by Anne Mather
‘Will you …?’
He indicated the cups and Helen drew a deep breath and moved forward. There was a tall jug of coffee and another smaller one of cream, and two white porcelain cups that seemed almost transparent.
The delicacy of the operation was not lost on her, and Helen couldn’t help her hand shaking as she lifted the pot and attempted to pour. Dear God, she was going to spill it all over the white linen cloth. Either that, or drop the pot on the fragile china.
She was aware of Milos watching her and her gaze was drawn irresistibly in his direction. Which was definitely a mistake. As she’d feared, the coffee cascaded over the side of the cup, filling the saucer and splashing hotly onto her jean-clad legs.
‘Oh, shit!’ she exclaimed, as much in pain as frustration, and without hesitation Milos took the pot from her trembling fingers and replaced it on the tray.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said roughly, snatching up a napkin and dabbing at the damp spots on her trousers. ‘Theos, this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been watching you.’
Helen would agree with that, but she couldn’t let him take the blame for something that was really all her own doing. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she insisted, pushing her hands over her knees in an effort to deflect his efforts. ‘Really. I knew I was going to make a mess of it.’
Milos tossed the napkin onto the tray, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement. ‘Well, you certainly did that,’ he agreed, nodding at the stained tray cloth. ‘Never mind. I’m not fond of English coffee anyway. So long as you’re not burned, that’s all that matters.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said ruefully, dragging her eyes from his. ‘My—er—my jeans took the worst of it.’
Milos’s eyes dropped to her knees and Helen’s stomach did a nervous somersault. There was such a look of tenderness in his gaze and her limbs turned to liquid when he captured her hands in both of his.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, and for a moment Helen hadn’t the first idea what he was talking about. When he’d touched her shoulder earlier, she’d been startled by her reaction, but that was as nothing compared to the way she felt when he raised one of her hands to his lips. He bestowed a fleeting kiss on her knuckles before turning her hand over and caressing her palm. His thumb massaged the moist centre in a deliberately sensual motion and she felt the heat he was generating spreading to every extremity. It was an almost physical invasion and she hardly dared to identify its effect.
Her eyes had been drawn back to his, but now she tried to look away. She didn’t want him to see how vulnerable she was, how easily he had breached barriers she had had years to erect.
She didn’t understand it. She’d been Richard’s girlfriend for almost two years and he’d never come close to arousing her in this way. Oh, they’d kissed and petted, of course they had, and just occasionally she’d been tempted to find out what all the fuss was about. But she’d always been in control of her emotions and Richard had known she didn’t sleep around.
Yet now, the melting sensation in her stomach was causing all sorts of problems. There was a tightness in her breasts, a moistness between her legs, and the blood that had been pounding through her veins now seemed to have congealed just beneath her skin. She was hot and cold by turns, sweating one minute and shivering the next, while a wave of goose-bumps enveloped her in a rippling cloak of excitement.
She was beginning to realise how reckless she had been in coming here, yet she also knew Milos wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. Despite her earlier doubts, she thought she could trust him. The trouble was, she didn’t trust herself.
As if sensing her confusion, Milos chose that moment to release her hands. ‘You are very sweet, agape mou,’ he said, patting her knee with what she recognised was genuine affection. ‘And so innocent,’ he continued, looking into her flushed face. ‘You make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.’
Helen’s lips parted. ‘What things?’ she asked naïvely, but she knew. She just wanted him to say them, to admit that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling the intimacy between them.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do. I do.’ She gazed up at him eagerly. ‘Please; you have to tell me.’ She paused and then added provocatively, ‘Do you think I’m attractive?’
Dear God! Helen almost cringed then. Where had that come from? She’d thought the meal had banished the worst effects of the champagne from her system, but she’d been wrong. Terribly wrong.
Milos, however, chose to answer her. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I find you very attractive.’
‘Was that why you wanted to see me again?’ In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Helen recklessly. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about my father.’
‘I did. I should,’ he amended, a little roughly. ‘But—we’ve talked about other things.’
‘Me,’ said Helen ruefully. ‘Were you bored?’
‘Very,’ he said drily. ‘That’s why I asked you to have dinner with me.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?’ she ventured with a frown, and he shrugged.
‘I am very boring,’ he said flatly. ‘And now I think I ought to take you home.’
Helen protested. ‘It’s early yet.’ She glanced towards the sound system. ‘Couldn’t we play some more music? Maybe dance again?’
‘I think not.’
‘Why?’
Milos said something then that she thought wasn’t very complimentary, but almost against his will, it seemed, he didn’t get up from the sofa.
Instead, he hesitated only a moment before lifting his hand and slipping it under the hair at the back of her neck. His strong fingers first massaged and then gripped her nape, forcing her to look at him.
‘You know exactly why I have to take you home,’ he told her roughly. ‘Why we have to put an end to this right now.’
Helen pressed her lips together. ‘Because you’re tired of me?’ she asked ingenuously. ‘Because you don’t want to dance with me again?’
Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘That’s not what I want to do, and you know it.’
Helen angled her neck beneath his hand. ‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Helen!’ He spoke harshly. ‘Don’t make this any harder than it already is. You’re just an eighteen-year-old student, while I—I’m not.’
