Читать книгу The Stephanides Pregnancy - Линн Грэхем, Lynne Graham - Страница 6

CRISTOS recovered consciousness first.

Instantly he came alert and defied any awareness of physical discomfort to spring off the bed on which he had been lying. His keen dark eyes took on a dazed aspect as he struggled to get a handle on his unfamiliar surroundings. He studied the unconscious woman still on the bed with scorching intensity. The ubiquitous cap had gone and straying strands of bright Titian hair feathered her brow. Her skin was white as snow. Like Mary’s little lamb in the nursery rhyme? A harsh laugh escaped Cristos but there was nothing of humour in it.

What a very dangerous distraction Betsy Mitchell had proved to be! There was nothing more galling to Cristos than the awareness that he had allowed a woman to lead him into a prearranged trap. It was poetic justice however that she had been double crossed by her partners in crime and abandoned to the tender mercies of their victim. No doubt she would learn the hard way that Cristos would choose death over victimhood any day.

Fierce thirst brought Betsy out of her stupor. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew she felt dreadful. Her limbs felt as heavy as leaden weights. She was also incredibly hot and it was that awareness that first roused her to register that something was wrong. She was wearing clothes and she never lay down fully dressed. In the same moment as she lifted her lashes on an unfamiliar room, she remembered Joe attacking her. She pressed a hand to her midriff, felt a slight soreness there and tore off her uniform jacket to lift her shirt and touch the tiny red puncture wound. A sense of complete unbelief enveloped her. He must have shot her with some sort of tranquilliser dart because she had passed out. But why would Joe have done such a thing? Cristos! Cristos Stephanides. Where on earth was he?

In the grip of fear and horror that Joe was some kind of maniac who had kidnapped her because she had rejected him, Betsy scrambled upright. She was only wearing one shoe and there was no sign of the missing one. Kicking off the one that remained, she raced out of the bedroom and headed straight for the wide open door several feet beyond.

In that doorway, Betsy came to a breathless halt. She blinked. Her lower lip parted company from the upper in an inelegant expression of astonishment. Barely a hundred feet away a shimmering sea as crystal-blue as the sky above was washing a sandy beach. The beauty of the scene struck her as incongruous and she thought she had to be hallucinating. When she had lost control of the limo, it had been raining. It had been a typical English spring day: sunny and damp in turns with a breeze thrown in for good measure. But the heat of the golden sun above seemed Mediterranean.

Cristos strode into view from behind the rocks girding the northern edge of the beach. Her tummy flipped. Intense relief filled her. He was safe and, whether it was logical or not, his presence made her feel less afraid. As he drew closer she charted the changes in his once immaculate appearance. He had doffed his suit jacket and tie. A pearl-grey shirt open at his brown throat outlined his broad shoulders. His black hair was tousled and a heavy growth of dark stubble outlined his stubborn jaw line and wide, sensual mouth. He still looked spectacular. Her tummy performed another somersault. His hardcore sexuality had a powerful charge.

Seeing her, Cristos came to a halt. Glittering dark eyes zeroed in on her, his lean, handsome features clenching into formidable stillness. ‘Where are we?’ he asked roughly.

Her brow furrowed, for she could not understand why he should ask her that question in a tone that implied that she would have that information at her fingertips. ‘I don’t know…do you?’

‘How the hell would I know? Don’t play dumb with me,’ Cristos warned her.

Her spine stiff with tension and forgetting that she was not wearing shoes, Betsy moved out onto the sun-warmed path. The surface was uncomfortably hot for soles encased only in nylon tights and she hurried into the sparse shade thrown by the gnarled tree that grew at the front of the house. ‘Play dumb? I don’t understand—’

‘I know that you were involved in plotting my kidnapping—’

‘You know…what?’

‘You must’ve been shattered to wake up here and realise that your fellow conspirators had decided to ditch you—’

‘My fellow conspirators? What on earth are you accusing me of?’ Betsy fired back at him in frank bewilderment.

‘You greeted the gorilla who shot us both full of knock-out drugs by name.’

Her brain, she discovered in frustration, was very reluctant to process thoughts with anything like its usual efficiency. Gorilla? Did he mean Joe? Of course Joe was involved in the kidnapping because he had attacked them both. ‘Joe works for Imperial Limousines…I didn’t appreciate what was happening when he first opened the car door—’

‘You said his name quite happily,’ Cristos Stephanides countered.

