Chapter Eight #2
‘You really are reclusive. Like those monks who cut themselves off from the outside world, looking for peace and tranquility. Does anyone else live here?’
‘Just me. A couple from the village look after the place.’
So you’re going to be alone with him there.
They’d been alone in the Paris house and she’d enjoyed the relative peace, even managed to do a little work. But things had changed. She’d changed, become so attuned to him that it was hard to think of anything else.
‘I bring some of my team here when we’re working on something that requires close collaboration.’
Rosamund didn’t know whether to be impressed, jealous, or disturbed that he lived in an eyrie, perched on a rock in the middle of an isolated island.
There were times when she wished she had a bolt-hole where she could truly escape when she needed to concentrate. ‘You don’t get lonely?’ she asked as she undid her seat belt.
‘I’m happy with my own company. Anyway, I find company when I want it.’
His voice dropped to a deep note that made her lift her head to meet his stare. His eyes seemed brighter, his expression intense and she realised what he meant by company.
Women. Sex.
It was as if he’d flicked a switch inside her. Far from being weary from the journey to Greece or distracted by her churning thoughts, she was suddenly hyper-aware. That hooded stare made her breasts grow heavy, heat brewing in that secret feminine place between her legs.
Suddenly all the things she’d been trying not to think filled her brain.
Rosamund imagined his gaze holding hers as he drove himself deep inside her, filling her to the brim.
Those callused palms stroking her breasts, skimming her thighs and then the place where need throbbed hard and fast. She remembered the taste of his mouth and imagined having the freedom to taste him all over.
She jerked her head around to stare out the side window, nostrils flaring as she dragged air into constrained lungs.
All day they’d skirted around the sexual awareness clotting the air between them.
Her stupid impulse to kiss him at the restaurant had been a mistake. She’d known it but hadn’t been able to resist. Had barely been able to resist the temptation of him last night when his murmured invitation to retire early had sent her into a tailspin of longing.
She couldn’t understand this man’s power.
Like her mother, she had a strong impulsive streak. Like her mother, it had got her into trouble when she was young. But circumstances and the strictures of her royal role meant Rosamund had finally curbed what her father had curtly labelled her waywardness.
At twenty-eight, Rosamund had learnt to think before acting.
Yes, setting Ricardo up had been impetuous, but based on sound reasoning.
She couldn’t stand by and allow him to destroy an innocent’s life.
Dimitria Politis wouldn’t have believed her, if she’d told her about Ricardo’s sickening bragging.
The girl was besotted and would trust her lover over a woman she didn’t know.
But kissing Fotis Mavridis? That had been utterly foolhardy. Because now he was in her mind, in her blood, in a way she’d never experienced before.
The door opened and there he was, well over six feet of impressive masculinity. Her heart gave a silly flutter which she chose to ignore, just as she ignored his outstretched hand and stepped down without help.
It felt like a victory, given how badly she wanted his touch. But she couldn’t allow herself to be swept along thoughtlessly.
Control. That was what she’d worked hard to achieve and it had kept her safe for years.
He closed the chopper door behind her. ‘This way.’
He led her around the corner of the building, past a huge, spreading tree. On the far side of the space were other buildings in various stages of disrepair, some with empty windows that allowed her to see right through to the stunning views beyond.
‘It’s not just a monastery is it? It’s a whole town.’
‘It was. It was abandoned when most islanders left for the city or migrated abroad. A century ago all those terraces and fields were cultivated, supporting a larger population.’
‘And there are windmills,’ she murmured. ‘They’re very striking.’
Rosamund was amazed that her voice emerged evenly when there was a riot going on in her body. Tiny detonations of awareness ignited in her blood because he walked so close, shortening his stride to match hers.
Was it any wonder she tried to fill the silence? If they weren’t talking, there’d be nothing to keep her from her circling, needy thoughts.
‘We’ve restored one of them.’
The hint of pride in his voice made her want to survey him but she kept her attention on the large door on the far side of the courtyard.
Control, remember?
‘We?’
‘The residents. We get supplies in from the mainland but it’s sensible to be as self-sufficient as possible, besides, it’s good to maintain some of the place’s heritage.’
She was about to say something about the importance of preserving heritage but they’d reached the door and she’d reached the end of her small talk. It was too much effort.
The door was ornate and imposing but instead of a key, Fotis pressed his palm to a sensor and the door swung wide. ‘Welcome to my home, Rosamund.’
The way he said her name, flawlessly yet with just the tiniest hint of an Aegean accent, made her skin tighten.
