Chapter Ten #2
‘I’m sure you were.’ She hadn’t held back with him. He’d been surprised at how much he’d enjoyed the cut and thrust of their battle of wills. ‘But I know you’d never take that anger out on women who were just doing their job.’
Her head swung around abruptly. Was that dismay in her eyes? ‘You think I was rude to them?’
‘Not rude. Emphatic. They were clearly disappointed.’
Slowly she nodded, then looked down at the food in her hand as if wondering how it got there. She put it down and reached for her wine, sipping slowly. Her mouth curled wryly.
‘You don’t miss much, do you? You must be very good at your job, searching out secrets and hiding them.’
He said nothing, just reached for another olive and popped it into his mouth. Eventually she sighed and took another sip of wine. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you.’ Her gaze snagged his. ‘But it’s private.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. Your secret will be safe with me.’
‘It’s not really my secret, but still…’ She paused as if weighing something up. ‘I feel like I’m the one who’s always sharing with you. You already know I had an experience like your friend Dimi’s. You know why I did what I did in New York.’
‘And you want to know something private about me.’ It was a statement, not a question.
She spread her hands wide. ‘Fair’s fair. You don’t need to know about the dress to keep me safe, do you?’
Fotis expected an instinctive internal protest at the idea of sharing anything personal. Instead he found himself nodding. Whatever he told her, he knew it wouldn’t go further. He trusted Rosamund and not just with his body, he realised.
Another first. He could count on the fingers of one hand the people he trusted completely.
‘Okay.’ He piled tomato and cheese onto a slice of bread and lifted it. ‘Tell me about the dress and I’ll tell you something private about myself.’
Her eyes rounded, as if surprised by his agreement, yet still she didn’t leap at the chance to pry into his secrets. That set her apart from many he’d known.
The more time they spent together, the more he realised she was unique.
She leaned back against the doorjamb. The breeze lifted a few strands of richly coloured hair. His gaze traced the tender curve of her ear, the slim line of her throat and the tiny frown gathered across the bridge of her nose.
She looked…endearing. Sensual and alluring but without any hint of artifice. Affection stirred.
‘You didn’t recognise the dress?’
Her sharp tone punctured his thoughts. ‘Should I have?’
Her mouth turned down, not in her naturally sexy pout but in definite distaste. ‘The photo of my mother at the gala. The huge one projected on the massive wall as you entered.’ Her eyes met his. ‘The famous one with her wearing a dress that looked like it was about to slide off her at any moment.’
That dress. The one that revealed the maximum flesh while still being arguably decent. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘They made a replica for you to wear to the gala?’
His larynx tightened, turning his voice into a growl at the thought of Rosa wearing such a dress where anyone other than he could see her.
Great. Possessive now as well as protective and curious. Where are you heading with this, Mavridis?
She inclined her head.
He scowled. Rosa was a princess, not a movie star or model. Surely that was—‘Who arranged it?’ But he had the answer. He’d heard her snap out the name. ‘Antoine Gaudreau? He organised the event?’
‘No!’ The word shot out sharply and Rosamund paused to modulate her tone. ‘He wasn’t the event’s organiser, but yes, he arranged the dress.’
‘Without consulting you?’
‘That’s right.’
Fotis’ eyes glowed with a martial light. ‘I’m glad you didn’t wear it.’
‘You are?’ She tilted her head, frowning. ‘Others thought it was a good idea.’
‘The women who’d made it? Of course they’d like you to parade it and advertise their work. You’d have looked stunning.’
The thought of wearing the outfit still made her flesh crawl, so she was astonished to discover how much she wanted to look stunning for this man.
It was unsettling. The last time she’d deliberately dressed to impress a guy she’d been seventeen and giddy with her first romantic infatuation.
‘Yet you’re glad I didn’t wear it. Why?’
Was that discomfort in Fotis’ expression? ‘It’s the sort of dress a woman wears for her lover. The thought of you wearing it in public, for everyone to slaver over…’ He shook his head.