She was actually seventeen, but Helen didn’t think this was a good time to say that. But it did explain why he’d offered her champagne.
‘You’re not old,’ she said instead. ‘And I’m not exactly inexperienced, you know.’
Milos breathed deeply. ‘Where are you going with this?’
‘Where do you want to go?’
She was being deliberately provocative, but she trembled when his fingers tightened on her nape.
He was going to kiss her, she thought unsteadily, hoping she wouldn’t regret this. She wanted him to kiss her, she told herself. She wanted to have some point of reference so that when she let Richard kiss her again she’d be able to gauge which of them was the best.
But Milos didn’t kiss her. He just stared at her with tormented eyes, and she felt herself shrinking beneath his dark disturbed gaze.
‘I know you don’t mean to be cruel,’ he said grimly. ‘But, Helen, this isn’t a game. Whatever experience you think you’ve had, forget it. You’re going to hate me if I take you at your word.’
‘I’m not.’ The protest burst from her, a need to reassure him now taking precedence over her own fears. ‘I like you, Milos. And I thought you liked me. What could possibly be wrong with that?’
It was the last coherent moment she had. When Milos’s lips touched hers, she forgot all about Richard, all about her parents, all about everything except the sensuous brush of his mouth against hers. Any thoughts of a rational nature were swiftly shattered by those featherlight caresses and the quivering they aroused inside her seemed to swell and expand until even her skin felt almost too brittle to contain i
t.
His mouth played with hers as his fingers had played with hers earlier. And, in no time at all, she was reaching for him, clutching the lapels of his suit jacket, giving herself up to the unimaginable pleasure of his kisses. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted, but she wanted more, and it was her amateurish efforts to get close to him that changed the whole tenor of his embrace.
Muttering a groan, Milos’s mouth fastened on hers, pressing her back against the cushions behind her. She felt the erratic pulse of his heart beating against hers as he deepened and lengthened the kiss, the unsteady brush of his hand against her breast as he sloughed off his jacket and loosened his tie.
Then his tongue was stroking over her lower lip, forcing its way between her teeth and into her mouth. Hot and wet, it was unbearably sexy, and Helen’s senses went into overload. Ignoring the warning prick of her conscience, she sank lower on the cushions until Milos was practically lying on top of her.
Somehow the buttons of her shirt had become unfastened, making it easy for him to slide his hand inside. His strong fingers cupped her breast over her bra and that sensual caress caused an ache of desire to flower deep in her belly. Heat spread over her and through her, and when he bent his head lower and sucked her nipple through the cloth she couldn’t prevent the convulsive cry that escaped her.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked at once, pushing himself up to look down at her, and she gave a violent shake of her head. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she assured him huskily, winding her arms around his neck. Then, shyly, ‘Don’t stop.’
Milos closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I don’t want to stop,’ he admitted unevenly, and as he lowered himself onto her again she felt the insistent pressure of his erection hard against her stomach. ‘But, this is crazy! Theos—I want to make love with you, Helen. And it’s tearing me up because that’s not going to happen.’
‘Why not?’
She heard herself ask the question, but she didn’t regret it. This was so different from anything she’d shared with Richard that in her present frame of mind she found it hard to believe it could possibly be wrong.
‘Because we hardly know one another,’ he told her roughly. ‘And, quite honestly, I can’t imagine your mother allowing us to see one another again.’
Helen couldn’t imagine that either, but she didn’t say so. However, it did make her want to prolong this evening for as long as possible, and if that meant what she thought it meant, then so be it. She had to lose her virginity sooner or later, she reminded herself, and she’d rather it was with him than someone else.
Cupping his face in her hands, she opened her mouth against his and felt his teeth bite into the lower lip. But, ‘I can’t do this,’ he said against her lips, and with a muffled oath he thrust himself up and away from her.
Helen was devastated. She’d thought he was as committed as she was, but it was obvious he was still in control of his feelings. With a little moan of anguish, she turned onto her side facing the back of the sofa, burying her suddenly tear-wet face in the cushions.
‘Don’t,’ she heard him say in a tortured voice. ‘Helen, don’t make me despise myself, any more than I do already.’
‘You don’t despise yourself,’ she muttered, her voice muffled against the soft fabric. ‘You despise me.’ She broke off with a sob. ‘I should never have come here.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Milos agreed harshly, but now his voice was much nearer, and when she rolled onto her back she found him hunkered down beside her. He put out his hand, his thumb smearing a tear from her wet cheek. ‘Moro mou, what am I going to do with you?’
Helen sniffed. ‘What do you want to do with me?’
‘Now that’s an unnecessary question, and you know it,’ he said unevenly. ‘If I said I wanted to take you to bed, to take away all your clothes so I could look at you, you’d run a mile.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, please—’ Milos shook his head, his thumb moving to her mouth and running almost cruelly over her lips. ‘We both know you’ve never done anything like this before.’
Helen’s face burned. ‘How do you know?’
For an answer, Milos moved his hand to the juncture of her legs, cupping her mound with a practised hand and causing her to buck a little jerkily beneath his touch. ‘See,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t need any more proof.’
