Читать книгу Wedding Night Reunion In Greece - Annie West - Страница 11

EMMA STEPPED THROUGH the wrought-iron gates and felt the past wash over her. She hadn’t been to Corfu for years, not since she was fifteen, when her grandmother had grown too frail for long-distance travel.

Seven years, yet it felt more like seven days as she took in the shaded avenue ahead curling towards the villa just out of sight. Ancient olive trees, their bodies twisted but their boughs healthy with new growth, drifted down the slope to the sea like a silvery green blanket. Nearby glossy citrus leaves clustered around creamy buds in the orchard.

Emma inhaled the rich scent of blossom from lemon, kumquat and orange trees. Her lips tightened. Orange blossom was traditional for brides. It had been in short supply in Melbourne during autumn, unlike Greece in spring.

She shivered as something dark and chilly skipped down her spine.

What a close shave she’d had. Imagine if she hadn’t learned of Christo’s real agenda! She cringed to think how much further under his spell she’d have fallen. Given his reputation, she had no doubt his skills at seduction were as excellent as his ability to feign attraction.

Swallowing down the writhing knot of hurt in her throat, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase, hitched her shoulder bag higher and set off towards the house.

She was sticky and tired and longing for a cold drink. Silly of her, perhaps, to have the taxi drop her further down the road, near a cluster of new luxury villas that had sprung up in the last few years. But she didn’t want to take the chance of anyone knowing she was staying here, in case word somehow got back to Christo.

She’d confront him in her own time, not his. For now she needed to regroup and lick her wounds.

Emma trudged down the drive, the crunch of her feet and her suitcase wheels on the gravel loud in the quiet. Yet, as she walked, her steps grew lighter as memories crowded close. Happy memories, for it was here her family had gathered year after year for a month’s vacation.

Drops of bright colour in the olive grove caught her eye and she remembered picking wildflowers there, plonking them in her grandmother’s priceless crystal vases, where they’d be displayed as proudly as if they were professional floral arrangements. Swimming with her parents down in the clear green waters of their private cove. Sitting under the shade of the colonnade that ran around three sides of the courtyard while Papou had taught her to play tavli, clicking the counters around the board so quickly his hand seemed to blur before her eyes.

They were gone now, all of them.

Emma stumbled to a halt, pain shearing through her middle, transfixing her.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk on. Yes, they’d died, but they’d taught her the value of living life to the full, and of love. Even now she felt that love as if the old estate that had been in Papou’s family for years wrapped her in its embrace.

Rounding the curve in the long drive, she caught sight of the villa. It showed its age, like a gracious old lady, still elegant despite the years. Its walls were a muted tone between blush-pink and palest orange that glowed softly in the afternoon light. The tall wooden window shutters gleamed with new forest-green paint but the ancient roof tiles had weathered to a grey that looked as ancient as the stone walls edging the olive grove. Despite being a couple of hundred years old, the place was well-maintained. Papou wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Nor would Emma. She was its owner now. She stood, looking at the fine old house and feeling a swell of pride and belonging she’d never felt for her grandparents’ Melbourne place. This was the home of her heart, she realised. With precious memories of her parents.

A tickle of an idea began to form in her tired brain. Maybe, just maybe, this could be more than a temporary refuge before she returned to Australia. Perhaps...

Her thoughts trailed off as the front door opened and a woman appeared, lifting her hand to shade her face.

‘Miss Emma?’

The familiar sound of Dora Panayiotis’s heavy accent peeled the years right back. Suddenly Emma was a scrawny kid again. She left her bag and hurried forward into sturdy, welcoming arms.

‘Dora!’ She hugged the housekeeper back, her exhaustion forgotten. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘And you, Miss Emma. Welcome home.’

* * *

Emma flicked her sodden hair off her face as she reached for the towel, rubbing briskly till her skin tingled. Early rain had cleared to a sparkling bright afternoon and she hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the white sand cove at the bottom of the garden. Turquoise shallows gave way to teal-green depths that enticed far more than the pool up beside the house.

Since arriving she’d sunk into the embrace of the villa’s familiarity, feeling that, after all, part of her old life remained. How precious that was.

For four days she’d let Dora feed her delicious food and done nothing more taxing than swim, sleep and eat.

Until today, when she’d woken to discover her brain teeming with ideas for her future. A future where, for a change, she did what she wanted, not what others expected.

A future here, at the villa that was her birthright.

For the first time since the funeral and her disastrous wedding day, Emma felt a flicker of her natural optimism.

Her training was in business and event management. She was good it and had recently won a coveted job at an upmarket vineyard and resort that she’d turned down when she married because she planned to move to Athens with Christo.

Emma suppressed a shiver and yanked her thoughts back to her new future.

