Christos's Promise

Christos Pateras married her for money.

He was as bad, if not worse, than her father.

Flatly, no emotion left, she asked about her things. “Will I have any of my books or photos sent to me? And my wardrobe? What’s happened to that?”

“Everything’s already been transferred to the yacht. Your entire bedroom was boxed up and put in the ship’s storage.”

Shock rivaled indignation. “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I had your father’s support.”

“Obviously. But what I want to know is how? And why?” Her father had never liked Americans, and detested foreign money. “Why did he go to you? What made you so special?”

“I had what he needed. Money. Lots of it.”

“And what did he give you in exchange?”

Christos’s dark eyes gleamed at her, a faint smile playing his lips. “You.”

“Aren’t you lucky.”

He shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Anyway, your father is happy. He won’t bother you anymore.” He turned a smoldering gaze on her. “I won’t let him.”

She heard the promise in his voice, and a hint of menace, too. For a moment Christos Pateras sounded like a street-boxer, an inner city thug, but then he smiled, a casual, relaxed smile, and she felt herself melt, her chilly insides warming, her fear dissipating ever so slightly. Truthfully she’d welcome a buffer between her and her father. He’d made her life nearly unbearable. She needed to get away.

Elegant whitewashed villas came into view, along with the sparkling harbor waters. The late-afternoon sun illuminated the bay. “There’s my yacht,” Christos said, leaning forward to point out a breathtaking ship of luxurious proportions.

She leaned forward, too, her breath catching in her throat. The yacht might prove to be just as confining as the convent and it crossed her mind that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

No, she’d be fine. She’d figured a way out. She simply needed time.

Numerous fishing boats dotted the harbor, as did several yachts, but one moored ship dwarfed all others. The glossy white, sleek design only hinted at the elegant state rooms inside. The yacht would have cost him dearly.

She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought out loud until he chuckled softly, a twisted smile at his lips. “She was expensive, but not half as much as you.”

Indignation heated her skin, hot color sweeping through her cheeks. “You didn’t buy me, Mr. Pateras, you bought my father!”

But he was right about one thing, Alysia thought darkly as the limousine pulled up to the harbor. The media were out, and out in force. Reporters and photographers crawled all over town, jostling each other to take better position.

They surged forward when the car stopped and she sucked in a panicked breath. All those cameras poised…all the microphones turned on…

“It’ll be over in a minute,” Christos said, turning to her.

She felt his inspection, his dark eyes examining her face, her dress, her hair. He startled her by reaching up to pluck pins from her hair. The heavy honey mass tumbled down and he combed his fingers through it with unnerving familiarity.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

Just the touch of his fingers against her brow sent shivers racing through her. Repulsion, she told herself, even as the tight core of her warmed, softened. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him.

But when he tucked one long silky strand behind her ear, his hand caressing the ear, then the tender spot below, her belly ached and her limbs felt terrifyingly weak.

No one had touched her so gently in years.

Her need shocked her. She felt like a woman starved for food and warmth. Helplessly she gazed at him, hating herself for responding to him. “Are you quite finished?” she whispered breathlessly.

“No, not quite,” he murmured, before his dark head lowered.

She stiffened as his head dropped, drawing back against the leather upholstery. No! No, no, no. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t kiss her, especially not here, not when she felt like this. Everything was too new, too strange, too crazy.

If he felt her resistance, he ignored it, clasping the back of her head, fingers twining in her long hair. She caught the glint in his dark eyes and a hint of rich, sweet spice. Not vanilla, not cinnamon, but some other fragrance so deep, and familiar, that it tantalized her memory.

His mouth took possession of hers and she breathed him in again, reminded of almonds, sweet baby powder, the heady musk of antique roses…

Somehow it all fit, he, this, the kiss. His mouth, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms. Tremor after tremor coursed through her veins, creating an intense craving for more sensation.

Even as his lips parted hers, another electric current shot through her, sparking awareness in every nerve in her body. More, her brain demanded, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue answering the play of his, more, more…

The kiss deepened, and unconsciously she moved against him seeking to prolong the contact, relishing the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the heady sweet spice of his cologne.

As his tongue sought the sensitive hollows in her mouth, the inside of her lip, the curve of cheek, blood pooled in her lower belly, her veins pulsing. This felt, he felt…

Incredible.

Muffled voices penetrated her brain. Voices. People.

Her eyes flew open, reality returning.

Cameras pressed against the limousine windows, dozens of lenses, shutters snapping. “Mr. Pateras, we have company.”

He raised his head, his mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He didn’t even give the throng of reporters a second glance. “Let them watch. After all, this is what they’ve come for.”

Panicked, she tried to bolt from the car, lunging out thinking only of running from the crowd and the cameras and Christos—

A hand clamped at her waist, biting into her skin, holding her still. “Mrs. Pateras—” Christos’s husky voice pierced her panic “—smile for the cameras.”

CHAPTER THREE

LEAVING the noisy media throng behind, Alysia stepped aboard the yacht, late-afternoon sun glinting off the water in the purest form of golden light.

Christos swiftly introduced her to his staff and crew, rattling off the dozen names, even as the yacht gently swayed in the harbor waters.

The emotionally intense afternoon, the numerous introductions, the strangeness of her new surroundings suddenly exhausted her. Or was it the stark realization that until they touched land, she was really and truly caught in this pretend marriage?

She might never get away.

She might be trapped forever.

Her head swimming, she gulped air, panic overriding every other thought. What had she done? What in God’s name had she done?

“I can’t,” she choked, searching for the exit, her gaze jumping from wall to door to patch of blue sky outside. “I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t—”

“You can,” Christos softly countered, stepping closer to her side. “You already did.”

He cut the introductions short and took her by the elbow, steering her through the formal salon to an elegant stateroom decorated in the palest shades of blue. Just beyond the wide French doors, the ocean shimmered a brilliant royal-blue. The effect was calming, indescribably peaceful, and she relaxed slightly.

“Do you need a drink?” he asked, sliding his suit jacket off.

“No.”

“Brandy might help.”

Nothing would help, she thought, not until she got off the yacht. But she couldn’t say that, and she couldn’t allow him to become suspicious.

Christos tossed his jacket across the foot of the bed. “Maybe a long hot bath would feel good. I can’t imagine you were allowed such indulgences in the convent.”

“No, definitely not. Cold showers were de rigueur.”

He began unfastening the top button on his fine dress shirt. “Think you’ll be comfortable here?”

Her gaze took in the massive bed with the bolsters and mountain of pillows. Soft silk drapes hung at the French doors. The same ice-blue silk covered a chaise lounge. Her fingertips caressed the silk chaise, the down-filled cushion giving beneath the weight of her hand. Her room at the convent had been so spartan. “Yes.”

“Good.” He continued unfastening one small button after another, revealing first his throat and then his darkly tanned chest with the crisp curl of hair.

Alysia sucked in a breath, the glimpse of his chest hair so personal she felt as if she’d invaded his privacy. Yet she found herself turning to watch him again, half-fascinated, half-fearful. Christos appeared utterly at ease as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders, the smooth muscular planes of his chest rippling.

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