she had just heard—couldn't believe it! It couldn't be true! It just couldn't!
Her face twisted. "This is some kind of joke, yes? Talking about me marrying you! Some idiotic, warped idea of a joke, right?'
Nikos bristled. A joke, the idea of marrying him? A fatherless bastard raised on the streets of Athens? His face darkened. He looked scary suddenly, she realised.
'You are the Coustakis heiress,' he said coldly. 'I am the man who will take over the company when your grandfather retires. What else but we should marry?'
'The Coustakis heiress?' Andrea echoed in a strange voice. A laugh escaped her. High-pitched. Distorted. She took a deep, shuddering breath. 'Let me get this right. You, Mr. Vassilis, want to marry me because I am Yiorgos Coustakis's granddaughter and you want to run his company for him—is that it?'
He assented with a brief, glancing nod of his dark head. "That is so. I am glad you understand.'
Completely missing the ironic tone of his voice, she took another breath—a tight one this time. 'Well, sorry to disappoint you, chum, but it's no go. You'll have to find yourself another heiress to marry!'
She made to turn away. She felt in urgent need of escape, not just into the villa, but up to the sanctuary of her own room.
An arm barred her way in.
'You are offensive.'
The voice was soft, but it raised the hairs on the back of Andrea's neck.
She turned back slowly. Nikos Vassilis was very close. Far too close.
‘I am offensive? Mr. Vassilis, you are a guest in my grandfather's house and I suggest you start remembering your responsibilities in that role.' She spoke in as forbearing a manner as possible, which was extremely taxing in the circumstances. 'I make due allowance for the different customs in Greece, but if you imagine that kissing me on a terrace somehow converts instantly into a proposal of marriage you are living in the Middle Ages! You have not, I do assure you, compromised me into marrying you! So you can just forget all about blackmailing my grandfather into marrying me off to you just because I was stupid enough to fall into your arms like a...like an idiot!”
Her anger was with herself as much as him. This was what came of letting herself be swept away by a drop-dead gorgeous stranger on a starlit terrace! He suddenly got ideas of catching himself a rich wife. A sudden, inexplicable stab of pain went through her as she realised that that was all the kiss had meant to him—it had been nothing to do with her, just a cheap way to entrap the girl he thought was Yiorgos Coustakis's heir!
The Coustakis heiress he had called her! Hysterical laughter threatened in her throat. God, it might almost be worth indulging his insane pretensions just for the joy of seeing her grandfather's reaction when he demanded marriage to save the 'honour' of the offspring of a woman he'd called a slut to her face—and her daughter's!
'Blackmail?' The word ground out. Furious outrage seared in Nikos voice. To have his behaviour likened to that of Yiorgos Coustakis when he had forced his father-in-law's hand to get his daughter and her dowry was insupportable. 'How dare you make such an accusation!'
Andrea threw back her head. 'What else should I call it? Sliming around after me like a dog sniffing out a bone! Well, let me tell you something, Mr Vassilis—my grandfather will laugh in your face at the idea of your marrying me to get hold of Coustakis Industries!'
The scorn in her voice enraged him.
'You are mistaken.' His voice was icy. 'It was his idea in the first place.'
She stilled.
'Are you saying—' her voice was choked '—that my grandfather is in on this?' Her insides were hollowing out all over again. 'My grandfather wants me to marry you?'
'What else?' Could it really be that she did not know? That Old Man Coustakis had not bothered to tell his granddaughter what his plans were? Another of his 'little jokes', Nikos thought grimly to himself.
'Let me get this straight' Andrea's voice was controlled. 'My grandfather wants me to marry you—'
'In exchange for my taking over Coustakis Industries when he retires, which will be shortly after our marriage. It is all agreed between us,' Nikos elucidated. He felt in no mood to spare the girl's feelings any more. Her reaction to the discovery of their betrothal was insult enough to warrant his spelling out the financial grounds of their marriage very, very clearly.
'How very convenient.' Her voice was flat. And still very, very controlled.
'Is it not?' agreed Nikos. The irony was back in his voice.
Disbelief washed over Andrea, wave after wave. Total disbelief at what she had heard. She felt quite faint with it. Then, deep, deep inside, she felt the waves break upon some hard, immovable bedrock.
'Excuse me—'
She moved past Nikos Vassilis. The man who had just told her that her grandfather—her dear, kind grandfather, who had ignore
d her existence all her life—had plans for her. Marriage plans.
Marriage!
She had thought Nikos Vassilis insane, and assumed he was just chancing it. But his assumptions were based on something much, much more solid than a soft, seductive kiss...
As she walked across the dining room she could feel the rage mounting. Misting over her eyes like a red miasma. She marched through the double doors into the wide, marble-floored hallway and strode across, flinging open the doors to the library.
At her entrance her grandfather looked up from the bank of computer screens flickering on the console drawn up beside his mahogany desk.