She’d work for herself. The gracious old villa with its private grounds and guest accommodation was perfect, not only for holidays but as an exclusive, upmarket venue for private celebrations. That would be where she’d pitch her efforts.

Corfu was the destination of choice for many holiday makers. With hard work and good marketing, she could create a niche business that would offer a taste of old-world charm with modern luxury and panache.

It would be hard work, a real challenge, but she needed that, she realised.

Wasn’t that what she’d always done? Kept herself busy whenever she faced another loss so that she had no choice but to keep going? It was her way of coping, of not sinking under the weight of grief. She’d adapted to a new life in a new state with her grandparents after her parents had died. She’d taken on the challenge of supporting Papou after her grandmother’s death.

It was easier to focus on the ideas tumbling in her brain than the searing pain deep inside. To pretend Christo hadn’t broken her heart and undermined her self-confidence with his casual dismissal.

Emma’s mouth set in a tight line. She was still angry and hurt but now she had a plan, something tangible to work towards. That would be her lifeline. Today for the first time she no longer felt she’d shatter at the slightest touch.

Today she’d contact a lawyer about a divorce and getting back her property and—

‘Miss Emma!’

She turned to see Dora hurrying around the rocks at the end of the private beach. Her face was flushed and her hands twisted.

Emma’s heart slammed against her ribs. She knew distress when she saw it, had been on the receiving end of bad news enough to recognise it instantly. Foreboding swamped her. She started forward, hand outstretched, her beach towel falling to the ground. Was it her aunt or uncle? Not Maia, surely?

‘I came to warn you,’ Dora gasped. ‘Your—’

‘There’s no need for that, Mrs Panayiotis.’ The deep voice with its bite of ice came from behind the housekeeper. ‘I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself.’

Then he appeared—tall, broad-shouldered and steely-eyed. Christo Karides.

Emma’s husband.

Her heart slammed to a stop, her feet taking root in the sand. The atmosphere darkened as if storm clouds had covered the sun. Was it the effect of his inimical stare? For a second she couldn’t breathe, an invisible band constricting her lungs as she stared into that face, so familiar and yet so different.

Then, abruptly, her heart started pumping harder than before. She sucked in a faltering breath.

He was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen with his coal-black hair and olive-gold skin contrasting with clear, slate-blue eyes. Eyes that right now seared her right down to the soles of her feet.

Desperately Emma tried for dispassionate as she surveyed those proud features that looked like they’d been etched by a master’s hand. Strong nose, square jaw, the tiniest hint of a cleft in that determined chin. Only the small silvered scar beside his mouth, barely visible, marred all that masculine perfection. Perversely, it accentuated how good-looking Christo really was.

Handsome is as handsome does. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice in her ears.

This man had proved himself anything but handsome. Or trustworthy. Or in any way worth her notice.

Wrangling her lungs into action again, Emma took a deep breath and conjured a reassuring smile for Dora. ‘It’s okay. Perhaps you’d like to organise some tea for us in the main salon? We’ll be up shortly.’

As acts of hostility went, it was a tiny one, ordering tea when she knew Christo liked coffee, strong and sweet, but it was a start. Emma preferred conciliation to confrontation yet she had no intention of making him feel welcome.

Silence enveloped them as Dora hurried away. A silence Emma wasn’t eager to break.

She told herself she was over the worst. The shock, the disillusionment, the shattered heart. But it was easier to believe it when the man she’d once loved with all her foolish, naïve hopes wasn’t standing before her like an echo of her dreams.

Yet Emma wasn’t the innocent she’d been a week ago. Christo Karides had seen to that. He’d stripped her illusions away, brutally but effectively. She was another woman now.

Pushing her shoulders back, Emma lifted her chin and looked straight into those glittering eyes. ‘I can’t say it’s good to see you, but I suppose it’s time we sorted this out.’

* * *

Christo stared at the woman before him, momentarily bereft of words for the first time in his adult life.

He told himself it was the shock of seeing her safe and healthy, after almost a week of worry. It had been uncharacteristic of gentle, considerate Emma to vanish like that, as all her friends and relatives kept telling him. He’d worried she’d been injured or even kidnapped.

Till she’d called her aunt and left a cryptic message saying she was okay but needed time alone.

Time alone!

His blood sizzled at her sheer effrontery.

What sort of behaviour was that for a bride? Especially for the bride of Christo Karides, one of the most sought-after bachelors in Europe, pursued wherever he went.

That had been another first—finding himself frantic with anxiety. Christo recalled the scouring, metallic taste of fear on his tongue and the icy grip of worry clutching his vitals. He never wanted to experience that again.

Nor did he appreciate being made a laughing stock.

