Читать книгу Modern Romance July 2019 Books 5-8 - Jane Porter - Страница 18

KASSIANI CHANGED INTO one of her swimsuits and headed upstairs to the pool deck with one of the books she’d brought to Greece with her. They were at sea again and the afternoon was warm, and as she stood at the railing she welcomed the breeze and the panoramic views of shimmering water dotted with distant islands. The Aegean was truly remarkable and she loved how the rich sapphire sea lightened to turquoise and aqua as the yacht approached islands with their shallow bays and inlets.

It was a shame they hadn’t spent more time on Mykonos today.

It was a shame that she and Damen couldn’t get along. She could almost understand why he wanted a contract... He wanted peace. He wanted undemanding companionship. She could respect that. But she didn’t like how he went about it. She didn’t want to be paid to be kind, and pleasant. She was his wife!

After swimming several laps in the pool, Kassiani climbed out and claimed one of the lounge chairs, and tried to read, but her thoughts kept circling back to Damen.

He was such a puzzle. Something had happened to him at some point that had made him mistrustful. Something rather terrible.

She didn’t know what it was, and she wished she didn’t care, but she did. When she and Damen weren’t fighting about power and position, she really enjoyed his company. He was smart and driven and utterly gorgeous, which made him fascinating.

And then as if her thoughts had conjured him, he appeared on the pool deck.

“Is this lounger taken?” he asked, pointing at the chair next to hers.

“I was hoping my husband would claim it, but he’s gone, working.”

“Your husband is working on your honeymoon?”

“Tragic, I know,” she answered lightly. “But he’s brilliant, and really successful, so I try to be understanding.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and please don’t tell him, because it will only upset him, but I like him.” She smiled wryly. “Do you still want the lounge chair?”

Damen smiled crookedly, and creases fanned from his gray eyes and he looked young and rather boyish. “That was a lot of information. I’m not sure your husband would appreciate you spilling intimate marital secrets to strangers.”

“No, he’d want to tie me up and maybe put some nipple clamps—”

“Kassiani!” Damen choked on smothered laughter, before dropping onto the foot of the lounge chair. “That should not be mentioned outside the bedroom.”

“You have so many rules,” she answered. “It’s hard to keep up. You might want to have one of your secretaries type them all up and put them in a binder or something. That way I’ll have a marital reference manual.”

He laughed again and gave his head a shake. “You are nothing like your sister.”

“Oh, I know. My father couldn’t manage me at all.”

“No, I’m quite sure he couldn’t. You are trouble.”

“I take after his sister. The one that never married.” She grimaced. “She was lovely but so misunderstood.”

“Just like you.”

“Oh, Aunt Calista was far prettier than I am, but I think we both have the same brain. She was miserable. I don’t want to be miserable.”

“I don’t want you miserable, either.” He hesitated, his expression growing sober. “But we’re struggling, aren’t we?”

She nodded. “And I don’t know how to change to be what you want me to be.”

“I don’t know how to change, either.”

She nodded again, and looked out at the sea, still glimmering that stunning blue. Her heart felt suddenly too heavy for such a beautiful place. Damen baffled her, he did.

He could be truly awful at times, and yet she still somehow found him terribly appealing. She wished she wasn’t so attracted to him. It would make dealing with him far easier. As it was, her pulse was a little too fast and her senses a little too stirred. He looked so fit and virile in his linen trousers and fine wool knit shirt, the soft fabric of the black shirt wrapping his biceps and muscular chest as if it had been made for him, that her heart raced, the same wildly distracting feeling she had when she drank too much black coffee.

“What do we do, then?” she asked at length, hating the helpless feeling.

“I don’t have friends. But maybe we try to be friends. Or treat each other as if we’d like to become friends.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Okay. Starting...now?”

“Yes, and in the spirit of friendship, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? We’ll meet in the living room for a predinner cocktail and some light conversation before a nice meal.”

She held out her hand, her smile impish. “You have a deal.”

* * *

Kassiani dressed with care for dinner, choosing a long burgundy chiffon gown, with black beading on the neckline and delicate burgundy wispy sleeves. It was a dress she’d planned to wear to Elexis and Damen’s rehearsal dinner, but with Elexis disappearing, the dinner hadn’t happened and the gorgeous dress hadn’t yet been worn.

She drew her long dark hair into a side ponytail and slipped on the pair of burgundy heels. She felt very glamorous even before she added some black pearl teardrop earrings.

Kassiani arrived early and, seeing the living room still empty, opened the sliding glass door to step out onto the deck. The sky was a dark purple and in the distance she could see lights twinkling on a small island, and there was another small island on the other side. Beautiful Greece with the sparkle of water and light everywhere.

She breathed in the cool night air, and shivered a little at the breeze. She probably should have brought a wrap. Deciding she’d be better off inside, she entered the living room just as a young housekeeper began to plump the living room pillows on the two low linen-covered sofas. The maid, who seemed to be close in age to Kassiani, then took a soft cloth from her apron pocket and wiped down the various tables, and along the glass-and-chrome coffee table.

