Chapter Eight
THERE IT WAS, the jolt of connection, the instant hunger. Heat and fire and a whole maelstrom of feelings rushing inside him as her mouth touched his.
He’d seen the kiss coming. He’d had plenty of time to stop it and hadn’t. It was like last time, when an accidental meeting of mouths had undone him.
This time he’d had a choice. But how could there be a choice when his craving for her grew so great it kept him from sleep? From concentrating on work, from everything but thoughts of her?
Fotis looped his arms around her, hauling her in, slicking the open seam of her lips and pushing in to taste her.
She tasted like chocolate, courtesy of the handmade truffle she’d had instead of dessert.
And of warm, luscious woman. He angled his head, delving deep, drawing her closer, repressing a sigh of satisfaction at the feel of her breasts crushed against his body and her hands slipping around his neck, pulling his head down to hers.
She smelt of cinnamon, vanilla and needy female.
Her low hum of pleasure tickled his tongue. It pulled his skin tight and weighted his hands as they slid around to grasp her hips and hold her close.
He drew her tongue into his mouth, sucking hard as blood pooled in his groin. He wanted…
Sounds intruded. For a second he couldn’t even identify it as a sound, just in awareness of something else, something beyond the pair of them. Then, finally he heard a voice calling their names.
The world crashed back. Even then, knowing they weren’t alone, it took everything he had to lift his mouth from hers. And more again to withstand temptation when he saw her, eyes closed and lips parted, rising on her toes to follow his retreat as if she needed his kisses.
Another shout destroyed the illusion of intimacy.
From the corner of his eye he saw, on the road below them, a photographer with a massive telephoto lens trained on them. Instinctively, Fotis swung around, shielding Rosamund from view.
Was that why she’d wandered over here? To give the press fodder for their stories?
At least they were screened from the other diners in the restaurant by a collection of large, potted oleanders.
His fingers tightened on her hips. Had she used him to make her point that she was unfazed by last night’s threat?
To feed the story they were lovers? His lips twisted as a sour tang filled his mouth.
But then she opened her eyes, looking dazed and undone.
Unguarded. And the beginnings of anger clenching his belly dissipated.
Anyway, what did any photos matter? He didn’t care what the press printed about him. A photo of them kissing was hardly a disaster. It only rankled momentarily because of his inveterate disgust at being used.
But looking down into those slumbrous eyes, he couldn’t believe she was anything like the woman who’d used him as a convenient puppet time and again.
Rosamund was complex and not easy to read but she wasn’t like his mother who’d brought out her sons only when she needed them, then shunted them off and forgotten them as soon as she had what she wanted.
He remembered Rosamund in Paris with those eager teens. Her interest in them had been genuine. She’d stayed late at the awards ceremony, alight with enthusiasm as they talked about their aspirations.
‘Fotis?’
‘Did you know about the photographer?’
Rosamund frowned. ‘Photographer?’ She swung around towards the restaurant, dislodging his hold, and he had his answer. She looked baffled as she surveyed the thick foliage between them and the other diners. ‘They’ll be at the entrance, waiting for us to come out. Is that what you mean?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
It was a lie. It did matter. Not the photographer, but Fotis’ reaction to that kiss.
The mere touch of her lips and he’d dropped all pretence of staying alert to protect her from danger.
What had happened to his laser-sharp focus?
The instincts he’d always relied on? His need for caution while responsible for her safety?
The barrier separating him from others that had become innate over the years.
A frisson of warning skimmed his spine. Even with lovers, sharing the most intimate passion, Fotis never gave up his whole self. Yet with Rosamund a simple kiss made him lose himself.
He forced himself into speech. ‘There’s a photographer down on the road. He must have grown tired of waiting for us to leave.’
Rosamund’s face flushed and her mouth set in a straight line. But her lips were still full from their kiss and he knew a crazy urge to forget where they were and resume what they’d just started.
‘He saw us?’
‘Saw and photographed. But it doesn’t matter. You wanted to prove to Ricardo you’re not hiding in a corner. We definitely succeeded.’
She frowned and looked like she was about to protest.
‘It’s done, Rosamund. No point fretting about it.’