‘I was in shock…I hadn’t had enough time to appreciate that the crash hadn’t been an accident.’ She lifted an unsteady hand to her brow, which was damp as much with stress as with the unfamiliar heat. She pulled out the clip anchoring her hair and let it fall, massaging the back of her neck where the clip had left a tender spot. ‘That was a stinger that was hurled in front of the car to puncture the tyres and force us to a stop, wasn’t it?’

Cristos surveyed her with brooding intensity. ‘If you’re trying to convince me that you’re innocent of any involvement, you’re wasting your breath. You are also making me angry—’

Her anxiety growing, Betsy gazed back at him. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? But you can’t decide that I’m a criminal just because I know Joe—’

‘I don’t think I’m quite that simplistic.’ Cristos dealt her a derisive look.

‘How could I not know him when he works in the same place?’

‘Oh, I think the connection between you and Joe was a touch more intimate than that,’ Cristos murmured with scathing softness.

Betsy was exceedingly reluctant to accept that he might be implying a certain fact that she was in no hurry to tell him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He referred to you as his girlfriend.’

The guilty colour ran up hot beneath her skin. Too late she recalled Joe making some crack in that line before she’d lost consciousness. ‘I went out with him once…OK?’

‘No, it’s not OK. Nothing about this situation is OK.’ His lean, hard-boned face was grim. ‘You’re involved in this filthy business right up to your throat—’

‘Look, if you dated a serial killer once, would you be responsible for her crimes?’ Betsy threw at him. He was being so unfair to her. She was ashamed and embarrassed that she had ever gone out with someone of Joe’s evident propensities. But surely nothing she had said or done could possibly have contributed to the current situation?

‘I haven’t got time for this nonsense…’ Cristos strode forward and closed lean hands to her forearms. ‘I’ve been kidnapped. My life is at risk. I have no plans to sit around on a deserted island in the middle of an ocean waiting for the kidnappers’ next move—’

‘We’re on an island?’ Betsy interrupted in dismay, wincing a little at the strength of those long, tensile fingers, which were biting just a tad uncomfortably into her arms.

She had always considered herself to be a fair height. However, Cristos Stephanides had to be around six feet four inches tall. He towered over her to such an extent that she felt tiny. Indeed she was beginning to feel actively intimidated by him. He was very strong and he was very angry and he was not listening to her. Could she blame him for that? He had been kidnapped. His life probably was at risk. Whether she liked it or not she could understand why he should be highly suspicious of a woman who appeared to have been on terms of familiarity with one of his kidnappers.

‘Where is this island?’ Cristos demanded harshly. ‘I need to know everything that you know so that I can work out what’s coming next!’

‘But I don’t know anything…’ In a sudden movement that took him by surprise, Betsy tore herself free and backed hurriedly away from him. ‘You’ve got to believe me about that—’

Unafraid to turn up the pressure, Cristos advanced. ‘I don’t. You were the bait, and very effective bait. I went for it—’

Her slender length rigid, Betsy slowly increased the distance between them with quiet, cautious steps. Her nervous antenna was on a high state of alert. After all, what did she know about Cristos Stephanides and how violent he might be in such circumstances? He believed she had conspired with his kidnappers and might feel that his need for information was justification for getting rough. She found it bitterly ironic that just ten days earlier she would have stood her ground against Cristos, blithely confident that she could look after herself and that most men were essentially decent. It was Joe Tyler who had taught her to fear masculine strength. He had held her against her will long enough to teach her to be scared and had for ever stolen her peace of mind in male company.

‘I wasn’t the bait,’ Betsy swore, fighting to put as much weight and sincerity into her voice as she could while at the same time wondering what the heck he was talking about. ‘I had nothing to do with your kidnapping and I was as shocked by all this as you are.’

‘Like hell you were,’ Cristos growled, watching the sunlight pick up the deep coppery tints in the fantastic rippling coil of hair sliding across her shoulders with her every movement. He was convinced she had let her hair down in an effort to distract him. ‘You were a part of it right up until your boyfriend decided to sacrifice you—’

‘He isn’t my boyfriend…he’s a creep I went out with one time!’ Betsy launched back at him in frustration.

