Chapter 13
Desire snaked through him, a need to possess her without breaking her spirit. With one smooth motion, he swept her over his shoulder.
“You’re kidnapping me?”
One large hand settled on her wiggling derrière, the other between the soft skin of her bare thighs, the heat between her legs tempting him to explore higher.
“The week starts tonight. I cannot wait any longer, asteri mou .”
- One Week with the Greek
CALLIE
“ A rgh!” I cried as Sokratis stumbled over a rock.
I tried to reposition myself in the donkey’s saddle so that my ass wasn’t being rubbed raw with every step.
My naked, bloody legs hung off the side, ankle throbbing.
The donkey didn’t seem much happier. Only Giorgos seemed to get a kick out of my predicament.
I’m sure this was the most entertainment he’d had in the past month.
He kept chatting at me, chuckling and gesticulating, as he led Sokratis across the arid plateau.
The pain from my ankle distracted me from realizing we were going in the wrong direction.
Instead of heading to the port, we were descending the hill toward the other side of the island.
I couldn’t exactly jump off and run, so I could only hope he wasn’t kidnapping me.
“ O giatrós !” Giorgos kept repeating like if he said it enough, I’d finally understand him.
After what seemed like an eternity, we started down the hill, winding around a switchback curve in the rocks when a whole other freaking town came into view.
“What the . . . ?” I mumbled to myself, blinking hard.
“ Kamini. Ekeí einai o giatrós ,” repeated Giorgios.
He was clearly delighted to have surprised me with this magnificent view.
From on high, a cluster of elegant houses in pastel hues with terra-cotta roofs dotted the hills.
The aquamarine water in the crescent-shaped cove looked like a bright splash of color in an Impressionist painting, sparkling under the sun.
This side of the island wasn’t as windy, and it was greener—tall cypresses and pine trees peeked from between the houses and lined the hills.
We made our way down, following a small burbling stream that cut through the quiet streets.
If only my ankle and my ass weren’t screaming in protest, I could have appreciated it more.
Finally, we came to a stop in front of a pale-yellow house with a blue door. Although he was smaller than me and bent with age, Giorgos let me lean on him as I limped toward the door, which opened into a tiny room with wooden chairs lined up against white walls.
“Oh, doctor ,” I said. “That’s what you were trying to tell me.”
I sat obediently in one of the chairs while Giorgos knocked on the inner door and poked his head inside.
I could almost make out what he was saying with all the gesticulating he was doing.
He even did a little dance, swaying around with his arms in the air.
When he finally ended his humiliating imitation of my downfall, an alarmingly familiar deep voice came from the examining room.
The hair on my arms stood up. No, it couldn’t be . I was imagining him everywhere.
As I sat there contemplating going to a therapist for obsessive thoughts when I left this place, two young women walked in.
They nodded in greeting and glanced at my legs, now covered in dried blood.
Their eyebrows shot up, and they sat on the opposite side of the room as Giorgos left with a wink and a tip of his faded fisherman’s cap.
“ Efcharistó ,” I called after him.
I couldn’t say how long I sat there with my ankle throbbing and my bloody legs on display.
The urge to cry once again overtook me. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard to chase it away.
The door opened and a female voice rang out followed by that unmistakable deep baritone that always made my insides roil.
When I opened my eyes, there he stood. This time in slacks and a button-up shirt, open at the throat and sleeves rolled up over his gorgeous forearms, his tattoo only just peeking out. When my eyes met his, deep set under drawn brows, I said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
As he came closer, a hysterical laugh escaped my throat. “No. I’m in no mood for your jokes. Can you just go find the real doctor, please?”
The girls on the opposite side of the room gawked at me like I was absolutely deranged, in between throwing longing glances at Nikos’s ass, which I imagined looked amazing in those pants.
“It’s not a joke. I’m the doctor. Sorry to disappoint you.
” His eyes wandered over my legs and fixed on my ankle.
He’d never looked at me this way before; there was no heat or disdain in his perusal of my naked limbs.
It was purely clinical. Then I remembered the dog; the boy had said it was the doctor’s dog.
The doctor who spoke English. My heart dropped into my stomach.
He was telling the truth. He was the fucking doctor.