Or enduring the questioning looks her relatives had given him, as if her vanishing act was his doing! As if he hadn’t spent weeks carefully courting Katsoyiannis’s delicate granddaughter. Treating her with all the respect due to his future wife.

Christo clamped his jaw, tension radiating across his shoulders and down into bunching fists.

It wasn’t just discovering Emma hale and hearty that transfixed him. It was the change in her.

The woman he’d married had been demure and sweet-tempered. She’d deferred to her grandfather and been patently eager to please Christo, with her ardent if slightly clumsy responses to his kisses.

The woman before him was different. She sparked with unfamiliar energy. Her stance, legs apart and hands planted on hips, was defiant rather than placating.

The Emma Piper he knew was a slight figure, slender and appealing in a muted sort of way. This Emma even looked different. She wore a skimpy bikini of bright aqua. It clung to a figure far more sexy than he’d anticipated, though admittedly he’d never seen her anything but fully dressed. Her damp skin glowed like a gold-tinted pearl and those plump breasts rising and falling with her quick breaths looked as if they’d fill his palms to perfection.

A feral rush of heat jagged at his groin, an instant, unstoppable reaction that did not fit his mood or his expectations.

Christo dragged his gaze up to her face and saw her eyebrows arch in query, challenging him as if he had no right to stare.

As if she wasn’t his runaway wife!

‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ he murmured in the soft, lethal voice that stopped meandering board meetings in a second.

But, instead of backing down and losing the attitude, Emma jutted her rounded chin, lifted her cute, not quite retroussé nose in the air and planted her feet wider, drawing his attention to her shapely legs.

The heat in his groin flared hotter.

Slowly she shook her head, making her tangled, wet hair slide around her shoulders. Sunlight caught it, highlighting the dark honey with strands of gold he’d never seen before. But then they’d spent most of their time indoors, in her grandfather’s house or at nearby restaurants. The bright Greek sunshine revealed details he simply hadn’t noticed.

‘You’ve got that the wrong way around.’

‘Sorry?’ Christo drew himself up to his full height, looking down on the slim woman before him. But, extraordinarily, she simply stared back, her mouth set in a mulish line. Her stare was bold rather than apologetic.

For a second he was so surprised he even wondered if the impossible had happened. If this wasn’t Emma but some lookalike imposter.

But Christo Karides had never been one for fantasy. He’d been a pragmatist since childhood, with no time for fiction.

‘Have you any idea how worried everyone was?’ His voice was gruff, hitting a gravelly note that betrayed the gut-deep worry he’d rather not remember. ‘I even called the police! I thought you’d been abducted.’

He’d mobilised the best people to scour Melbourne and the surrounds, praying something terrible hadn’t happened to his quiet little spouse.

There were ruthless people out there, including some ready to take advantage of a defenceless woman. His brain had kept circling back to the possibility that when he found her it would be too late. He’d never felt so helpless. The memory fed his fury.

‘I rang my aunt to explain that I was safe.’

‘You didn’t ring me!’ Christo heard his voice rise and drew a frustrated breath.

Was she wilfully misunderstanding? The woman he’d wooed had seemed reasonably intelligent and eminently sensible. Not the sort to disappear on her wedding day. He leaned into her space, determined to get through to her. ‘I half-expected to find your abused body abandoned somewhere.’

He saw shock work its way through her, making her eyes round and her shoulders stiffen. Then she shook her head again as if dismissing his concern as nothing. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine.’

‘Not good enough, Emma. Not nearly good enough. You owe me.’ An explanation to start with but far more after that.

‘Oh, that’s rich coming from you.’ Her mouth curled up at one corner.

Was she sneering at him?

Christo covered the space between them in one long stride, bringing him close enough to inhale the scent of sea and feminine warmth that made something in his belly skitter into life.

Shackling her wrist with his, he tugged her close enough to feel the heat of her body.

‘Stop it, Emma. You’re my wife!’

Her voice when it came was so low he had to crane forward to hear it. Yet it throbbed with a passion he’d never heard from her. ‘And how I wish I wasn’t.’

Christo stared down at her. Never, in his whole life, had he met a woman who wasn’t pleased to be with him. He’d lost count of the number who’d vied to catch his attention. Yet this one, the one he’d honoured with his name and his hand in marriage, regarded him as she would a venomous snake.

Had the world gone mad?

Where was his sweet Emma? The woman who revelled in his smiles, the gentle, generous woman he’d selected from all the contenders?

Her mouth twisted into a tight line as she stared down at his hand on her wrist. ‘Let me go now. Marriage doesn’t give you the right to assault me.’

‘Assault? You have to be kidding.’ His brow knotted in disbelief. As if he’d ever assault a woman!

‘It is if I don’t want to be touched and believe me, Christo, the last person on this earth I want touching me is you.’