Pleasure buzzed low in her body. How could she not enjoy his protectiveness and that hint of possessiveness? For however long this affair lasted, she knew she’d revel in both. She refused to ponder why that was, when she’d spent so long carving out the right to make her own decisions.
With Fotis everything felt different. Another man’s protectiveness, certainly another man’s possessiveness, would irk her and feel constricting. With him she felt only a warm glow. Briefly she wondered if that was anything like how it felt to be cherished. Then she pushed the idea aside.
‘That’s exactly why I couldn’t wear it.’ She’d felt physically ill when they’d shown it to her. ‘I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, but I’m not interested in being objectified.’
‘Your mother—’
‘My mother was barely seventeen when she wore that to the premiere of her first film, and it wasn’t her choice.’
She saw Fotis’ eyes widen.
‘You didn’t know? She was just sixteen when Gaudreau discovered her and gave her a small part in the film he was shooting.
She and her parents were in a village near where the film was being made.
By the time it was in post-production he’d decided to make her a star.
Or at least a sexy starlet.’ Her lip curled.
‘He took her under his wing, had her live with him so he could nurture her talent.’
She watched Fotis’ expression darken, instantly understanding the euphemism for what it was. The famous director had been a controlling predator.
‘But her parents! If she told them—’
Rosamund shook her head. ‘They traded their daughter for money. Everything she earned on the first films went straight to them. She was young and inexperienced and she was excited at the idea of acting. Until she found out the whole of what he wanted from her.’
Her throat closed as she remembered her mother telling her this.
Not seeking sympathy, but as a warning about those who preyed on vulnerable young people, particularly women.
‘She tried to leave several times, only to be told that if she did he’d sue her parents for breach of contract and ruin them. ’
Yet, even knowing that terrible truth about her mother’s early career, Rosamund had fallen for another sort of predator in her teens.
She hadn’t seen the parallels until it was too late.
She could only guess how difficult it had been for her mother to be so frank about the abuse she’d endured.
Every time she thought about it, Rosamund hated herself for being duped, as if it were a betrayal of her mother’s trust.
She was only glad her mother hadn’t been alive to witness her mistake. Though if she’d lived maybe things would have been different.
It was easier to think about the red dress. ‘Gaudreau knew she’d upstage the star of the film wearing that dress. It made her a household name. Which boosted his career too, since he controlled hers. At least in the beginning.’
What was it with the women in her family and controlling men?
First her mother, who’d taken years to find her feet and build a career separate from that loathsome old man.
Then, when she was at the pinnacle of her career, she’d fallen for a handsome prince.
Too late she’d discovered that while he lusted after the sexy screen siren, he was jealous of her easy charisma and popularity, continually finding fault with his vivacious, charming wife.
Then Rosamund. After her mother’s death, her father had become ever more watchful and disapproving, decreeing what she could wear and whom she could meet. Was it any wonder she’d fallen for a handsome, laughing man who played on her need for love? Both men had used her for their own ends.
Was it any wonder she refused to be used anymore? Or that trust came hard?
‘So, you see, I couldn’t have worn it. That would have been a betrayal of my mother. Gaudreau was just trying to stir interest in those early films, the ones they made together. He wanted to make the event about himself.’
Warmth closed around her hand and she looked down to see Fotis’ fingers curling around hers. As ever, she was struck by how well they fitted together, as if made for each other despite their disparity in size.
‘I do see, and I’m sorry I misinterpreted the situation. Your mother would be proud of you.’
‘I…’ She shrugged, suddenly finding it hard to speak. Her mum had been her rock and Rosamund had felt adrift for so long after her early death. She still felt her loss.
Remarkably, it seemed Fotis guessed some of what she felt for he nodded. ‘She raised a remarkable woman. Caring but no pushover. Fiery but clever and determined. I can’t believe I ever thought you a spoiled socialite.’