“Surely you can’t be the only doctor on the island,” I said hopefully.
“Well, there’s also a retired psychiatrist, but I don’t think she’ll be able to help you with that.” He gestured to my rapidly swelling ankle. “Come on, let’s take a look.”
He bent down to help me up and I waved him off. “Don’t touch me. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.”
He stood back and crossed his arms, frowning at my determination. And while I was able to inelegantly heave myself from the chair, once I was on my feet (or foot, rather) I had no idea how I was going to cross the room.
Muttering something to himself in Greek, he went into his office and came back holding a pair of crutches. “Do you know how to use these?”
“I think I can figure it out,” I said as I snatched them from him. How hard could it be?
I grunted and swung myself toward the open door to his examining room, frustration and embarrassment propelling me forward.
The examination chair was already covered in paper, and a shiver of excitement went through me.
Okay, now I was officially pathetic. How was I turned on by the prospect of being examined by a broody, lying mass of muscles?
But God help me, I was almost trembling at the idea of it, my deranged mind already imagining a series of torrid, pornographic scenarios that could play out here.
But I couldn’t let on how turned on I was. That would be beyond humiliating, and this was already horrifying enough. I heaved myself up on the chair and glared at him as he approached. “So where did you get your medical degree anyway? Docs R Us?”
“Columbia.”
“Ha! Of course, the local doctor on an isolated Greek island has a degree from Columbia.” I scoffed, my eyes snagging on the framed diploma above an antique wood desk.
It was typed out plan as day, Nikolaos Laskaris, MD.
“MD? Is that short for Master of Deception? Let me guess, this was after your BS.”
His firm mouth quirked up a bit as he poured disinfectant on a sterile compress. “If by BS, you mean a Bachelor’s in Seduction, then you’re right.”
I snorted. “That’s the last thing you are. Good looking in a very predictable sort of way, maybe. But seductive, no.”
He leaned over me, hands pressed to the chair one either side of my legs, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing. He cocked an eyebrow. Then without breaking eye contact, he slowly, gently slid my sandal off.
He held it up by the leather straps—the same shoes he’d admonished me for wearing the other morning—and gave me a look that clearly meant “I told you so.”
Before I could react, he caught the soft fabric of my skirt and began inching it farther up my legs. “Are you done having me list my qualifications?”
I nodded, unable to breathe, let alone form words. His hands hovered above me, mere millimeters from my skin. My breath hitched and the air between us hummed. How was it possible that I already felt him, and he hadn’t even laid a finger on me? His eyes met mine. “Can I touch you now?”
Fuck. It took all I had not to moan. I hated him, and I hated myself more for wanting him to touch me, even if it was in the most clinical of ways.
“Go ahead,” I gritted out and squeezed my eyes shut.
This does not excite me, this does not excite me .
It turned out I was a liar because the moment his fingers touched my leg, it felt like I’d been hit by lightning, white heat splintering through my veins. If I could have melted into the examining table, I would have. Instead, I hissed and jerked.
His eyes met mine again. “That hurts?”
“Mmmm.”
“What were you doing up there anyway? And in these shoes. Don’t you own any sneakers?” He frowned.
“I was trying to find a spot with decent cell phone reception,” I admitted before I could stop myself. His disapproving dark eyes flicked up to mine. “What? It’s very important for my work.”
“Move your toes,” he ordered. I glanced down at my bare foot, pleased that I’d gotten a pedicure right before coming to Greece.
At least my toenails looked nice under my bruised ankle.
There was no real pain when I moved them, nor when he took my foot into his large, warm, slightly calloused hands. Holy fuck! Why was this so exciting?
“It’s not broken,” he said finally. I’d all but forgotten about the pain until that point. Numb to anything but the fluttering of my stomach as I stared at the veins on the backs of his hand, the small tattoos on his fingers. “It’s bruised and sprained. Might take a couple weeks to heal. So . . .”
“So?” I prompted.
He frowned as if he’d been struck by a thought he didn’t like and dabbed disinfectant on a compress, pressing it gently against my wounds.
“You might want to call your employer and tell him you need to fly home. What good will you be to them here? Are you going to oversee the construction of that monstrosity they want to build from your bed?”