by Jane Porter
This couldn’t continue. Her patient didn’t respect her, wasn’t even listening to her, and he felt entirely too comfortable mocking her.
Elizabeth gave her head a slight dazed shake. How was this happening? She was supposed to be in charge.
Tomorrow, she told herself fiercely, returning to the bedroom the housekeeper had given her. Tomorrow she’d prove to him she was the one in charge, the one running the show.
She could do this. She had to.
The day had been warm, and although it was now night, her bedroom retained the heat. Like the other tower rooms, its plaster ceiling was high, at least ten or eleven feet, and decorated with elaborate painted friezes.
She crossed to open her windows and allow the evening breeze in. Her three arched windows overlooked the gardens, now bathed in moonlight, and then the mountain valley beyond.
It was beautiful here, uncommonly beautiful, with the ancient monastery tucked among rocks, cliffs and chestnut trees. But also incredibly dangerous. Kristian Koumantaros was a man used to dominating his world. She needed him to work with her, cooperate with her, or he could destroy her business and reputation completely.
At the antique marble bureau, Elizabeth twisted her long hair and then reached for one of her hair combs to fasten the knot on top of her head.
As she slid the comb in, she glanced up into the ornate silver filigree mirror over the bureau. Glimpsing her reflection—fair, light eyes, an oval face with a surprisingly strong chin—she grimaced. Back when she’d done more with herself, back when she’d had a luxurious lifestyle, she’d been a paler blonde, more like champagne, softer, prettier. But she’d given up the expensive highlights along with the New York and London stylists. She didn’t own a single couture item anymore, nor any high-end real estate. The lifestyle she’d once known—taken for granted, assumed to be as much a part of her birthright as her name—was gone.
Over.
Forgotten.
But, turning back suddenly to the mirror, she saw the flicker in her eyes and knew she hadn’t forgotten.
Medicine—nursing—offered her an escape, provided structure, a regimented routine and a satisfying amount of control. While medicine in and of itself wasn’t safe, medicine coupled with business administration became something far more predictable. Far more manageable. Which was exactly what she prayed Kristian would be tomorrow.
* * *
The next morning Elizabeth woke early, ready to get to work, but even at seven the monastery-turned-villa was still dark except for a few lights in the kitchen.
Heartened that the villa was coming to life, Elizabeth dressed in a pale blue shirt and matching blue tailored skirt—her idea of a nursing uniform—before heading to find breakfast, which seemed to surprise the cook, throwing her into a state of anxiety and confusion.
Elizabeth managed to convince her that all she really needed was a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. The cook obliged with both, and over Greek coffee—undrinkable—and a tiropita, or cheese pie, Elizabeth visited with Pano.
She learned that Kristian usually slept in and then had coffee in his bed, before making his way to the library where he spent each day.
“What does he do all day?” she asked, breaking the pie into smaller bites. Pano hesitated, and then finally shrugged.
“He does nothing?” Elizabeth guessed.
Pano shifted his shoulders. “It is difficult for him.”
“I understand in the beginning he did the physical therapy. But then something happened?”
“It was the eye surgery—the attempt to repair the retinas.” Pano sighed heavily, and the same girl who’d served Elizabeth lunch yesterday came forward with fresh hot coffee. “He’d had some sight until then—not much, but enough that he could see light and shadows, shapes—but something went wrong in the repeated surgeries and he is now as you see him. Blind.”
Elizabeth knew that losing the rest of his sight would have been a terrible blow. “I read in his chart that there is still a slight chance he could regain some sight with another treatment. It’d be minimal, I realize.”
Elderly Pano shrugged.
“Why doesn’t he do it?” she persisted.
“I think…” His wrinkled face wrinkled further. “He’s afraid. It’s his last hope.”
Elizabeth said nothing, and Pano lifted his hands to try to make her understand.
“As long as he postpones the surgery, he can hope that one day he might see again. But once he has the surgery, and it doesn’t work—” the old man snapped his fingers “—then there is nothing else for him to hope for.”
And that Elizabeth actually understood.
But as the hours passed, and the morning turned to noon, Elizabeth grew increasingly less sympathetic.
What kind of life was this? To just sleep all day?
She peeked into his room just before twelve and he was still out, sprawled half-naked between white sheets, his dark hair tousled.
Elizabeth went in search of Pano once more, to inquire into Kristian’s sleeping habits.
“Is it usual for Kirios Koumantaros to sleep this late?” she asked.
“It’s not late. Not for him. He can sleep ’til one or two in the afternoon.”
Unable to hide her incredulity, she demanded, “Did his other nurses allow this?”
Pano’s bald head shone in the light as he bent over the big table and finished straightening the mail and papers piled there. “His other nurses couldn’t control him. He is a man. He does as he wants to do.”
“No. Not when his medical care costs thousands and thousands of pounds each week.”
Mail sorted and newspapers straightened, Pano looked up at her. “You don’t tell a grown man what to do.”
She made a rough sound. “Yes, you do. If what he’s doing is destructive.”
Pano didn’t answer, and after a glance at the tall library clock—it was now five minutes until one—she turned around and headed straight for Kristian’s bedroom. What she found there, on his bedside table, explained his long, deep sleep.