‘I won’t accept your lies. I want answers from you and I want them fast.’ Lean, strong face hard with determination, Cristos surveyed her with merciless dark eyes. ‘You have put my life at risk and you owe me, so start talking…’

The menacing chill he exuded scared her. She felt that an unspoken threat hung in the air between them. The very tone of his dark, deep drawl sent a shiver licking down her taut spinal cord. In a sudden movement, she spun on her heel and took off across the beach. He shouted after her, called her name but she just ran even faster.

Cristos swore long and low. He had seen the stark fear blossoming at the back of her eyes and done nothing to assuage it. Was she used to men who lashed out with their fists? That concept shook him. He had never hurt a woman in his life. No woman had ever looked at him in that way before. No woman had ever had cause. He released his breath in a raw exhalation, acknowledging that he had been prepared to use her fear to his own advantage. His continuing health could well depend on what he could learn from Betsy Mitchell, but frightening her had been a wrong move.

Betsy cut up through the sand dunes and scattered the clutch of small wiry sheep grazing there. ‘Relax,’ she told them apologetically, but they kept their distance.

Just as she would keep her distance from Cristos Stephanides until his temper had had time to cool, she decided. In spite of the heat she still felt cold when she thought about Joe Tyler. She doubted that that was even his real name, for he had only come to work at Imperial Limousines after the Stephanides booking had been made. No wonder Joe hadn’t mixed with the other men. His objective must always have been the kidnapping of Cristos Stephanides. But she was mystified as to why Joe Tyler had shown such a keen interest in her from the outset and asked her out.

She sheltered from the sun under a clump of trees and tried not to think about how desperately thirsty she was. She could still see the terracotta roof of the stone house and beyond it another smaller building. A boathouse? A slipway ran between it and the jetty. In every direction she looked the views of sparkling turquoise sea, pale golden sand and lush green vegetation were incredibly beautiful. But she would have given them all up just for a drink. But how were the sheep surviving? Somewhere, she registered, there had to be fresh water.

Trees overhung the stream she found and the water ran so clear that she could see the colour of every pebble. Using her hand as a scoop, she drank deep and long and splashed her face into the bargain. Drowsiness overwhelmed her then and in the cool of the shaded bank she pillowed her head on her arms and let herself sleep.

Betsy wakened with a start, glanced at her watch and realised that she had been dead to the world for hours. Dusk was beginning to roll in and she scrambled upright and headed back in the direction of the beach. On the way there she stumbled and cut her foot on a sharp stone. Peeling off her ruined tights, she examined the wound. It was bleeding freely and she grimaced and ripped up the tights to make an impromptu bandage. Someone had once told her that salt water could act like an antiseptic and she limped with difficulty across the sand and clambered onto the rocks that stretched out into the sea to find a place where she could safely bathe her foot.

Cristos was finishing his fifth complete circuit of the island. As the afternoon had worn on into evening and he could still find no trace of Betsy Mitchell his concern had grown in proportion. He had searched every possible hiding place and come up with nothing. When he saw her standing on the promontory his relief was immense. He strode across the beach towards her. She was standing on one slender leg like a heron but she lacked the bird’s one-legged balance and she was swaying in apparent indifference to danger on the edge of the rocks washed by the surf.

‘Betsy…come back from there!’ Cristos launched at her in the command intonation that always extracted instant unquestioning obedience from his employees.

Betsy was startled by that formidable intervention when in the very act of dipping her throbbing foot into the rock pool she had discovered, and her head flew up. Her attempt to twist round and see him was her downfall because she lost her balance. Her toes had no grip on the slippery rock and she went flying backwards into the sea with a shriek of dismay. She panicked, for the water was deep and the current strong. She was sinking below the surface for the second time, hands frantically beating at the surf, when Cristos, who had never moved so fast in his life, dived in.

She thought her lungs were going to burst. Strong arms grabbed her and buoyed her up out of the water again where she coughed and spluttered and struggled to suck in enough oxygen to satisfy herself. He swam back to the shore with her and heaved her up the beach.

‘I’m OK…’ she gasped.

He said something raw in Greek but the hands that held her were surprisingly gentle. The terror that had engulfed her in those frightening seconds when she had been in the water alone brought a shocked surge of tears to her eyes and, although she was struggling to hold them back, a stifled sob escaped her.

Recognising the depth of her distress, Cristos helped her back towards the house. ‘What have you done to your foot?’