After a second or two she nodded and his admiration grew. He had some inkling how hard she found the intrusive press attention. He’d only been subjected to it occasionally but she’d faced it all her life. Instead of ranting about it she moved on, choosing to put it aside.
That took courage. And incredible determination.
As he watched, her posture and expression changed, tiny alterations he could barely catalogue. But within moments she transformed from the unguarded, sensual woman he’d just kissed into a princess, serene and aloof. He felt a pang of loss.
Yet her lips were plumper than before and her eyes held a hazy shimmer that, this close, spoke of arousal.
Heat shafted through his lower body and his hands flexed against the need to reach out and ruffle her newfound poise. To pull her hard against him and make them both forget photographs and headlines and duty.
But he had to keep her safe. Not ravish her in public. So he took her arm and they walked through the restaurant, nodding to a couple of acquaintances and thanking the staff.
No one else knew he still tasted her on his tongue. That her sweet and spice scent teased his nostrils. That his body was tense with the memory of her lithe waist in his hands and the delicious curve of her body, straining against him.
His task was a thousand times more difficult than before. How could he ignore the way she made him feel, so he could keep her safe?
The sun was low as they flew across a scattering of islands so tiny they looked like pearls against the deep blue sea.
Now they reached a larger island and the helicopter began to descend. The land rose steeply from the shoreline to a razorback ridge topped by a row of ruined windmills. They were roofless stone shells. Only the last one was whole, whitewashed and with sails neatly furled.
Rosamund craned to take in the iconic building, striving to concentrate on the view, not the man beside her. Or the fact they were going to be alone together for the foreseeable future.
Excitement warred with worry. When they’d first met it had been much easier, because she’d told herself she hated him.
That didn’t last, did it?
Now she felt like she teetered on the brink of something momentous. Because of Fotis.
It didn’t make sense because she never let thoughts of any man cloud her judgement.
Been there, done that, learnt her lesson.
She’d been duped so easily, she didn’t trust her thinking around a man who made her feel too much.
Even her mother, the person she’d most looked up to, had been taken in by the man she’d married.
Yet it was hard to think of that with Fotis.
Why did you kiss him in a public place, in front of a paparazzo?
Rosamund firmed her mouth and peered again at the scenery.
Past the steep ridge, the other side of the island was more fertile. Gentle slopes interspersed with ancient stone terraces sprawled down towards a semicircular bay. A village sat on the shore. She saw orchards and a breeze ruffled the grey-green foliage in olive groves.
But what held her attention was a jumble of rocks on a steep hill between the razorback ridge and the village. Late sunlight turned the rubble into blocks of bronze.
The chopper banked and she found herself looking down on a roofless building. And another, a cobblestoned street wending between them. Then the terracotta tiles of a domed Byzantine-style church. Sprawling stone steps that led nowhere. Large trees shivered and swayed as they dropped closer.
‘This is where you live?’
Fotis nodded, his attention on the instrument panel and the scene before them. ‘One of the places. I have a home in Athens but this is my retreat. Easier to keep you safe here than in the city. There’s excellent electronic security and any outsiders would be noticed immediately.’
The island was too small to be on the tourist map and any stranger would be obvious. But a deserted town?
They swung around a curve and there, seeming to grow straight up from a sheer cliff, was a long two-storey building, old but clearly renovated. Rows of windows looked towards the sea and the terracotta roof was a blend of old and new tiles.
Fotis flew low over it to land on a crisply painted helipad.
Of course he didn’t live anywhere as ordinary as a modern apartment or conventional house. The man cloaked himself in mystery. Even his business was about keeping and decoding secrets. Why not live in a deserted mediaeval town?
‘What’s the joke?’ he asked as she took off her headphones and the sound of the rotors faded.
‘You thought I was elitist because I was born in a palace. Yet you live in a…’ She surveyed the large building. ‘Castle?’
‘Abandoned monastery.’
Rosamund couldn’t help it, laughter bubbled up.
His winged eyebrows rose but there was a gleam in his eyes that might have been wry amusement. The sight made her stomach do a curious sweep and shimmy motion that had nothing to do with their chopper flight. ‘And that’s funny because…?’