Читать книгу Claimed For The Greek's Child - Pippa Roscoe - Страница 10

‘MR KYRIAKOU? WE’LL be landing in about twenty minutes.’

Dimitri gave a curt nod to the stewardess on board the Kyriakou Bank’s private jet. He wasn’t capable of more than that. His jaw was clenched so tightly it would have taken a crowbar to pry it open. The only thing that had successfully passed his lips since his boarding the plane had been a whisky. Only one. That was all he would allow himself.

He glanced out of the window and, although he should have been seeing the soft white clouds that hovered above the English Channel, instead he saw the slope of a beautiful woman’s shoulder. Naked, exposed...vulnerable. Beneath the palm of his hand he could feel the silky texture of her skin. His fingers twitched at the memory.

He ran a hand across his face, rubbing at the exhaustion of the last year, allowing the stubble of his jaw to scratch at the itch that made him want to turn the plane around. To go back to the bed where the beautiful woman lay—probably still asleep. He’d snuck out like a thief. An analogy that caught in the back of his throat, and for an awful moment he thought he might actually choke.

He couldn’t fathom what he’d been thinking. But that was the problem. He hadn’t been. Despite the knowledge that this day had been coming, the knowledge of exactly what would greet him the moment the plane touched down in the States, Dimitri had needed one night. Just one night...

Yesterday, he’d left Antonio Arcuri and Danyl Nejem Al Arain—his best friends and fellow members of the Winners’ Circle Racing Syndicate—behind at the Dublin Race Series and allowed instinct to take over. As he’d slid into the driver’s seat of the powerful black supercar the thrust of the engine met the need for freedom coursing through his veins. He’d followed the road out of the small city, past the huge doors of the Guinness brewery, through dark streets, along roads that slowly found their way into rolling green countryside. It was only then that he’d felt able to breathe. Only then that he’d been able to block out what was to come.

Unconsciously he’d manoeuvred the sleek, dark car down impossibly windy roads, allowing only the thrill of the powerful machine beneath him to fill his senses. Something was driving him—he wasn’t willing to give it a name.

Dimitri had slowed only when the car’s petrol light came on. He’d found himself in a small village and, if it had had a name, he hadn’t noticed. An old pub with a black sign and peeling paint defiantly stared down an even older church at the opposite end of the one street that divided the village. He followed the road to the end, where, instead of finding a petrol station, he came to a large gravel drive in front of a small bed and breakfast.

To Dimitri the Irish were known for two things: hospitality and whisky. And he was in great need of both. As he turned off the ignition he was hit with a wave of exhaustion so intense he wasn’t entirely sure that he could make it out of the car. He sat back and pressed his head angrily into the back of the seat. He’d run and he hated himself for it. All this time, this planning... Frustration at the shame he was about to bring to Antonio and Danyl... It hurt Dimitri in a way he hadn’t imagined, hadn’t thought possible after all he’d endured in his thirty-three years.

He allowed that anger to propel him from the car and over to the door of the bed and breakfast, the sound of his fist pounding on the door jarring even to his own ears. He glanced at his watch for the first time in what felt like hours and was surprised to find that it was so late. Perhaps the proprietor was asleep. He looked back to the car, wondering how much further it would get, wondering whether he should turn back, when the door opened.

The moment he caught her large green eyes looking up at him he knew he was doomed.

She let him in, quietly, one finger to her lips and the other hand making a ‘gently, gently’ motion. She beckoned him through to a small seating area decorated with just about everything that he’d expected a small Irish bed and breakfast to have, but his gaze narrowed on the small wooden, clearly well-stocked bar.

‘You’re after a room?’ she almost whispered.

Was he?

‘Just for the night.’

Her eyes assessed him, but not in the sexual way he was used to from beautiful women. It was as if she were doing mathematics—on his expensive clothes, a watch that was probably worth half a yearly intake for this place, the car outside. He wasn’t offended.

Dimitri took out his wallet and removed all the euros he had in it. What did it matter to him? He couldn’t take them where he was going. He placed the thick bundle of notes on the bar.

‘No, sir. That’s not...that’s not necessary. It’ll be sixty euros for the night, an extra five if you’d like breakfast.’

The Irish lilt to her voice was a little surprising to him. Her skin wasn’t the light, freckled complexion that had populated the racecourse back in Dublin—it was closer to his own Greek colouring, only without the benefit of the sun she seemed pale. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine this woman on a Greek island, sun-kissed and glorious, the sun’s rays deepening the natural promise of her skin tone. Long, dark tendrils of hair had been swept up into a messy ponytail that should have made her look young, rather than chaotically beautiful. Loose tendrils from a grown-out fringe played along her jawline, accentuating her cheekbones and contrasting with the lighter golden tones in hauntingly emerald-coloured eyes.

Forcing his attention away from her, he looked at the bottles behind the bar. Scanning them, he was slightly disappointed. If he’d had a choice, none of them would have been it. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘No breakfast. But I’ll take a bottle of your best whisky.’

Again, her eyes were quick and assessing. Not calculating. That was it. That was what was different about her. There wasn’t anything selfish in her gaze, nothing judgemental. She was simply trying to figure him out. As if making up her mind, she slipped behind the small bar, not even looking at the obscene amount of money she was yet to touch, and she pulled down two cut crystal glasses housed in a hidden shelf above the counter. The way she resolutely ignored the money made him wonder if he’d offended her and a shadow of guilt stirred within him.

She placed the two glasses on the wooden bar top, waiting for his reaction, to see if he would object to her joining him. It was his turn to assess. She’d barely said two words to him. She looked to be in her early twenties. The white shirt she wore as a uniform was ill-fitting, as if made for someone bigger than her. The worn name tag sewn onto the shirt pocket said ‘Mary Moore’. She didn’t look much like a Mary. But he skimmed over these small details in preference of one: there was something behind her eyes. Something that called to him.

He nodded, allowing her to proceed. Instead of reaching for one of the bottles behind her, she bent beneath the bar and pulled out one that was more expensive. The good stuff saved for special occasions. Well, he supposed this was a special occasion.

She poured the amber liquid into each glass and, when finished, pushed one glass towards him and picked up the other.

‘Sláinte,’ she had said.

‘Yamas,’ he’d replied.

And they both drank deeply.

The plane banked to the right as it prepared to come in to land. Whether it was the drink from the night before, or the one from two hours ago, he could still taste whisky on his tongue, he could still taste her. As the plane descended towards the runway, images flashed through his mind. The first taste of her lips, the feel of her heart beating beneath the palm of his hand, her perfect breasts, her thigh as he moved it apart from the other. The feel of her wrapped around him and her thrilled cry as he sank deeply into her. The ecstasy he found as they climaxed together, swathed in each other. The memory of the scream he’d silenced with an impassioned kiss was drowned out by the roar of the backward thrust of the small jet engine as they came in to land at JFK.

Even the air stewardess seemed reluctant to open the cabin door. Her smile was sad as he disembarked, as if she too knew what was about to happen. But she couldn’t. Only he, and perhaps two others in the whole world, did—the lead investigator, and whoever it was who had really perpetrated the crime.

At the bottom of the small metal steps stood about twenty men in blue windbreakers with yellow initials marking them to be FBI agents. Gun belts with handcuffs and batons carefully held in place sat heavily around each man’s waist.

He stepped down towards the tarmac. Looking straight into the eyes of the lead agent, Dimitri Kyriakou, international billionaire, held out his hands before him—as he’d seen done in movies, as he’d known he would have to do long before this flight, long before last night—and as the steel handcuffs were clasped around his wrists he forced his head to remain high.