Chapter One
In the end, it turned out that no matter how many pep talks Rosie gave herself in the lead-up to this milestone birthday, nothing had adequately prepared her for coming face to face with her stepbrother four years after they’d stupidly fallen into bed together.
Though ‘fallen’ was nowhere near the right verb, and come to think of it, there had been no bed either.
There’d been sparks, seduction, temptation and flame.
Fire and heat. Her inexperience no match for the fact that from the moment her fourteen-year-old self had clapped eyes on Aristotle Machairas, she’d been his for a song—and for the first time in her life, at her chauffeur father’s wedding to his billionaire mother, when she was twenty years old, Aristotle had finally looked at her and seen a woman. Or so she’d thought.
With his thick brown hair and eyes that were so dark one could easily get lost in their galactic depths, to the way his eyes were thickly rimmed with sweeping, long lashes—that was nothing to the incredible construction of his face.
Where mere mortals were simply a hodge-podge of their forebears’ DNA, Aristotle’s face looked to have been lovingly carved by the most skilled master sculptor, with attention being paid to his square jaw, long straight nose, high cheekbones and a chin that somehow screamed arrogance despite the dimple in its centre.
His jaw was almost always covered in stubble, which just added to his masculine allure.
An allure she wished she could feel a hell of a lot less of.
It had been four years, after all. Four years since that night—that had been, to borrow another’s phrase, the best and worst of times.
The best, in how his body had made hers feel.
Despite it having been her first time—and the fact he wasn’t aware of that beforehand—he was somehow so skilled that his swift invasion had barely hurt, because of how masterfully he’d stoked the fires of her need beforehand.
And after that initial shock had worn off, the pleasure that had consumed her had been life-altering.
So too the coldness he’d displayed afterwards—the worst of times.
And then, there’d been the discovery that it had all been a dare, from his cruel friends.
Seduce the chauffeur’s stupid daughter, who’d lusted after him from afar for years.
She’d thought she’d kept her crush hidden, but apparently, his social circle had noticed, and thought it some great big joke.
Memories of the things they’d said still haunted her.
‘Not quite up to your usual standard… Scraping the bottom of the barrel isn’t your usual style… At least she’s got big breasts…’
The next morning, he’d come to see her. To make sure she was ‘okay’. Not because of the cruel dare—he hadn’t known she’d heard his friends—but because it was her first time. How could she have answered that? Physically, she was fine. But emotionally, that was a whole other story.
Devastated, but determined not to show it, she’d presented him with an award-worthy act, as though she hadn’t cared one way or another about losing her virginity.
She’d never been so happy to go back to her life in England—a life she’d always hated because of her mother’s coldness and vindictive rejection—heart battered and bruised, determined never to set eyes on the man again.
And now that she was here, all that hatred and rage was firing anew. That, she told herself comfortingly, was what she felt. Not desire. How could she, for that pig of a man?
Albeit a devastatingly handsome one. For beyond the perfection of his face was a body that was pure Adonis, as though he spent his life honing each muscle and sinew.
She knew that was not the case. Aristotle Machairas had little time for vanity, or the gym.
He’d taken over the family business after his father’s death five years earlier, turning an already impressive investment company into a global powerhouse with the same strength one felt simply by looking at his physique. It simply emanated from him.
Bastard.
She’d managed to squirm out of any further trips to this ancient, sprawling estate in Filothei, a monied suburb on the outskirts of Athens.
From its perch on the side of a hill, it boasted superb views down over the ancient city.
Not to mention a tennis court, two swimming pools, a helipad, a seventeen-bedroom mansion and several guest houses, a ten-car garage, structured gardens as well as a wild forest that crept up to the edges of the estate as a constant reminder that nature was always there, waiting to untame what humans had done to the world.
She knew better though. She knew though that some secrets could not be hidden—she’d dug deep into the earth to uncover them.
The first time Rosie had arrived here, she’d thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Her father’s prior job had been driving for a diplomat, and when Rosie had come to Athens to visit him, he’d always taken a hotel room for them.