He’d taken sleeping pills. She didn’t know how many, and she didn’t know when they’d been taken, but the bottle hadn’t been there earlier in the evening when she’d checked on him.
She’d collected the bottles from the small table in the library and put them in her room, under lock and key, so for him to have had access to this bottle meant he had a secret stash of his own to medicate himself as he pleased.
But still, he couldn’t get the prescriptions filled if Pano or another staff member weren’t aiding him. Someone—and she suspected Pano again—was making it too easy for Kristian to be dependent.
Elizabeth spoke Kristian’s name to wake him. No response. She said his name again. “Mr. Koumantaros, it’s gone noon—time to wake up.”
Nothing.
“Mr. Koumantaros.” She stepped closer to the bed, stood over him and said, more loudly, “It’s gone noon, Mr. Koumantaros. Time to get up. You can’t sleep all day.”
Kristian wasn’t moving. He wasn’t dead, either. She could see that much. He was breathing, and there was eye movement beneath his closed lids, but he certainly wasn’t interested in waking up.
She cleared her throat and practically shouted, “Kristian Koumantaros—it’s time to get up.”
Kristian heard the woman. How could he not? She sounded as if she had a bullhorn. But he didn’t want to wake.
He wanted to sleep.
He needed to keep sleeping, craved the deep dreamless sleep that would mercifully make all dark and quiet and peaceful.
But the voice didn’t stop. It just grew louder. And louder.
Now there was a tug on the covers, and in the next moment they were stripped back, leaving him bare.
“Go away,” he growled.
“It’s gone noon, Mr. Koumantaros. Time to get up. Your first physical therapy session is in less than an hour.”
And that was when he remembered. He wasn’t dealing with just any
old nurse, but nurse number seven. Elizabeth Hatchet. The latest nurse, an English nurse of all things, sent to make his life miserable.
He rolled over onto his stomach. “You’re not allowed to wake me up.”
“Yes, I am. It’s gone noon and you can’t sleep the day away.”
“Why not? I was up most of the night.”
“Your first physical therapy session begins soon.”
“You’re mad.”
“Not mad, not even angry. Just ready to get you back into treatment, following a proper exercise program.”
“No.”
Elizabeth didn’t bother to argue. There was no point. One way or another he would resume physical therapy. “Pano is on his way with breakfast. I told him you could eat in the dining room, like a civilized man, but he insisted he serve you in bed.”
“Good man,” Kristian said under his breath.
Elizabeth let this pass, too. “But this is your last morning being served in bed. You’re neither an invalid nor a prince. You can eat at a table like the rest of us.”
She rolled his wheelchair closer to the bed. “Your chair is here, in case you need it, and I’ll be just a moment while I gather a few things.” And with that she took the medicine bottle from the table and headed for the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. In the bathroom she quickly opened drawers and cupboard doors, before returning to his room with another two bottles in her hands.
“What are you doing?” Kristian asked, sitting up and listening to her open and close the drawers in his dresser.
“Looking for the rest of your secret stash.”
“Secret stash of what?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
She found another pill bottle at the back of his top drawer, right behind his belts. “Just how much stuff are you taking?”
“I take very little—”
“Then why do you have enough prescriptions and bottles to fill a pharmacy?”
It was his turn to fall silent, and she snorted as she finished checking his room. She found nothing else. Not in the armchair in the corner, or the drawer of the nightstand, nor between the mattresses of his bed. Good. Maybe she’d found the last of it. She certainly hoped so.
“Now what?” he asked, as Elizabeth scooped up the bottles and marched through the master bedroom’s French doors outside to the pool.
“Just finishing the job,” she said, leaving the French doors open and heading across the sunlit patio to the pool and fountain.
“Those are mine,” he shouted furiously.
“Not anymore,” she called back.
“I can’t sleep without them—”
“You could if you got regular fresh air and exercise.” Elizabeth was walking quickly, but not so fast that she couldn’t hear Kristian make the awkward transfer from his bed into his wheelchair.
“Parakalo,” he demanded. “Please. Wait a blasted moment.”
She did. Only because it was the first time she’d heard him use the word please. As she paused, she heard Kristian hit the open door with a loud bang, before backing up and banging his way forward again, this time managing to get through. Just as clumsily he pushed across the pale stone deck, his chair tires humming on the deck.
“I waited,” she said, walking again, “but I’m not giving them back. They’re poison. They’re absolutely toxic for you.”
Kristian was gaining on her and, reaching the fountain, she popped the caps off the bottles and turned toward him.
His black hair was wild, and the scar on his cheek like face paint from an ancient tribe. He might very well have been one of the warring Greeks.
“Everything you put in your body,” she said, trying to slow the racing of her heart, as well as the sickening feeling that she was once again losing control, “and everything you do to your body is my responsibility.”
And with that she emptied the bottles into the fountain, the splash of pills loud enough to catch Kristian’s attention.
“You did it,” he said.
“I did,” she agreed.
