"He needs to know! To learn!" Stavros countered.
And his mother always replied heavily, "He'll know. He'll learn all he needs to soon enough."
By that time in the conversation, there was always such a wealth of pain in her voice that Nikos wanted to slam in and break it up, to throw his father out, to comfort his mother's anguish.
Always he waited, impotently and furiously, until his father nodded his head and said in a cold remote voice, "Just as you wish, Angelika," and disappeared out of their lives once again.
And then she would turn to Nikos, pacing and fuming in his wake, and say, "He is your father. You must respect that."
"I don't respect him,'" he told his mother every time.
"Ah, Nikos." She put her hand on his arm and he allowed her to drag him into a gentle embrace. At first he had been small enough to press his face into her breasts. But at the last he could rest his chin on the top of her head. He would feel her shake her head gently and say words he never understood. "Poor Stavros. He can't help it. He tries."
As far as Nikos could see, the old man didn't try at all. Except to cause hurt and pain to his wife—a woman who had given him everything she had in terms of both worldly wealth and womanly devotion for her whole life.
It had been an arranged marriage, Nikos knew that. He supposed that was why his father didn't care. Stavros had married her, Nikos was sure, for the money that her family had. He'd never really cared about the woman who'd come with it. They hadn't lived together since Nikos was eight years old.
And yet he knew, despite their separation, that his mother had always loved her husband. She would never let Nikos speak badly of him. She never said a bad thing herself. She just looked sad. And lonely. And she'd been alone—except for her son—when she'd died of a heart attack six years ago.
The death of his mother was the most painful loss Nikos had ever experienced. He'd been grief-stricken, missing her terribly, devastated by her loss, even though intellectually he should have been prepared.
For over a year he'd known she had a bad heart. She hadn't wanted to tell him, but eventually she couldn't hide it anymore. She was too pale, too weak to pretend. For some time after he'd settled in Britain, he didn't see her as often as he would have liked. She hadn't minded.
"You have your life," she'd said. "You must do what you must do."
She'd never made the demands his father had. It had been a shock, then, to come flying in for a visit and find her much paler than he remembered her. During their visit, she'd tired easily, too. He'd asked what was wrong; she'd dismissed it. He'd let her get away with it then. Perhaps, he thought, it was only the result of the bronchitis she'd had in the winter. But he came back a month later and she'd been no better. She was worse.
That was when she'd had to tell him. He had believed it. He'd done everything he could to get her to find a cardiologist who could help her.
"I've done all I can," she assured him. "There is nothing left."
Nothing but coming back as often as he could. He flew in nearly every weekend that last year. He spent the last month of her life with her.
He'd never seen Stavros there.
So his father's claim to grief—the old man had wept beside her grave, for heaven's sake—had seemed like just so much false emotion to Nikos.
"Where were you when she was alive?" he'd demanded harshly before they even left the cemetery.
And if his father had still looked ashen, Nikos didn't care. The old man was a good actor! He couldn't fool the young man who'd been by his mother's side for twenty-six years when his father had been everywhere else but home.
And as far as Nikos was concerned, Stavros had proved it a year later when he'd married Julietta, a woman young enough to be his daughter!
All Nikos could say about that was that his old man had good taste. Hell, yes, Julietta was lovely! So lovely that Nikos himself had actually dated her a few times.
But she'd been too prim and proper and too "old line Greek" for him. She was controlled by her family much the same way his mother had been controlled.
He supposed she had her family to thank for her ridiculous marriage to his father, too!
Though, he had to admit, you wouldn't know it to look at them. What a devoted little family they'd become—Stavros, Julietta, and their own little Alexander. Smiling, happy. Hugging and talking and laughing together. A perfect little threesome. And now they had a new baby on the way.
Nikos gritted his teeth whenever he stopped to think about his father's new happy little brood.
He knew he shouldn't begrudge Stavros the joy of his second marriage—however insane it might be. And when he was feeling sane and sober and sensible, Nikos wished them all well.
He even occasionally found himself hoping that the old man did for Alexander what he'd never done for his older son. Because it would be good for Alexander to know his father cared about him—not because it would be good for the old man.
He didn't give a rat's ass about his old man—or his company.
And he wasn't about to shape up because a pretty little nanny told him to!
She was a pretty little nanny, though, Nikos thought. And she had taken his part this morning. Not to mention the way she kissed.
Going for a drive with her might be the best thing that had happened to him in a long while!
Going out for a drive with him was not the brightest idea she'd ever had. The confines of a car were bound to make her even more aware of him. As if she weren't aware enough already!
But she didn't see that she had any choice. If she wanted to make an effort to do her job—to help foster a real reconciliation between Nikos and his father—she was going to have to keep Stavros at arm's length.
That she could—and would—do.
The trouble was going to be keeping Nikos at arm's length as well.
It was interesting how aware she was of him. Her reactions were nothing like the ones she'd had to Ward and every other man she'd ever dated—not that she'd dated a vast number, of course.
Maybe she'd only dated duds.
Nikos wasn't a dud. The trouble was, he was likely to be far more man than she could handle.