It always did, ever since he’d stopped calling her Princess in a scathing tone.
She’d become addicted to the sound of it in that soft, deep rumble.
It was one of the things she’d miss when they eventually went their separate ways.
Rosamund swallowed hard and stepped over the threshold.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of his home but it wasn’t this, she realised, as she looked around the spacious foyer and the glimpses into other spaces.
The building was old, its gracious bones clearly visible in the high arched ceilings and thick walls. It might have been tempting to leave the place bare and spartan, or turn it into a showpiece of ultra-modern design.
Instead she was surprised to find it…warm. The proportions were enormous, designed to accommodate large numbers, but the use of soft ochres and cream on the walls softened that. As did the eclectic mix of furniture, reclaimed as well as meticulously craftsman-built.
On one huge wall was a monumental painting. Ochre earth, grey stones, the deep blue of the sea and, bathed in the golden hues of sunset, a row of dilapidated windmills, like battered but still-fierce guardians. The artist had imbued them somehow with a quality that was more human than inanimate.
Drawn, she moved closer, searching for a signature.
As if reading her mind, Fotis said, ‘He doesn’t sign his work.’
‘He doesn’t? That’s…’ She shook her head. ‘Unusual. Why?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that.’
The voice came from right beside her and she made herself focus on the bold brushstrokes rather than the heat dabbling her skin from where he stood so close. Finally his words sank in. ‘The artist lives here? On the island?’
She turned, only to be ensnared by those crystalline eyes. Her ribs squeezed around her lungs and her lips parted, eager for air.
Or eager for something else. Another taste of forbidden fruit? It took everything she had to keep her gaze locked on Fotis’ eyes, rather than drop to his mouth.
‘He does. Tassos is very private about his art. He prefers to keep it to himself. I believe that’s not uncommon with some creative people.’
Did Fotis’ voice turn challenging, or was that imagination? He couldn’t possibly know about her writing. Yet his direct stare made her wonder how much he’d seen.
Rosamund looked again at the painting. ‘Is that why he lives here? He sees it as a haven?’ Maybe that explained her impression that the rough mountain and the windmills weren’t simply starkly beautiful but represented a protective bulwark.
The silence drew out. ‘You do see a lot, don’t you?’ Fotis said in a voice that defied definition. ‘This place has always been a haven. Generations upon generations lived here. They even moved their town up onto this hill centuries ago, to protect themselves from marauding pirates.’
‘Pirates? Really?’ It was easier to focus on colourful history than the awareness zinging through her blood, because of a man who was only beside her because he’d promised Leon he’d keep her safe.
‘Really. They were dire times, but the cliffs and high walls kept the people safe most of the time.’ He paused. ‘Now there are no pirates, but it’s still a haven.’
For him too? Rosamund desperately wanted to know. She wanted to understand him. What had made him a recluse? What had given him the drive to build a multibillion-dollar business? Why, in repose, was his expression often so stern?
But if she quizzed him, the quid pro quo meant he’d have every right to question her.
She turned, and just as she’d known, he was scrutinising her, not the artwork. His brow furrowed as if she intrigued him. It was arousing and terrifying, having that fiercely insightful mind turned on her.
Almost as arousing as the idea of them together, naked, the way she’d been imagining.
Without a word, he beckoned for her to follow him, leading her up the wide staircase. At the end of an upstairs corridor he opened a door. ‘This is yours. I’m next door if you need anything.’
The room was simple but pure luxury. Windows down one wall gave spectacular views towards the sea and through an open door she glimpsed a well-appointed bathroom.
Another luxurious, empty suite.
Another lonely, empty night.
Rosamund paused in the doorway. It struck her suddenly, how much time she spent alone. How she ached for…more. Ached for him.
She liked solitude, needed it for her work, but still there was a yearning inside her, a yearning so powerful it bubbled up, an unstoppable force. She wondered if he could read it in her face.
‘Rosamund? What is it?’
Her pulse quickened. Was she really going to do this? After all the effort she’d put into being sensible?
Part of her couldn’t believe it. Another part screamed at her to hurry up. Once that inner voice, the impulsive one, had dominated. But years learning caution had stifled it so now she didn’t know whether to trust it.
‘I do need something.’ How glorious it was, how freeing, to admit it.
He stepped before her. ‘What is it you need?’
‘You, Fotis.’ She put her hand to his darkly stubbled jaw, tracing its strong lines, feeling his solid heat under her hand with something like relief. ‘I need you.’