by Caro LaFever
Then he would be putty in her hands.
She raised her head and held his gaze with her own. The velvet was no longer there when she looked at him. It had firmed to stone. Blank, bitter stone.
Not an invitation in those depths. Not a flash of enticement or temptation.
Good. She’d gotten the message. Very good.
He yanked his attention back to his numbers.
His grandfather huffed his disgust as his hand fell on the sheet. From the corner of his eye, Aetos noted the blunt fingers tapping on the bed. Just as his blunt fingers tapped on the computer keys.
“Natalie.” The abrupt sound of his grandfather’s voice made him jump.
The sound of her name made him sweat.
“Come.” That gnarled hand now waved imperiously at the woman. His pretend wife.
No!
He didn’t want her near or close. He didn’t want her to come beside him with her wildflower scent and burning fire. The dark chug of fear reared its head inside him and he wondered for a moment if he’d yelled the denial out loud.
But no. He hadn’t. Since his pretend wife hadn’t stopped cold in her tracks. Instead, she glided to the other side of the hospital bed, a gentle smile on her rosy lips. He’d noticed—how could he have not noticed?—she’d wound his pappoús around her elegant finger with as much ease as she’d wound his giagiá.
Those elegant fingers of hers slipped around his grandfather’s blunt ones and held on. “What is it, Pappoús?”
He swung his gaze back to his work. Her voice hurt him. The way she said the word. Pappoús. She’d been granted the honor as soon as his grandfather had awakened.
This galled him. Riled him.
She called his grandmother giagiá just as easily. Just as sweetly. Just as if she had the right.
The names had taken him a year. A solid year of living with them, learning from them, and finally loving them. A year before he’d breached his pain and forced himself to call them pappoús and giagiá.
Yet the witch slid those words from her lips in a few short hours.
“Now is the time for you to see your new home.”
He yanked his gaze from the computer and stared at his grandfather’s smiling face. New home? What the hell was the old man talking about?
The siren across the bed frowned. “What?”
Exactly. What?
The old man’s smile turned into a grin.
A swift strike of pure joy zinged through Aetos at the picture before him. That grin brought back a storm of memories. Of the old man singing as he picked his precious grapes, with his surly grandson nearby helping. Of his pappoús dancing with his beloved wife in their small, narrow kitchen, the look of love lighting his eyes as his old feet shuffled across the stone floor.
Leonidas Kourkoulos had aged, but he hadn’t died. Not in body and definitely not in spirit.
The joy welled inside him like a tidal wave.
One moment later, the wave crashed right on top of him.
“My grandson will show you Athens.”
No! The feral scream of a cornered animal could not have approached the appalled, fearful rejection inside him.
Had he said it? Screamed it out loud?
Both his grandfather and the witch turned to stare at him. The grin still lit his pappoús’s face. His pretend wife had a gleam in her eye when she met his gaze, but then, her lush mouth drooped as if she’d been denied a treat she genuinely wanted.
“No.” He was surprised, relieved the word had come out with composure.
His grandfather’s grin did not abate. “Nai. Your wife has been stuck here for days taking care of your family. She deserves to get out and see some of your home.”
His home. No. No. Athens and Greece were no longer his home.
The female patted the old man’s hand. “I’m perfectly fine here.”
“Rhea has told me about your interest in Greece.” His grandfather could be as stubborn…as he was. “She has told me of your love for travel.”
The blush warmed her skin to the color of the pink roses he’d bought his grandmother. The bouquet of roses stood right behind the female, encircling her like a soft embrace. “I do love to explore new places.”
She couldn’t want to spend any time with him. After his behavior during the last few days, she had to have received the message loud and clear.
Keep away. Stay far away.
“There.” His grandfather patted her hand now. “You see? You will take this day with Aetos and see the sights.”
“That’s all right,” she said, her gaze never leaving the old man on the bed. “I can see the sights on my own.”
She didn’t want to be with him.
Good. Very good.
“Never.” Leonidas Kourkoulos snorted. “My grandson would never let you go out in a strange city on your own.”
Aetos would cheerfully let the witch disappear into the darkest, dankest alley of Athens with his blessing. “She can have my security follow her.”
His grandfather’s bushy eyebrows frowned. “They do not know Athens. You do.”
Not anymore. Not like when he’d been a kid. “I’ve been gone for seventeen years.”
“Nai.” The look his grandfather gave him tore a piece of flesh from his heart. “Far too long to stay away from your home. Today will be a good day for you to find your place here again.”
Find his place here? In Greece?
His place was in the States. In New York City.
Not here. Never here.
“He’s too busy.” Her voice was chilly. Also, saccharine-sweet. “He’s got work to do.”
He did. He had a ton of work to do.
“Work is not life.” His pappoús kept staring at him, nailing him with his demand. “Aetos.”
He said the name as he’d said it a thousand times. When Aetos yelled. When Aetos rebelled. When Aetos had first arrived on his doorstep at the age of fifteen. With an anger so deep, a pain so wide—he’d been wild with grief and fury. And somehow, someway his grandparents had managed to bring him back from the abyss with their love.