"Just say no, darling," she remembered Aunt Em advising her on the subject of boys and temptation.
Up until now that had been no problem. But up until yesterday she'd never kissed Nikos.
It was like playing with fire. Attractive. Tempting. Fun. Dangerous.
Children shouldn't do it. But Mari was an adult. She needed to know how to deal with fire—how to test it, fan it, encourage it, control it.
With Nikos Costanides?
She was out of her blinking mind!
She was waiting by the pool with Julietta and Alex when he finished showering, got dressed and was ready to go. He had made an effort and put on a pair of bleached canvas trousers and a dark red T-shirt in honor of the occasion. It was the first time since he'd come from the hospital that he'd bothered to put on more than a pair of ragged cut-offs or faded shorts. Or a towel. He remembered yesterday with a smile.
His father always looked like he'd just stepped off Savile Row—even when he was "relaxing."
"You must convey a responsible image," he had said more times than Nikos wanted to count.
A "responsible image" was the last thing Nikos wanted to convey—especially when the old man was around. He had made a habit of dressing down for years. But today, for the lovely nanny, who kissed like a dream and had stuck up for him, he made a small effort. After all it was his father he was annoyed at, not her.
Whether Mari appreciated his sartorial elegance was not immediately apparent. She was talking to Julietta. He stopped, realizing that he'd have to weather Julietta's knowing smiles and inane remarks if he made his way up there. She would undoubtedly think his father saddling him with a nanny was just "too funny for words."
To someone else it probably was. Nikos set his teeth, prepared to endure the encounter. After all, he'd endured f
ar worse.
But he didn't need to, for as soon as Mari saw him coming, she said goodbye to Julietta and hurried toward him.
Another point for the nanny. Nikos leaned on his crutches and waited for her, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Sorry," she said a little breathlessly. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I just wanted to see how Julietta was feeling." She had dressed for the occasion, too, in a pair of chambray slacks and a scoop-necked bright turquoise shirt. It wasn't quite the librarian garb she'd had on yesterday, but it was hardly a sexy outfit. So why was he so damned aware of her?
Because she looked as eager and well-scrubbed as a schoolgirl? Because he made it a habit to toy with innocents? Because he wanted a ride up the coast and nothing more.
No, no, and no again.
He studied her hair, which she had clamped in a barrette at the nape of her neck. It was as anchored down as she was—and yet it loosened a little and blew in the wind. Would she loosen? Would she let her hair down for him?
She didn't look like it. But God, had she ever kissed like it.
Remembering, trying to figure it out, Nikos limped toward the garage on his crutches and Mari walked alongside him.
"What's wrong?" she asked at his frown of concentration.
"Why don't you wear it down?"
She blinked at him. "What?"
"Your hair. It hates being confined like that."
She smiled. "You can tell, can you?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Here." He reached out a hand and deftly loosed it from the barrette she wore.
"Nikos!" She reached back and grabbed it out of his hand.
He let her have the barrette, much more interested in running a hand over her hair. It glinted in the sunlight, the deep honey color shot through with gold. It was as soft and heavy as he'd imagined it would be. He smiled.
She caught his hand and pulled it away from her hair. "No," she said.
"No?" He tried turning her hand in his, but she held on.
"No," she repeated. "You can't do that."
"I just did," he reminded her.
"But I didn't want you to."
His gaze narrowed. "You did, too."
A hint of red touched her cheeks. She shook her head. "I didn't."
He just looked at her.
Her gaze slid away. "I shouldn't," she qualified gruffly after a moment.
A corner of Nikos's mouth quirked at her honesty. "A nanny never lies?"
Her color deepened. "I try not to." She refused to look at him, keeping her eyes cast down. She reminded him for all the world of Maria, the misbehaving postulant in The Sound of Music that his mother had taken him to see when he was a child.
He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to tell her he was teasing, that it was no more than play between men and women, and that it would lead them exactly where they wanted to go.
It wasn't like he was grabbing her and throwing her down on the grass and having his way with her, for heaven's sake! It wasn't as if he'd taken her in broad daylight and kissed her senseless! It wasn't—
He stopped. He remembered.
He remembered yesterday. Julietta and all her friends had been up by the pool and Nikos had come out the door, wearing only a towel. And he'd taken Mari into his arms and kissed her. Deeply. Hungrily. Possessively.
Senselessly.
He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still standing there, eyes downcast, unmoving.
He sighed. "Turn around."
She flicked a quick glance up at him. ' 'What?''
He took hold of her shoulder gently and turned her. "Turn around."
She must have realized what he was doing then, for she turned. She stood with her back to him. And Nikos, leaning heavily against his crutches, took hold of that golden honeyed shank of hair and pulled it back into his hand. Then, because he couldn't quite behave perfectly, he combed his fingers through it for just a moment. Finally, though, reluctantly, but firmly, he fastened the barrette into place once more.
"There." He let his hands drop.
Mari turned back to face him and the smile she gave him was almost worth it. "Thank you, Nikos." She looked like Maria-the-nun again.
He shut his eyes. Ah, Mari Lewis, what am I going to do with you?