‘I cut it…’

Lean, strong face taut, he bent down and scooped her up to carry her indoors. When he set her down in a bathroom, she was shaking. ‘You’re all right. Nothing is going to happen to you. Nobody is going to harm you,’ Cristos asserted fiercely. ‘You are safe with me…OK?’

She collided with lustrous dark golden eyes and her heartbeat limbered up as if she were about to go for a sprint. ‘OK…’

‘Let me look at your foot.’ He sat her down on the cushioned wicker chair and turned up her sole, ebony brows drawing together when he saw the gash.

‘I want a bath,’ she whispered.

‘You should stay out of the water with that cut.’

‘I smell like seaweed…’ Betsy pointed out.

‘And look like a mermaid…’ Cristos stared down at her. Drenched, her hair was more vibrant than ever but the sun had flushed her pale skin and her clear eyes were as bright and changeable a blue-green as the sea he loved.

‘Something fishy about my legs?’ she teased.

He looked. He knew he shouldn’t because his body was already reacting to the mere presence of hers with a ferocious craving that not even his usual rock-solid discipline could kill. ‘You have incredible legs,’ he told her truthfully, for those slim thighs, elegant knees, narrow ankles and amazingly tiny feet of hers were in his far-from-humble opinion amazing works of art.

She went pink and, suddenly shy of him, she got up to run herself a bath. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she muttered, belatedly recognising the reality that his clothes were wet as well.

He glanced back from the door, inky black lashes low over his brilliant incisive eyes. ‘You can’t swim. Don’t go dancing on the rocks again,’ he warned her drily.

‘I wasn’t dancing…I was trying to bathe that cut in salt water to prevent infection—’

‘You were willing to risk blood-poisoning and drowning sooner than return here?’ Cristos dealt her a stark look of impatience. ‘Stop dramatising yourself—’

Betsy went brick-red with embarrassment. ‘I don’t dramatise myself—’

‘What else were you doing when you ran away from me?’ Cristos slung back with scorn. ‘I don’t abuse women. Have you got that straight, because I don’t want to waste any more time chasing after you? I spent all afternoon searching high and low for you when I should have been concentrating on more important issues—’

‘I didn’t ask you to go looking for me. For goodness’ sake, I was upset. I wake up feeling like hell and find myself in a totally strange place with a very angry guy…’ Recalling the fact that that same guy had undoubtedly saved her life when he’d rescued her from the sea, she squirmed at the awareness that she had yet to thank him for that feat. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the water,’ she added in a small voice.

‘No problem. I wouldn’t dream of letting harm come to you,’ Cristos contended silkily. ‘If you were part of the kidnapping plot, I want you all in one piece to hand over to the police.’

Betsy sent him a furious look from eyes that flashed like emeralds. ‘Get out of here!’

Wide shoulders thrown back, long, lean, powerful length fluid, Cristos sauntered out. On the other side of the door he smiled. It was very easy to get a rise out of her.

Betsy slid into the sunken bath that was embellished with water jets and set in a surround of exquisite multicoloured mosaic tiles. The floor was made of marble. No expense had been spared. The house might look delightfully rustic on the outside but from what little she had noted indoors the finish was more in the luxury millionaire class. Were kidnappers usually so generous to their victims?

Her hair rinsed and squeaky clean, Betsy wrapped herself in a big fleecy towel and padded back out to the bedroom. It rejoiced in Mediterranean-blue painted walls, a giant bed with a carved wood headboard and crisp white lace-edged linen bedding.

Cristos appeared in the doorway. Hair brushed back from his brow and clean-shaven, he was so incredibly attractive that just one look deprived her of the ability to breathe. ‘I used the shower outside.’

In some disconcertion she studied his exquisitely tailored beige chinos and his short-sleeved black shirt. ‘Where did you get the clean clothes?

‘My weekend case travelled with us. Let me have a look at your foot. I found a first-aid kit in the kitchen.’

His hands were cool on her warm skin. His luxuriant black hair gleamed in the fading light arrowing through the window and she was horribly tempted to curve her fingers to his handsome head. Hands curling in on themselves to resist a level of temptation that was new to her, she sat very still while he demonstrated how extremely resourceful he could be with antiseptic and plasters.

‘I’ll loan you a shirt,’ he murmured, vaulting upright again.

Finding that she was too self-conscious to look at him, she turned away, wondering why she got so embarrassed and tongue-tied around him. ‘Nothing here is what you expect,’ she muttered to fill the silence.