The maid startled when she spotted Kassiani, and Kassiani apologized for frightening her.

The young woman answered in broken English that she didn’t speak good English. Kassiani switched to Greek, apologizing for not being terribly fluent in Greek. The maid laughed and Kassiani smiled, too.

“Where are you from?” Kassiani asked, still speaking Greek.

“Adras. It is a small island near Chios.”

“Isn’t Mr. Alexopoulos from there?”

The woman nodded. “I come from his village. Many of us on the ship come from the village. He is very good about helping us find jobs.”

Kass was surprised. She’d gotten the impression that Damen had few ties to his childhood home. “Have you worked for Mr. Alexopoulos very long?”

“Two years. Ever since I finished high school. That is Mr. Alexopoulos’s rule. He will help everyone on the island to find jobs, but they must first finish school. He says education is very important.”

Kassiani was pleasantly surprised to hear this. She respected Damen even more for stressing the importance of education with the young people of his hometown. “Even the girls?”

“Especially the girls. He said it is vital that women have options.” Her smile turned wistful. “But sometimes those options mean we must leave home. That is the difficult part.”

“You’re homesick?”

The woman adjusted a chair and then squared a large glossy book on the low coffee table. “It’s easier now. It was difficult in the beginning. I’ve learned from the others that being homesick is natural. Some find it worse than others. Some girls, they just want to go home as soon as they can.”

“Does Mr. Alexopoulos allow people to return home?”

“But of course. He is the best employer. Everyone wants to work for him, and he finds us jobs, good jobs with benefits and three weeks paid holiday every year. That is a lot for us in Greece. Some people use their holiday to go home, others like to travel. I went to Croatia for my last holiday. I enjoyed it very much.”

“When do you go home next?”

“In October, for olive picking. Everyone goes then. It’s our economy.”

It was on the tip of Kass’s tongue to ask if Damen returned home then, too, when Damen suddenly appeared in the living room door, dressed in black trousers and a black shirt, open at the neck, revealing his strong, bronzed throat. He looked devastatingly attractive.

The maid, spotting Damen, bobbed her head and murmured a shy greeting to her employer before swiftly exiting the room.

Kassiani watched her go and then turned to face Damen. Her husband. It was still so strange to realize this man, this gorgeous man, this dazzling man, was her husband.

Kassiani cleared her throat, trying to hide some of her butterflies. “That young woman in housekeeping said she was from Adras, and she was telling me you provide incentives for helping the young people stay in school. I find that most admirable.” She hesitated. “I wish you would tell me things like this. I wish you would tell me things about you. I learned more about you from talking to her for five minutes than I learned after spending five days with you.”

“I don’t like to talk about myself.”

Kass sat down on one of the couches, gently smoothing the delicate chiffon of her skirt. “But don’t you think it would help us if I knew you?”

“Maybe.” He walked to the sleek bar in the corner, and moved bottles and decanters around. “Can I pour you a drink?”

“Yes, that would be lovely. What do you recommend?”

“What do you like?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t actually drink very much. And I know it’s Greek, but not ouzo tonight.”

“Something a little fruity and fizzy, then?”

“Please.”

“Your Greek is a little rusty,” he said, uncorking a bottle of champagne and then adding a splash of a dark ruby liqueur. “But better than your father led me to believe.”

“I grew up speaking Greek, and I understand it fairly well, but you’re right, it’s been years since I actually spoke it.”

“Did you attend a Greek language school in California?”

“No, Dad’s parents only spoke Greek to us.”

“I think I remember Kristopher mentioning his parents lived with you for a number of years.”

“Yia-yia did. She joined us when Pappous died. My dad wanted them to join us in San Francisco sooner, but Pappous preferred Greece. He said San Francisco was too cold and gray for him.”

“Your grandfather was right. It’s miserable in summer.”

“Not always. It can be nice.”

He carried a crystal flute to her, the golden champagne now a pretty pink hue. “Not my memory,” he said, handing her the glass. “I was there once visiting friends. It was your Fourth of July. The fireworks in the marina had to be canceled due to fog.”

“That does happen,” she agreed. “But it’s almost a joke to those of us who live there. Will we see the fireworks? Won’t we? And if the fireworks are canceled, you just watch them on TV.” She sipped from her flute. “Mmm, this is nice. What is it?”

“Champagne with a generous splash of Chambord.”

“I like it.”

“The cocktail was inspired by your dress. You look beautiful tonight.”

The quiet sincerity in his deep voice made her heart jump and her stomach flip. “Thank you,” she whispered, touched, flattered. “I feel pretty tonight. Not normal for me.”

“I’d like to destroy the person that filled your head with lies. You are beautiful, Kassiani. You are beautiful inside and out.”