“Aetos.”
With their discipline.
“All right.” He jerked to a stand and slammed the laptop down on the chair.
The witch jumped.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter 11
The inside of the limo stank of hatred.
Natalie tried with everything in her to ignore him. Ignore his animosity and his judgment. Ignore his sullen attitude. She stared out at the passing scenery, trying to soak in the bustling crowds and teeming traffic. The late-morning sun beamed brightly down on the city, lighting it with a Greek glow she’d never experienced in New York. Even though it was December, the inhabitants were dressed in light suits and filmy dresses. No dreary snow and sleet like she’d be dealing with at home.
In New York City.
Your new home.
Athens. Greece.
Her heart ached with a wistful wish. A stupid, fruitless wish. But it continued to flicker in the center of her like a fine dusting of pollen. She wanted this sunny city to be her new home. This was foolish, honestly. She’d seen very little. Yet, an instinct, a knowing welled inside. There was an instant connection to the sounds of this place, to the food, to the ancient land.
Or maybe it was because more than anything, she wanted his family to be hers.
A truly impossible wish.
He moved beside her on the seat and the tang of his smell drifted to her. Clean, light, a blend of pine and sea, sun and earth. The scent filled her nostrils, filled her lungs with him. The hatred pulsing around her could not mute the vibrancy of his masculinity.
With blinding clarity, the memory of his kiss followed in the footsteps of his scent.
The rough firmness of his lips as they took hers. The overwhelming power of his male body encircling her own. The wrenching agony of want in his whispered words.
A shiver ran through her. A shiver of dream
s shattered, hopes gone. Wishes that never could be fulfilled, since he’d made it absolutely clear during the last few days: she’d been wrong. Wrong about his wanting her and wrong about the meaning of the kiss and wrong about the sense she was meant to be in his embrace.
That she was created for him.
All of it pure female fantasy. He’d made it clear.
She’d been stupid enough to be happy in the moment after their kiss. Stupid enough to smile at this man before he’d spilled his acid tongue on her delusions.
She’d hit back. Hard. Because she’d been hurt. Impossibly, improbably hurt.
You aren’t capable of taking care of your family.
She’d hurt him. She knew it the moment she uttered the words. And although he’d hurt her too, she’d instantly wanted to take them back. But it had been too late. So she’d turned around, blind with anger at him and anger at herself and left.
Left him with her damaging, destroying accusation.
The bite of tears scratched at the back of her throat, making her rage at herself. She shouldn’t be spending any time at all feeling regrets about this man. After the way he’d treated her during the last few days, in front of his family, he deserved nothing from her other than disgust.
The silence was deafening.
Even so, she felt the connection between them. Didn’t she?
No, she didn’t. She was merely indulging in more of her folly.
Remember, Nat. Remember how he’s treated you.
When he stooped to acknowledge her at all, he’d treated her like a criminal. His dark eyes had stared at her with hatred. His attitude had not been dismissive; it had been brutally harsh. He walked away when she appeared. He held the door for his female relatives and let it bang shut when she drew near. He hadn’t said one word to her in three days.
His family had all seen. All knew.
Embarrassment had filled her. From the moment she awakened to join the family at breakfast with him glaring down the table at her. To the moment she went to bed and had to endure Rhea’s pitying brown gaze before she fell asleep.
Still, his vicious manner had cured her of one thing. Instead of yearning for his touch, she’d been grateful he’d stopped focusing his lustful need on her. He’d gone back to his standard behavior of putting every bit of his concentration into working. Every time he clicked on his phone, she breathed a sigh of relief. Every time he flipped open his ever-present laptop, she’d called herself lucky.
He moved once more. Eased farther from her on the leather seat and then, zeroed in on his cufflinks, twisting and twisting them. She felt him. Felt his restless energy, his irritation at being here with her with no work to occupy his attention.
He had left his laptop back at the hospital.
Color her surprised.
Appalled.
Now his fierce, eagle-eyed attention had landed squarely on her again. She felt the blaze of his angry gaze on her cheek.
“What?” She forced herself to face him. “Do I have something on my nose?”
“It is a rather long nose.” He lounged back on the seat, trying for casual and confident. Yet she felt the pulse of him, the beat of him. He was filled with chaotic noise and fury.
“My nose is not long. It’s a perfectly fine nose.”
“I must disagree,” he said. “Your nose is long. And getting longer.”
His meaning hit. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You often think of me as ridiculous, don’t you, gynaíka mou?” His finger tapped once on his thigh, drawing her unwilling attention to the taut strength of his legs. “I find this accusation unfair.”
She pulled her gaze away from his masculine grace and pinned it on the outside view. A pair of zooming mopeds flew past the limo accompanied by loud, honking horns of protest. The city thrummed with activity, with life. She wanted to be a part of it. She also wanted no part of this conversation.
“Another habit you have with me.”
She ignored him, focusing on the sidewalks teeming with people: smiling laughing, enjoying.
“Lifting your chin. Turning your nose up.”