‘You—you startled me, that’s all,’ she protested, but Milos only gave her an old-fashioned look.
‘Oh, right,’ he said drily. ‘I suggest you dry your eyes and I’ll take you home.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’
He scowled. ‘What you’re doing is—dangerous.’
‘Because you want me?’
‘Get up, Helen.’ Milos gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘Don’t make me have to do it for you.’
Her lips trembled a little, but she didn’t move. If he wanted her to leave, he would have to make her. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
‘Helen!’ he said grimly, speaking through his teeth.
‘Milos!’ she countered.
He swore then and, with some force, he thrust his arms beneath her and hauled her up into his arms. He got to his feet and for a heartstopping moment he held her there, cradled against his chest, their eyes, their mouths, only inches apart. Then, determinedly, he lowered her to the floor.
But it didn’t work out as he’d intended. Her arms were around his neck and when he set her on her feet they stayed where they were. In fact, his action had only added to their intimacy, her limbs sliding silkily against his aroused body.
‘Theos, Helen,’ he said hoarsely, but she sensed it was no longer a protest. They’d both proved their points in different ways, and he gave a sigh of defeat. ‘Yes, I want you,’ he added as his arms closed about her. ‘I just hope you won’t regret this in the morning.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
RHEA drove them back to the vineyard in the late afternoon. Surprisingly, Melissa had fallen asleep after lunch and although Helen would have woken her, Rhea had persuaded her to change her mind.
‘She’s tired,’ she said. ‘She’s had a strenuous morning. Let her rest.’
In the circumstances, Helen decided not to argue. And it was true, Melissa was probably worn out. But she suspected Rhea’s motives for wanting them to stay had more to do with wanting to know about her brother’s apparent interest in herself and what it might mean to his family.
Leaving her daughter drowsing in the shade of the terrace, Helen accepted Rhea’s invitation to walk with her in the gardens. Despite the bare hillside that fell away below the villa, within its walls someone had created an oasis of colour. Terraces of exotic blooms and flowering shrubs hid a tumbling waterfall, and on the lowest level a stone bench was set beneath an arching pergola that was covered with purple bougainvillea.
‘Shall we sit?’ suggested Rhea, but it was hardly a question. She seated herself without waiting for her guest’s acquiescence, and Helen had little choice but to join her.
‘So,’ Rhea continued, immediately getting to the point, ‘how long have you known my brother?’
Despite her suspicions, Helen was taken aback. ‘I—beg your pardon?’
Rhea arched a dark brow. ‘I asked how long—’
‘Yes, I know what you said.’ Helen took a moment to gather herself. ‘I—just wonder why you feel you have to ask such a question?’
‘Oh …’ Rhea was thoughtful. ‘Put it down to sibling curiosity. I can’t remember the last time Milos invited a woman to his home.’
‘He didn’t exactly invite me to his home.’
‘Oh, he did.’ Rhea was very sure of that. ‘I was left in no doubt that he wanted to talk to you. Alone.’
Helen felt the heat rising up her face. ‘Then why didn’t he invite me himself?’ she countered stiffly, and Rhea shrugged.
‘Perhaps he didn’t believe you’d accept his invitation.’
Helen tried to be dismissive.
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Can’t you?’ Rhea’s eyes were almost as direct as her brother’s, which was disconcerting in itself. ‘Helen, I know my brother. I know him very well, actually. He was very definite about what he wanted me to do.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if you feel he was using you to get to me—’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Though they both knew she had. ‘I don’t want to offend you, Helen. I’d just like to know how the two of you met. That’s not so difficult to understand, is it?’
‘No.’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘But your brother’s a—a very attractive man, Rhea. I imagine he meets lots of women in the course of his travels.’
‘I imagine he does.’ Rhea sighed. ‘But Milos is not a—what is that word?—a womaniser, okhi? I think I can count on one hand the number of women he has introduced to me.’
Helen didn’t have an answer for that, so instead she decided to be honest. Well, as honest as it was necessary to be, anyway. ‘He—we—I met him—oh—’ she mustn’t be too definite ‘—perhaps a dozen years ago. In England.’
Rhea’s eyes widened. ‘Psemata? Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Helen tried to sound casual about it. ‘My—er—my father had asked him to look me up.’
‘Katalava. I see.’ Rhea absorbed this with interest. ‘I wonder why he didn’t tell me that?’
‘I don’t suppose he considered it important.’
‘But—you must have been very young at that time.’
‘Not so young,’ said Helen, hurriedly trying to calculate how old she’d have been twelve years ago. ‘I—er—I was about twenty.’
‘Ah.’ Rhea’s eyebrows lifted even further, and Helen realised that by exaggerating her age, she had inadvertently given Rhea a reason to think there might have been more than friendship between them.
‘Anyway,’ she said, hoping to divert her, ‘I suppose you’d still have been in primary school then.’
‘I guess.’ But Rhea wasn’t interested in her own past now. ‘Imagine,’ she said reflectively. ‘You and Milos have known one another since almost before Melissa was born. Were you married when you met? Of course, you must have been.’