It had been nothing compared to this. Here, she’d been a guest in his luxurious chauffeur’s cottage, and at his then employer’s instruction, Rosie had been free to explore the grounds and ‘make herself at home’.
‘I had only one child, and he is away so often, building his own life. It’s what you want, of course, but I do get lonely.
Kyrios Machairas works such long hours, you see.
So, please, little darling, explore the house, read the books.
Tell me if you’d like me to find some friends for you to play tennis with. ’
Even before her husband had passed away and there was any prospect of Melina Machairas becoming more to Rosie, the woman had been kindness personified.
Which made the harshness and cruelty of her son all the harder to understand.
It also meant that it was impossible for Rosie to miss her stepmother’s sixtieth birthday.
However, it became apparent startlingly quickly that the ‘small family get-together’ she’d been promised was a serious understatement.
Her taxi—which she’d insisted on hailing rather than having a car sent for her—was still forming plumes of dust on the long, winding driveway when she became conscious of the lines of staff, dressed in suits, moving from the house and around the corner like ants who’d caught the hint of a picnic.
Pushing the sleeves of her pale yellow cardigan up to her elbows—it was so much warmer in Greece than it had been in London when she’d set out that morning—she left her small suitcase where it was and walked around the corner towards the formal gardens, where she very quickly saw that a large marquee had been set up for this evening’s party.
She hovered on the edge of a small courtyard, bordered on three sides by a large green hedge and on the final side by a high brick wall, behind which there was an old statue and a big wrought iron chair—she’d used to sit there and read books as a teenager, when she wanted privacy.
She moved closer to the hedge, taking in the sweet fragrance of magnolia, as her eyes swept the activity a little way in the distance.
There must have been a hundred staff members moving about, arranging tables, chairs, flowers, fridges.
She shook her head in bemusement as she turned with the intention of reclaiming her suitcase and finding her father, only to come breast to chest with the man she’d been dreading seeing since she’d stalked away from him four years earlier.
She was now twenty-four, he twenty-eight—but he looked exactly the same, and she felt exactly the same.
Gauche and inexperienced, young and unwanted.
Never mind that she’d given herself a serious image overhaul after that excruciating night, and the things his friends had said.
Hair that had once been a brassy red had been toned down to a glorious cool auburn, and instead of keeping it short around her shoulders, she’d let it grow and form natural waves.
Pale, milky skin was harder to change, but she’d learned to apply make-up that complemented her colouring, and to choose clothes that enhanced her complexion, as well as her shorter, curvy physique.
She knew that she wasn’t unattractive. Enough men hit on her to recognise that as fact.
But compared to the exquisite beauty of Aristotle, she’d probably always feel like this.
Diminished.
Less than.
She knew her cheeks would be flushing pink—she could feel the heat building in them.
Furious with herself for acting like the awkward teen she’d been when they’d first met, and he’d arrived unexpectedly to find her sitting in the family room poring over an old collection of encyclopedias, she flicked her lips into something that could best be described as a terse smile and went to sidestep him without saying so much as a word.
She should have known better.
No sooner had she gained a hint of freedom than his voice emerged, halting her in her tracks.
‘Rosemary, stop.’
She ground her teeth.
He’d always called her that, despite the fact she’d been ‘Rosie’ to everyone from birth.
‘Why?’ she asked, without turning around.
He came to stand in front of her, so her little gesture of defiance hardly seemed to matter.
He didn’t say anything, at first. His eyes simply landed on her face then glided over her slowly, scanning her, studying her.
No doubt to report back to his horrible friends.
She was wearing a simple summer dress beneath her cardigan—hardly the dream outfit for this kind of confrontation. She’d planned on having time to shower and change into her party dress before seeing this man again.
‘It’s been a long time.’ His voice was just as she remembered it, just as it had filled her dreams far more often than she cared to admit. That throaty, accented tone forever imprinted in her memory banks, able to be conjured up without any effort whatsoever.
Yet hearing it for real set her pulse alight in a way she bitterly resented. Her body seemed determined to betray her.