by Jane Porter
She threw her napkin down and pushed her chair back. “Maybe you were an exceptionally poor patient.”
“Is that possible?”
“Possible?” she repeated, her voice quavering with anger and indignation. “My God, you’re even more conceited than I dreamed. Possible?” She drew a swift breath. “Do you want the truth? No more sugar-coated words?”
“Don’t start mincing words now,” he drawled, sounding as bored as he looked.
Her fingers flexed, and blood pumped through her veins. She wanted to smack him, she really did. “Truth, Kristian—you were impossible. You were the worst patient in the history of my agency, and we take care of hundreds of patients every year. I’ve had my business for years, and never encountered anyone as self-absorbed and manipulative as you.”
She took another quick breath. “And another thing—do you think I wanted to leave my office, put aside my obligations, to rush to your side? Do you think this was a holiday for me to come to Greece? No. And no again. But I did it because no one else would, and you had a girlfriend desperate to see you whole and well.”
Legs shaking, Elizabeth staggered to her feet. “Speaking of your girlfriend, it’s time you gave her a call. I’m done here. It’s Cosima’s turn to be with you now!”
CHAPTER NINE
ELIZABETH RUSHED OUT of the restaurant, past the three other tables of patrons. But no sooner had she stepped outside into the decidedly cooler night air than she felt assailed by shame. She’d just walked out on Kristian Koumantaros, one of Greece’s most powerful and beloved tycoons.
As gusts of wind whistled past the building, perched on the mountain edge, she hugged her arms close, chilled, overwhelmed. She’d left a man who couldn’t see alone, to find his own way out. And worst of all, she thought, tugging windblown tendrils behind her ears, she’d left in the middle of the meal. Meals were almost as sacred as family in Greece.
She was falling apart, she thought, putting a hand to her thigh to keep her skirt from billowing out. Her feelings were so intense she was finding it difficult to be around Kristian. She was overly emotional and too sensitive. And this was why she had to leave—not because she couldn’t still do good here, but because she wondered if she couldn’t manage her own emotions, how could she possibly help him manage his?
In London things would be different.
In London she wouldn’t see Kristian.
In London she’d be in control.
A bitter taste filled her mouth and she immediately shook her head, unable to bear the thought that just days from now she’d be gone and he’d be out of her life.
How could she leave him?
And yet how could she remain?
In the meantime she was standing outside Kristian’s favorite restaurant while he sat alone inside. God, what a mess.
She had to go back in there. Had to apologize. Try to make amends before the evening was completely destroyed.
With a deep breath, she turned and walked through the front door, out of the night, which was rapidly growing stormy. Chilly. She rubbed at her arms and returned to their table, where Kristian waited.
He was sitting still, head averted, and yet from his profile she could see his pallor and the strain at his jaw and mouth.
He was as upset as she was.
Heart sinking, Elizabeth sat down. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting the salty sting of tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
“It’s not your fault. Don’t apologize.”
“Everything just feels wrong—”
“It’s not you. It’s me.” His dense black lashes dropped. He hesitated, as though trying to find the right words. “I knew you’d need to go back, but I didn’t expect you’d say it was so soon—didn’t expect the announcement today.”
She searched his face. It was a face she loved. Loved. And while the word initially took her by surprise, she also recognized it was true. “Kristian, I’m not leaving you. I’m just returning to my office and the work that awaits me there.”
He hesitated a long time before picking up his wine glass, but setting it back down without taking a drink. “You couldn’t move your office here?”
“Temporarily?”
“Permanently.”
She didn’t understand. “I didn’t make this miracle, Kristian. It was you. It was your focus, your drive, your hours of work—”
“But I didn’t care about getting better, didn’t care about much of anything, until you arrived. And now I do.”
“That’s because you’re healing.”
“So don’t leave while I’m still healing. Don’t go when everything finally feels good again.”
She closed her eyes, hope and pain streaking through her like twin forks of lightning. “But if I move my office here, if I remain here to help you…”
“Yes?”
She shook her head. “What about me? What happens to me when you’re healed? When you’re well?” She was grateful he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes, or how she was forced to madly dash them away before anyone at the restaurant could see. “Once you’ve gotten whatever you need from me, do I just pack my things and go back to London again?”
He said nothing, his expression hard, grim.
“Kristian, forgive me, but sometimes being here in Greece is torture.” She knotted her hands in her lap, thinking that the words were coming out all wrong but he had to realize that, while she didn’t want to hurt him, she also had to protect herself. She was too attached to him already. Leaving him, losing him, would hurt so much. But remaining to watch him reunite with another woman would break her heart. “I like you, Kristian,” she whispered. “Really like you—”
“And I like you. Very much.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. I only know what I think. And I believe you belong here. With me.”
He was saying words she’d wanted to hear, but not in the context she needed them. He wanted her because she was convenient and helpful, supportive while still challenging. Yet the relationship he was describing wasn’t one of love, but usefulness. He wanted her company because it would benefit him. But how would she benefit by staying?