CHAPTER FOUR
Mari didn't know what she would have done if he hadn't given her back the barrette.
It was one thing to draw the line with a four-year-old. It was something else entirely to have to put down limits with a man the tabloids called Nick the Hunk. There was no real way she could count on them being honored—except by an appeal to respect.
And she feared it was much too early for that. Besides, according to Stavros, Nikos knew nothing about respect.
So why had he given her back the barrette?
Of course he'd taken his own sweet time about it, turning her and touching her and combing his fingers through her hair and sending a whole raft load of sizzles through her. But he'd done what she asked.
She had sizzle—and she had control. She gave a small skip of sheer satisfaction.
She could do this. She could!
Nikos pressed a remote garage door opener as they approached the building, and by the time they arrived, the door had rolled up to reveal four gleaming cars.
"Take your pick," he said, "since you're going to be driving."
Mari looked them over and swallowed hard. Like Nikos, they were all out of her league. Big and shiny and dangerous or small and sleek and lethal. And every one worth far more than she would make in a year.
"How about taking mine? I know how to drive it." Nikos grinned. "The principles are the same no matter what the car."
"I don't think—"
"You want me to be brave and grow up willing to try new things, don't you?" Nikos asked, his dark eyes glinting with wicked humor and challenge.
Mari groaned. "That is tripe."
Nikos laughed delightedly. "I bet you don't say that to all your charges."
She shook her head, sighing, but still smiling. "Just the ones old enough to understand."
"Right. Then, how about this?" The smile on his face vanished. "I respect your ability to do it." The humor had faded from his eyes, but the challenge didn't. He regarded her intently.
It was called being hoist by your own petard, and she knew it. "Damn," she murmured.
Nikos made a disapproving sound.
Mari swallowed a smile. "Drat," she amended sulkily. Then, in the face of his grin, she sucked in her breath and nodded. She would try it. She could call it another exercise in control.
Nikos beamed. "So, what's your choice? New and stuffy? New and stodgy? New and fast or—" and here he drew her around to see a low, sleek hunter green Jaguar convertible "—or old and fast and classy as hell."
It was clear which one he wanted her to pick.
Mari had never driven a car like the Jaguar in her life. She had a seven-year-old compact car with a dented front right fender. Her aunts favored large American sedans of a certain vintage that resembled a cross between gun boats and land barges to Mari.
"Safety first," Aunt Em always said.
This car was anything but. Mari gave a last longing thought toward her small serviceable car, her staid predictable cold fish life, and drew a deep breath.
"Old and fast and classy as hell," she said.
She didn't drive like Maria-the-nun.
Oh, granted, she'd taken it slow at first, moving up the drive with the speed of a sailboat caught in a calm. But then she'd got through town and hit the open road and, slowly but surely, her foot went down on the accelerator and the car speeded up. In a matter of minutes, it was like the wind had risen, and far from being becalmed now they were moving swiftly.
Nikos felt as if he'd been let out of prison.
His eyes opened wider. His heart beat more easily. For the first time since the accident, he could breathe.
Since he'd been confined at the cottage, he hadn't made any effort to ho
bble up to the pool or over to the beach. Any ventures out ran the risk of another confrontation with Stavros. His head already ached enough without that. So he'd stayed in. He had enough to keep him busy, though his father would never believe it. He'd even assured himself it was all right, that he would be fine until he got the damned cast off and finished the medication. He hadn't realized until now just how badly he'd needed to get out.
At midweek the traffic was less than on the weekends, and as they drove further out on the coast toward Montauk, it got even thinner. He breathed deeper, then glanced over to see how Mari was doing.
She was smiling, her earlier white-knuckled grip relaxed.
"How you doing?"
She laughed. "I feel like I've got a hundred wild horses at the end of a very thin rein."
"More like two hundred and sixty-five."
"Yikes." She shot him a horrified look.
"You'll feel better if you're part of the elements," he told her. "Pull over."
"What?"
"Stop on the shoulder up there." He directed her to the gravel alongside the roadway. When she stopped, Nikos moved to get out. It wasn't easy. He cursed his inability to negotiate cramped spaces with his cast and ribs, but finally he got out of the car, then started to put the top down.
"What are you doing?" Mari yelped.
"Putting you in the elements," Nikos said.
"I don't—"
"You'll love it," he said firmly, and gave her an encouraging grin.
She got out and put her hands on her hips. "If I argue, you'll tell me I should be setting an example for you so that you're willing to try new experiences."
His grin widened. "You're catching on. Here. Help me with this."
If she hadn't, he didn't know if he'd have been able to manage by himself. But after a moment's hesitation, she did, and within moments they had the top down.
"Now," he said, "you'll get the feel of things."
"Literally," Mari said drily. But she didn't look unhappy.
They got underway slowly again, but as the breeze caught her hair and lifted it, tugging it from the confines of the barrette and doing what he'd wanted to do, she flexed her fingers on the steering wheel and they didn't look so white-knuckled any longer. A few more miles per hour and she lifted her chin, letting the wind caress her face. She smiled.
The Playboy and the Nanny Page 6