His words stunned her. Their physical intimacy had changed their relationship into one of ease and respect. But there was still so much they didn’t know about each other. Yet here he was, talking about her in terms that made her suddenly eager heart shudder open.
Inevitably, Rosamund thought of her mother, the only one who’d ever praised her like that.
Fotis might have read her mind. ‘Here’s to Juliette Bernard.’
‘To my beautiful mum.’
The fruity wine trickled down her throat and spread with it a sense of peace. Maybe because, for the first time, she’d spoken unreservedly about the woman who meant so much to her.
Because Fotis understood. His anger when he heard what Gaudreau had done and his approval of her mum and herself felt like balm spread on unhealed wounds.
Over the years her father had twisted her mother’s character into something negative.
Enthusiasm was described as heedless passion.
Generosity became recklessness. Warmth and charisma turned into undisciplined and unrefined behaviour.
The very virtues that had attracted him, and won over his people, became character flaws he’d been determined to extinguish in his daughter.
Rosamund turned to the man beside her, who still held her hand clasped in his. His brow was furrowed in thought, his mouth flat as he stared over the vast Aegean.
If he’d wondered about her, it couldn’t be nearly as much as she’d pondered him.
He fascinated her and with every day her curiosity rose.
Fotis Mavridis wasn’t the man she’d first thought, at least not all the way through.
He could be harsh and forbidding. He was ruthless and capable, breathtakingly so.
She remembered the efficiency with which he’d disabled her attacker in France, ignoring his own injuries as he kept her safe.
But he was thoughtful and generous. Their lovemaking was a revelation, his passion and tenderness unlocking something deep within her that made her want to know everything about him.
He’d happily connected with disadvantaged teenagers in a city slum, even offering one a remarkable opportunity for the future. Her visits to the village here had elicited stories about his generosity. Not just his ability to fund infrastructure, but his genuine involvement in the community.
Tassos, who’d been born on the island, had served in the military with Fotis and lost half his leg while on duty.
According to Yiayia Irini, it was Fotis who’d dragged him out of his depression and funded extra therapy for him when he got his prosthetic leg.
Later he’d offered him a job as an analyst. Now the man was rebuilding his life, working for Fotis and preparing to marry.
‘What are you thinking about, Rosa? You look miles away. Is it your mother?’
She shook her head. ‘A little. It’s good to talk about her. There’s no one else I can talk with about her, other than Lucie.’ Her father had never wanted to reminisce and Leon had barely known her, for all they’d technically been one family.
She turned, gaze colliding with sea-bright eyes, and a quiver of sensation snaked through her. Desire mixed with a longing that wasn’t merely physical. And something else too, delight at this open conversation, sharing in a way she couldn’t remember doing before.
‘Actually I was thinking what an enigma you are. I know some things about you.’ She ticked off her fingers.
‘You like your coffee black and strong. You have eclectic tastes in music. Everything from rembetiko,’ a Greek style she’d never heard of until she came here, ‘to classical. From jazz to hip-hop.’
She knew his dedication to keeping fit, running or using his indoor pool and huge gym, complete with climbing wall. She knew how his hands felt on her hips as she rode him to pleasure. How his deep voice turned deliciously rough when he gasped out her name as ecstasy took him.
Rosamund swallowed. ‘I know when you give your word you keep it.’ He’d promised to protect her and she knew how seriously he took that oath. ‘But I know nothing about your past, only that you went to boarding school. Nothing about what made you who you are.’
‘What do you want to know? I promised to share.’
Yet she saw the hint of reserve in his eyes. She guessed that a long time ago, he’d retreated into himself, throwing up a defensive wall far more impenetrable than hers. He’d even hinted his early life had been difficult.
She wanted to ask about that hurt, for hurt it clearly was. She wanted to know about his strained relationship with his mother, and whether he had other family. The way he’d spat the word socialite more than once as if it were a curse intrigued her.
But asking him to spill his deepest secrets might push him away. He was the most self-contained person she knew. So she’d begin small.
‘How do you know Dimitria Politis?’