She opened her mouth to argue and then thought better of it. She and Damen argued too much as it was. “Thank you,” she said instead, aware that she was blushing. For a moment she was too flustered to concentrate and then she remembered the young woman from housekeeping. “The maid—”

“Neoma,” he supplied.

“You know her name?”

“I know the names of all my staff. I hire them myself.”

She was silent a moment, processing. “Neoma says she goes home every October when it’s time to pick olives.”

“The majority of my staff do. Olives are Adras’s chief economy. Olives and honey.”

“Do you go home—”

“Adras isn’t home.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Do you go back for harvest season?”

“I have.”

“Do you have your own groves?”

He hesitated. “I own all the groves on Adras.”

“All?”

“I essentially own Adras.”

“What does essentially own mean?”

“I bought the island.”

“Can you do that?”

He shrugged. “It was privately owned before, so it was a straightforward purchase, but over time, I’ve complicated things by encouraging the village to grow, and the people to assert themselves in terms of commerce. I thought it would be healthier for the people of Adras to have true economic independence. So while many on the island do work for me, they also have other options.”

“But the main source of income comes from the olives?”

“Olives and olive oil, yes.”

“Is there any tourism?”

“There has always been some during the summer, but once summer ends, tourists return home. So a few years ago, a half dozen of my more intrepid locals created a working holiday program, and it was so successful that this year, the accommodations are already fully booked for this fall.”

“What is a working holiday?”

“It’s where tourists come for our harvest season on Adras, and they stay in one of the small traditional Greek houses in the village, are served traditional Greek meals and exposed to our local culture, and in return, we put them to work in the groves, picking olives.”

Kassiani was fascinated. “People pay to do this.”

“Yes, and willing to pay a great deal for the privilege of working in our groves.”

“Do they actually help, or do the tourists get in the way?”

“Probably a little of both, but these aren’t the tourists that like being pampered on a cruise ship or luxury resort. They’re adventurous and are looking for new experiences, and being part of Greek culture is exciting for them. They have a fair amount of time off, and they enjoy exploring the island in their free time. They ride bikes and visit the beaches, and want souvenirs to take home so they spend money in the village, buying the honey and olive oil soaps and various olive oil products. They also eat in the taverna. They drink. They bring life to the little town.”

“You don’t mind them roaming about on your island?”

He shrugged. “I’m hardly ever there. And I don’t think of it as my island. I bought it so that I could give it back to the people of Adras.”

“Have many Americans participated in the work holiday program?”

“No Americans yet. Most have been from Holland and Scandinavia. Americans don’t seem to like taking their vacation days, or at least working on their vacation.”

“I think it’s a fantastic idea. I’d love to do it.”

“You’re not going to pick olives.”

“Why not? Haven’t you worked in the groves?”

“That’s different. I was born in the village. You’re a Dukas—”

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m Greek. The olive harvest is sacred in Greece.”

“Adras’s work holiday program is for seasoned European travelers who want authentic experiences, not my wife, or the lady of the estate. Women like you do not belong in the groves, or in the olive press. Period.”

“Even if I want to help?”

“It’s not up to you.”

“Why not? Maybe I can’t be a traditional Greek wife, but can’t I try to participate in Greek life? Locking me up in your villa will only create distance between me and the people who live on Adras.”

“As it should be. The villagers aren’t there to be your friends, or your playthings. They have their own lives and you’re not part of it.”

Kassiani’s jaw dropped. “That is so incredibly offensive.”

“Maybe. But it’s better that we are clear on this point now, because I am quite serious about this, and if it’s a problem for you, we simply won’t ever go to Adras—”

“You have a ridiculous need for power.” She jumped to her feet, and set her flute down on the table. “And this marriage is doomed if you think issuing me orders is going to help bring us closer!”

“I don’t understand your obsession with closeness.”

“It’s not an obsession!”

“Maybe because you were inexperienced when we married you don’t realize we have a really good physical relationship, one that is mutually satisfying—”

“It’s sex, Damen.”

“Yes. Good sex.”

“But it’s only sex. That is all we have. Any conversation out of bed is fraught with tension because you don’t want me to think, or challenge you, or have a brain. In your mind a good Greek wife is little more than a blow-up doll—”

“So tell me, kitten, is this how friends talk to each other? I’m serious. I don’t have many friends. Is this the way for us to be friends?”

She could see from his expression that he was serious. He really wanted to know.

Did he truly have no friends? No one close to him?

Sympathy flooded her. She sat back down on the low linen sofa. “It depends,” she said carefully. “Friends—real friends—are honest with each other. Real friends want the best for each other. Friends understand you, and try to be supportive of you.”

He said nothing and her brow furrowed. “Surely you had friends when you were younger, Damen? Surely there were people in your life that mattered?”

“Were, yes, but they’re not...there...anymore.”

“Why not? What happened?”

He shrugged, powerful shoulders rolling beneath the luxurious fabric of his shirt. “I became me,” he said flatly, before stepping past her and exiting through the glass door to the deck.