Her voice was sharp with disdain and her nostrils flared as she met his stare. Something thumped deep in his chest at the unexpected, unbelievable insult.

Deliberately he dropped her hand and spread his empty fingers before her face. Anger throbbed through him. No, fury at being treated with such unprovoked contempt.

‘Okay, no touching. Now explain.’

At last Emma seemed to realise the depth of his ire. The combative light faded from her eyes and her mouth compressed into a flat line. Abruptly she looked less fiery and more...hurt.

Christo resisted the ridiculous impulse to pull her close. He’d met enough manipulative women not to fall for a play on his sympathy.

‘I know, Christo.’ Her voice was flat, devoid of vigour. ‘I know why you married me. There, is that enough explanation?’

‘It’s no explanation at all.’ Yet the nape of his neck prickled.

It wasn’t possible. He’d spoken of it to no one except Damen and then he’d ensured they were out of earshot. He’d left his blushing bride with her beaming family on the other side of the sprawling house.

He wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done. On the contrary, his actions had been sensible, laudable and honourable. He’d offered marriage and the promise of his protection and loyalty to this woman. What more could she want? His actions had been spurred by the best of motives.

Except, looking into those wide, wounded eyes, Christo recalled her untutored ardour. Emma’s shy delight at his wooing.

He’d told himself she didn’t expect his love.

The old man had made it clear his granddaughter would marry to please him. Christo assumed she understood that behind the niceties of their courtship lay a world of practicality. That he’d wed for convenience.

But you never spelled it out to her, did you?

Christo silenced the carping voice.

No one who knew him would believe he’d been bowled over by little Emma Piper.

But Emma didn’t know him. Not really.

For a second he wavered, surprised to feel guilt razor his gullet.

Till logic asserted itself. She’d chosen to marry him. He’d never spoken of love. Never promised more than he was willing to give.

Emma had flounced off in a huff and made him look like a fool. It was a part he’d never played before and never intended to play again.

Indignation easily eclipsed any hint of culpability. ‘Nothing excuses what you did, Emma.’

‘Don’t try to put this on me, Christo. You don’t even want me. You’d prefer someone beautiful and vivacious, like my cousin.’

Was that what this was about? He shook his head. He should have known this would boil down to feminine pique.

Emma was such an innocent that she didn’t understand a man could be attracted to a woman and not act on that attraction. That a man of sense chose a woman who’d meet his needs.

Emma was that woman, with all the qualities he required of a mother for his ward. Even her defiance now just proved she had backbone, something he admired.

Plus she was more, he acknowledged. He met soft hazel eyes that now sparked with gold and green fire, feeling his blood heat as he took in her delectable figure and militant air. Christo acknowledged with a fillip of surprise that he wanted his wife more than he’d thought possible. Far more than he recalled from their restrained courtship.

There was a vibrancy about her, a challenge, a feminine mystique that called to him at the most primitive level. Gone was the delicate, compliant girl so perfect for his plans. This was a woman. Obstinate, angry and brimming with attitude. Sexier than he’d realised.

Lust exploded low in his body, a dark, tight hunger so powerful it actually equalled his fury.

‘I married you, Emma. Not your cousin. I gave you my name and my promise.’ How could she not understand what those things meant to him? ‘That’s far more important than any fleeting attraction.’

But Emma refused to be convinced. She shook her head, wet hair slipping over her shoulders. Trails of sea water ran down from it to the miniscule triangles of her bikini top. Christo followed those wet tracks to the proud points of her nipples. Another wave of lust hit him and his flesh tightened across his bones as he fought the impulse to reach out and claim her.

‘You’re mine.’ The words emerged as a roughened growl.

She stiffened, her chin jerking higher. ‘Not for long. I’m filing for divorce.’

Like hell she would!

He’d carefully chosen Emma after considering all the options. Every reason he’d had for making her his wife still stood.

He needed her to make a real home instead of the bachelor flat he’d lived in for years. He needed her to be a mother to Anthea, providing a stable, caring environment for the little girl who was a stranger to him and with whom he had no hope of building a rapport.

Besides, Emma was his, and what Christo possessed he kept. It was in his nature.

Then there was today’s revelation. That he wanted his wife with a hunger more powerful than he’d thought possible. That just standing here, fully dressed while she wore nothing but a bright bikini and a frown, brought him closer to the edge of his control than he’d been in years.

He intended to have her.

On his terms.

‘File away, wife.’

He saw her flinch at the word and vowed that one day soon she’d purr at the sound of his voice. The thought of his runaway wife, eager for his touch, offering her delicious body for his pleasure, made the blood sing in his veins.

‘But, before you do, I’d advise you to investigate the consequences. Divorce isn’t an option.’