“Elizabeth, latrea mou,” he added, voice deepening. “I need you.”
Latrea mou. Darling. Devoted one.
His voice and words were buried inside her heart. Again tears filled her eyes, and again she was forced to brush them swiftly away. “No wonder you had mistresses on every continent,” she said huskily. “You know exactly what women want to hear.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
She wiped away another tear. “I’m making an observation.”
“It’s not accurate.”
“Cosima said—”
“This isn’t working, is it? Let’s just go.” Kristian abruptly rose, and even before he’d straightened the restaurant owner had rushed over. “I’m sorry,” Kristian apologized stiffly, his expression shuttered. “We’re going to be leaving.”
“Kyrie, everything is ready. We’re just about to carry out the plates,” the owner said, clasping his hands together and looking from one to the other. “You are sure?”
Kristian didn’t hesitate. “I am sure.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved his wallet and cash. “Will you let my driver know?”
“Yes, Kyrie Kristian.” The other man nodded. “At least let me have your meal packed to go. Maybe later you will be hungry and want a little plate of something, yes?”
“Thank you.”
Five minutes later they were in the car, sitting at opposite ends of the passenger seat as the wind gusted and howled outside. Fat raindrops fell heavily against the windshield. Kristian stonily faced forward while Elizabeth, hands balled against her stomach, stared out the car window at the passing scenery, although most of it was too dark to see.
She didn’t understand what had happened in the restaurant tonight. Everything had been go
ing so well until they’d sat down, and then…
And then…what? Was it Cosima? Her departure? What?
As the car wound its way back down the mountain, she squeezed her knuckled fists, her insides a knot of regret and disappointment. The evening was a disaster, and she’d been so excited earlier, too.
“What happened?” she finally asked, breaking the miserably tense silence. “Everything seemed fine in the helicopter.”
He didn’t answer and, turning, she looked at him, stared at him pointedly, waiting for him to speak. He had to talk. He had to communicate.
But he wouldn’t say a word. He sat there, tall, dark, impossibly remote, as though he lived in a different world.
“Kristian,” she whispered. “You’re being horrible. Don’t do this. Don’t be like this—”
His jaw hardened and his lashes flickered, but that was his only response, and she thought she could hate him in that moment—hate him not just now, but forever.
To be shut out, to be ignored. It was the worst punishment she could think of. So unbelievably hard to bear.
“The weather is going to be a problem,” he said at last. “We won’t be able to fly. Unfortunately we are unable to return to Taygetos tonight. We’ll be staying in the capital city, Chora.”
The driver had long ago merged with traffic, driving into and through a harbor town. If this was the capital city it wasn’t very big. They were now paralleling the coast, passing houses, churches and shops, nearly all already closed for the night. And far off in the distance a vast hulking fortress dwarfed the whitewashed town.
As the windshield wipers rhythmically swished, Elizabeth gazed out the passenger window, trying to get a better look at the fortress. It sat high above the city, on a rock of its own. In daylight the fortress would have an amazing view of the coast, but like the rest of Chora it was dark now, and even more atmospheric, with the rain slashing down.
“You’ve booked us into a hotel?” she asked, glimpsing a church steeple inside the miniature walled town.
“We won’t be at a hotel. We’ll be staying in a private home.”
She glanced at him, her feelings still hurt. “Friends?”
“No. It’s mine.” He shifted wearily. “My home. One of my homes.”
They were so close to the fortress she could see the distinct stones that shaped the mammoth walls. “Are we far from your home?”
“I don’t think so, no. But I confess I’m not entirely sure where we are at the moment.”
Of course—he couldn’t see. And he wouldn’t automatically know which direction they were going, or the current road they were traveling on. “We’re heading toward a castle.”
“Then we’re almost there.”
“We’re staying near the castle?”
“We’re staying at the castle.”
“Your home is a castle?”
“It’s one of my properties.”
Her brows pulled. “How many properties do you have?”
“A few.”
“Like this?”
“They’re all a bit different. The monastery in Taygetos, the castle here, and other estates in other places.”
“Are they all so…grand?”
“They’re all historic. Some are in ruins when I purchase them; some are already in operation. But that’s what I do. It’s one of the companies in the Koumantaros portfolio. I buy historic properties and find different ways to make them profitable.”
Elizabeth turned her attention back to the fortress, with its thick walls and towers and turrets looming before them. “And this is a real castle?”
“Venetian,” he agreed. “Begun in the thirteenth century and finished in the fifteenth century.”
“So what do you do with it?”
He made a soft, mocking sound. “My accountants would tell you I don’t do enough, that it’s an enormous drain on my resources, but after purchasing it three years ago I couldn’t bear to turn it into a five-star luxury resort as planned.”
“So you stay here?”
“I’ve reserved a wing for my private use, but I haven’t visited since before the accident.”
“So it essentially sits empty?”