Ignore. Him.
“You ignore me at your own peril.” His voice turned ruthless. The chaotic fury she’d sensed in him had finally broken its leash.
She tore her gaze from outside and glanced over, instinct telling her to keep him in her sights.
Rage tautened the muscles of his face. His dark eyes burned with pain.
This rage. This pain.
If he didn’t let go of it, if he kept it all in, it would eventually destroy him. She’d never been so sure about anything in her life.
She wanted to heal him.
The thought bounced around in her brain before landing with a thud in her heart.
Don’t be a fool.
Underestimate him? Quite the contrary. She knew deep inside—if she wandered into his life of pain and fury, she’d never come out alive.
“Nothing to say?” His breath rasped in his throat. His blunt fingers now clenched in his fist on his thigh.
“I’m tired of your threats.” Tired of the anger and the fighting. She wanted to be free of it and him. Free and happy and alive. Instead, she was stuck in this prison, this limo and this man and his hate.
“They aren’t threats. They’re promises.”
“What is it that I’ve done that’s so bad?” The question spilled out of her with turbulent emotions hanging on every syllable. “I’ve played the part you demanded and I’ve done it well. Your family loves me.”
“Nai. They do.” His words were accusations, not congratulations.
“This is what you told me to do!” She was shouting, but she couldn’t contain the hurt inside her anymore.
With an abrupt jerk, he turned his head away from her and stared through the window. A loud hush fell, only the muted honking of a car horn penetrated. Along with his breathing. The storm inside her billowed, swamping her. The burn behind her eyes, the taste of inexplicable sorrow on her tongue, the curl of rage and resentment in her stomach.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t stand him.
Natalie leaned over and pushed the silver button. The glass between them and the chauffeur slid down.
“What the hell?”
His curt voice didn’t stop her. Nothing could stop her. “Stop this car,” she ordered.
The driver’s shoulders tensed and his head swung around to look at his boss. As if this man could dictate her actions any longer.
“Stop this car now.” Her tone went tight with determination. “Or I’ll jump out.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Zenos’s gruff indictment matched the quick shake of his head.
“I’m getting out.” She turned to face him. “You might want to stay in this limo driving around, pretending you’re showing me Athens. But you’re not.”
“We’re staying in here.” He jabbed his finger on the limo seat. “You’ll get to see the sights from the window.”
“That’s not seeing a city. That’s not truly experiencing anything.”
“We’re going to do it my way.”
There was sweat on his brow, although the day wasn’t warm enough to cause such a thing. There was something else going on here that she didn’t understand. Which shouldn’t surprise her. This was Aetos Zenos. A man she found impossible to understand. From now on, she’d stop trying. Trying to ease his way with his family. Trying to figure him out.
Trying to heal him.
“Are you afraid, Zenos?” she crooned, her antagonism ripe inside her. “Afraid of your homeland?”
His mouth tightened. “Now it’s my turn to call you ridiculous.”
He lied. The tenseness of his shoulders, the bright flare of panic in those shadowed eyes told the true story.
The limo slowed to a stop as the light turned.
“Right.” Her hand shot out and opened the door. The noise and warmth and life of Athens spilled into the darkness of the limo. His gasp came
from behind her. She didn’t know or care. Her focus was on pushing him, prodding him. Poking him.
She leaned back in to stare into the interior. “Prove to me you’re not afraid.”
His expression turned from angry to grim. Before he could object once more or tug her back into his prison, she stopped him with her words. She cut the thread and let the sword fall.
“I dare you.”
* * *
The siren’s hair glowed in the sun.
It was futile to accurately describe the mix of honey and wheat and moonbeams. Futile to describe the draw, the heat inside him as he noted the strands wave in the soft breeze. The locks strained to escape the mass of pins she’d used to fasten the hair to her head.
The twirls and curls beckoned him, making his fingers itch to touch.
Instead, he dropped farther behind, trying to put distance between them, trying to pull away from the damned draw.
She walked aimlessly. The tourists waddled around her. The natives hurried past her.
Typical woman.
A man would have known where he was going. He would have an agenda, a plan. There would have been a list of sites he wanted to visit. If what Rhea had said was true, this female should have a lengthy outline of Athenian delights to indulge in. She should be following the stream of tourists with their cameras and backpacks towards the usual haunt of the Acropolis. Or to the long line of museums full of his ancestors’ relics.
But no, in her typical, irritating fashion, she wandered.
Down one bustling street and then onto another. He followed. Restless, angry and yet finding it impossible to not keep her gleaming head of hair within his range of view. Even though following her meant he was pulled deeper and deeper into the city, the memories, the forgotten pain.
They walked by a café. The sight of it, there—exactly the same as it had been almost thirty years ago—shot an arrow of agony right through his gut.
The same red-colored tablecloths.
The same wrought iron fence around the seating area.
The same red-and-blue umbrellas fluttering above the eating guests.
The same café. The same café his mother often brought him to when she’d finished her endless shopping and picked him up from school. The same café where she’d buy him fresh lemonade and pat his head when he asked why she was crying.