A line formed between his eyebrows and his cheekbones grew more pronounced. “I declare war, then,” he said, and the edge of his mouth lifted, tilted in a dark smile. “War. War against your company, and war against you.” His voice dropped, deepened. “I’m fairly certain that very soon, Ms. Hatchet, you will deeply regret ever coming here.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ELIZABETH’S HEART THUMPED hard. So hard she thought it would burst from her chest.
It was a threat. Not just a small threat, but one meant to send her to her knees.
For a moment she didn’t know what to think, or do, and as her heart raced she felt overwhelmed by fear and dread. And then she found her backbone, and knew she couldn’t let a man—much less a man like Kristian—intimidate her. She wasn’t a timid little church mouse, nor a country bumpkin. She’d come from a family every bit as powerful as the Koumantaros family—not that she talked about her past, or wanted anyone to know about it.
“Am I supposed to be afraid, Mr. Koumantaros?” she asked, capping the bottles and dropping them in her skirt pocket. “You must realize you’re not a very threatening adversary.”
Drawing on her courage, she continued coolly, “You can hardly walk, and you can’t see, and you depend on everyone else to take care of you. So, really, why should I be frightened? What’s the worst you can do? Call me names?”
He leaned back in his wheelchair, his black hair a striking contrast to the pale stone wall behind him. “I don’t know whether to admire your moxie or pity your naïveté.”
The day hadn’t started well, she thought with a deep sigh, and it was just getting worse. Everything with him was a battle. If he only focused half his considerable intelligence and energy on healing instead of baiting nurses he’d be walking by now, instead of sitting like a wounded caveman in his wheelchair.
“Pity?” she scoffed. “Don’t pity me. You’re the one that hasn’t worked in a year. You’re the one that needs your personal and business affairs managed by others.”
“You take so many liberties.”
“They’re not liberties; they’re truths. If you were half the man your friends say you are, you wouldn’t still be hiding away and licking your wounds.”
“Licking my wounds?” he repeated slowly.
“I know eight people died that day in France, and I know one of them was your brother. I know you tried to rescue him, and I know you were hurt going back for him. But you will not bring him back by killing yourself—” She broke off as he reached out and grasped her wrist with his hand.
Elizabeth tried to pull back, but he didn’t let her go. “No personal contact, Mr. Koumantaros,” she rebuked sternly, tugging at her hand. “There are strict guidelines for patient-nurse relationships.”
He laughed as though she’d just told a joke. But he also swiftly released her. “I don’t think your highly trained Calista got that memo.”
She glanced down at her wrist, which suddenly burned, checking for marks. There were none. And yet her skin felt hot, tender, and she rubbed it nervously. “It’s not a memo. It’s an ethics standard. Every nurse knows there are lines that cannot be crossed. There are no gray areas on this one. It’s very black and white.”
“You might want to explain that one to Calista, because she begged me to make love to her. But then she also asked me for money—confusing for a patient, I can assure you.”
The sun shone directly overhead, and the heat coming off the stone terrace was intense, and yet Elizabeth froze. “What do you mean, she asked you for money?”
“Surely the UK has its fair share of blackmail?”
“You’re trying to shift responsibility and the blame,” she said, glancing around quickly, suppressing panic. Panic because if Calista had attempted to blackmail Mr. Koumantaros, one of Greece’s most illustrious sons…oh…bad. Very, very bad. It was so bad she couldn’t even finish the thoug
ht.
Expression veiled, Kristian shrugged and rested his hands on the rims of his wheelchair tires. “But as you say, Cratchett, she was twenty-three—very young. Maybe she didn’t realize it wasn’t ethical to seduce a patient and then demand hush money.” He paused. “Maybe she didn’t realize that blackmailing me while being employed by First Class Rehab meant that First Class Rehab would be held liable.”
Elizabeth’s legs wobbled. She’d dealt with a lot of problems in the past year, had sorted out everything from poor budgeting to soaring travel costs, but she hadn’t seen this one coming.
“And you are First Class Rehab, aren’t you, Ms. Hatchet? It is your company?”
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth dried. Her heart pounded. She was suddenly too afraid to make a sound.
“I did some research, Ms. Hatchet.”
She very much wished there was a chair close by, something she could sit down on, but all the furniture had been exiled to one end of the terrace, to give Mr. Koumantaros more room to maneuver his wheelchair.
“Calista left here months ago,” she whispered, plucking back a bit of hair as the breeze kicked in. “Why didn’t you come to me then? Why did you wait so long to tell me?”
His mouth slanted, his black lashes dropped, concealing his intensely blue eyes. “I decided I’d wait and see if the level of care improved. It did not—”
“You refused to cooperate!” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
“I’m thirty-six, a world traveler, head of an international corporation and not used to being dependent on anyone—much less young women. Furthermore, I’d just lost my brother, four of my best friends, a cousin, his girlfriend, and her best friend.” His voice vibrated with fury. “It was a lot to deal with.”
“Which is why we were trying to help you—”
“By sending me a twenty-three-year-old former exotic dancer?”
“She wasn’t.”
“She was. She had also posed topless in numerous magazines—not that I ever saw them; she just bragged about them, and about how men loved her breasts. They were natural, you see.”