‘Isn’t it? I think this is an upmarket honeymooners’ retreat that has been hired purely for our benefit. In the room next door there’s a most incongruous arrangement of flowers and a bottle of celebration champagne awaiting us.’

‘A honeymooners’ retreat?’ She grabbed at the shirt he tossed.

‘The perfect place. Someone choosing to vacation on a tiny deserted island doesn’t want company so whoever is in charge of this place won’t visit. I imagine that there was a radio here for communication in the event of an emergency but that has naturally been removed.’

Betsy slid her arms into the blue shirt and began carefully to roll up the sleeves. Having buttoned the shirt, she gave the towel a discreet jerk to detach it. Watching her, watching her even when he knew he should not, possessed of the very knowledge that she was naked beneath his shirt; Cristos was endeavouring to get a grip on a powerful surge of rampant lust. His own weakness angered him. She was the gorilla’s girlfriend. He was damned if he wanted a kidnapper’s leavings. The cotton was so fine he could see the pale pink crests of her pert breasts, the faint hint of tantalising shadow below her belly. He was damned beyond all hope of reclaim. It was the weird situation, Cristos assured himself grimly. It was making him act out of character, it was making him behave like a testosterone-charged teenager who had only had sex in his own imagination.

‘Right now all I care about is eating.’ Betsy stepped past him out into the spacious reception room beyond. ‘Please tell me there’s food.’

‘Do you cook?’

Betsy entered the pristine kitchen. ‘Abysmally…strong men have been known to weep at my table,’ she lied, heading straight for the fridge.

‘How did you comfort them?’ Cristos enquired huskily.

Hot colour ran in revealing ribbons across her cheeks. ‘I was joking.’

Colliding unwarily with scorching golden eyes, she felt dizzy but the invisible buzz in the air was wickedly exhilarating. Her skin felt prickly, hot, tight. Her breasts felt full, the pointed tips taut and tender. At the heart of her, she felt…She burned with shame when she realised that just being around Cristos Stephanides excited her in a physical way. That had never happened to her before, not even with Rory. Tearing her troubled gaze from Cristos, she became a hive of cooking activity to give her thoughts a safer focus.

‘How much food is there?’ she asked, refusing to look in his direction lest that indecent sexual longing seize hold of her again and he somehow divine how she was reacting to him.

‘Plenty…’

He watched while she made a stir-fry with staggering speed and efficiency. He was as impressed as a guy who had never even boiled a kettle for himself could be.

‘How do you think they transported us here?’ Betsy enquired when she sat down at the table to eat.

‘My bet is that we were smuggled out as cargo from a private airfield and then brought the last stage of the journey by boat. An odd way to travel home,’ Cristos quipped.

‘Home?’

‘This is a Greek island.’

‘You can’t know that for sure.’

Burnished golden eyes sought and challenged hers. ‘I know. I am Greek and the very air here smells of my homeland.’

Betsy said nothing and ate her meal. He was the sort of guy who always set her back up. He was so full of himself, so arrogant. He knew everything. He even knew things he couldn’t possibly know. Rising from the table, she said stiffly, ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘You should make the most of your rest,’ Cristos murmured equably. ‘We’ll be up at dawn. We need to gather enough wood to light a bonfire and keep it burning. If the smoke is noticed hopefully someone will come to investigate.’

It was a good idea but she didn’t say so because she had decided that he was already well aware of how clever he was. She slid into the cool of the bed, let her weary limbs sink into the comfortable mattress. Somewhere between closing her eyes and stretching out she fell asleep.

A dark male drawl that was already becoming familiar wakened Betsy again. She was deliciously warm and relaxed. ‘We should get up…’

Her lashes lifted and she focused with drowsy admiration on the darkly handsome male face above hers. His black lashes were impossibly long and lush, unnecessary enhancements to eyes of lustrous gold. He was breathtakingly good-looking and devastatingly masculine, two traits that even she recognised were rarely found in one package.

‘I want you to know this is a first,’ Cristos informed her steadily. ‘I’ve never slept with a woman before and not had sex.’

For a split second, Betsy lay there just staring up at him and then the implications of that sardonic assurance of his sank in. Eyes bright with accusation, a feverish flush on her cheeks, she hugged the sheet to her and sat up. ‘You shared this bed with me last night?’