The wind suddenly howled, and rain buffeted the car. Elizabeth didn’t know if it was the weather or her question, but Kristian smiled faintly. “You’re sounding like my accountants now. But, no, to answer your question. It’s not empty. I’ve been working with an Italian architect and designer to slowly—carefully—turn wings and suites into upscale apartments. Two suites are leased now. By next year I hope to lease two or three more, and then that’s it.”
The car slowed and then stopped, and an iron gate opened. The driver got out and came round to open their door. “We’re here.”
A half-dozen uniformed employees appeared from nowhere. Before Elizabeth quite understood what was happening, she was being whisked in one direction and Kristian in another.
Left alone in an exquisite suite of rooms, she felt a stab of confusion.
Where on earth was she now?
The feeling was strongly reminiscent of how she’d been as a child, the only daughter of Rupert Stile, the fourth richest man in America, as she and her parents had traveled from one sumptuous hotel to the next.
It wasn’t that they hadn’t had houses of their own—they’d had dozens—but her mother had loved accompanying her father on his trips, and so they had all traveled together, the young heiress and her nannies too.
Back then, though, she wasn’t Elizabeth Hatchet but Grace Elizabeth Stiles, daughter of a billionaire a hundred times over. It had been a privileged childhood, made only more enviable when she had matured from pampered daughter status to being the next high-society beauty.
Comfortable in the spotlight, at ease with the media, she’d enjoyed her debutante year and the endless round of parties. Invitations had poured in from all over the world, as had exquisite designer clothes made for her specifically.
It had been so much power for a twenty-year-old. Too much. She’d had her own money, her own plane, and her own publicist. When men wined her and dined her—and they had wined and dined her—the dates had made tabloid news.
Enter handsome Greek tycoon Nico. Being young, she’d had no intention of settling down so soon, but he’d swept her off her feet. Dazzled her completely with attention, affection, tender gifts and more. Within six months they’d been engaged. At twenty-three she’d had the fairy-tale wedding of her dreams.
Seven and a half months after her wedding she had discovered him in bed with another woman.
She’d stayed with him because he’d begged for another chance, promised to get counseling, vowed he’d change. But by their first anniversary he’d cheated again. And again. And again.
The divorce had been excruciating. Nico had demanded half her wealth and launched a public campaign to vilify her. She was selfish, shallow, self-absorbed—a spoiled little rich girl intent on controlling him and embarrassing him. She’d emasculated him by trying to control the purse strings. She’d refused to have conjugal relations.
By the time the settlement had been reached, she hadn’t been able to stand herself. She wasn’t any of the things Nico said, and yet the public believed what they were told—or maybe she’d begun to believe the horribly negative press, too. Because by the end, Grace detested her name, her fortune, and the very public character assassination.
Moving to England, she’d changed her name, enrolled in nursing school and become someone else—someone stable and solid and practical.
But now that same someone was back in Greece, and the two lives felt very close to colliding.
She should have never returned to Greece—not even under the auspices of caring for a wounded tycoon. She definitely shouldn’t have taken a helicopter ride to a small Greek island. And she definitely, definitely shouldn’t have agreed to stay in a thirteenth-century castle in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Exhausted, Elizabeth pivoted slowly in her r
oom like a jewelry box ballerina. Where had Kristian gone? Would she see him again tonight? Or was she on her own until morning?
As if on cue, the bedroom lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely, leaving her in darkness.
At first Elizabeth did nothing other than move toward the bed and sit there, certain at any moment the power would come back on or one of the castle staff would appear at her room, flashlight, lantern or candle in hand. Neither happened. No power and no light. Minutes dragged by. Minutes that became longer.
Unable even to read her own watch, Elizabeth didn’t know how much time had gone by, but she thought it had to have been nearly an hour. She was beyond bored, too. She was hungry, and if no one was coming to her assistance, then she would go to them.
Stumbling her way toward the door, she bumped into a trunk at the foot of the bed, a chair, a table—ouch—the wall, tapestry on the wall, and finally a door.
The hall was even darker than her room. Not a flicker of light anywhere, nor a sound.
A rational woman would return to her room and call it a night, but Elizabeth was too hungry—and a little too panicked—to be rational, and, taking a left from her room, began a slow, fearful walk down the hall, knowing there were stairs somewhere up ahead but not certain how far away, nor how steep the staircase. She couldn’t even remember if there was one landing or two.
Just when she thought she’d found the stairs she heard a noise. And it wasn’t the creak of stairs or a door opening, but something live, something breathing. Whimpering.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart raced and, reaching for the wall, her hand shook, her skin icy and clammy.
There was something—someone—in the stairwell, something—someone—waiting.
She heard a heavy thump, and then silence. Ears, senses straining, she listened. It was breathing harder, heavier, and there was another thump, a muffled cry, not quite human, followed by a scratch against the wall.
Elizabeth couldn’t take anymore. With one hand out, fingertips trailing the wall, she ran back down the hall toward her room—and yet as she ran she couldn’t remember exactly where her room was, or where the door was located. She couldn’t remember if there were many doors between her room and the stairs, or even if she’d left her bedroom door open or not.