Chapter Four
Apart from the plane being insanely luxurious from tip to toe and every sumptuous detail in between, she couldn’t help but notice the branding was different. Apart from the Machairas family logo she was familiar with, this boasted something else—a string of words in Greek.
There was no question the plane was his though. From the way he swaggered on board as though he, well, owned the place, to the clear deference of his staff, to the black leather upholstery with gold accents, this aircraft was Aristotle through and through.
And suddenly Rosie felt every bit the gauche young woman she’d always been around him. As a teenager, then at twenty. She glanced down at the simple shirt and skirt she’d pulled on that morning—what felt like a lifetime ago—and half wished she could avoid sitting down at all.
She hardly belonged on a plane like this.
God, what was she getting herself into?
This wasn’t her.
She wasn’t some billionaire’s wife. Or the mother of his child, for that matter.
She was a free spirit, a woman with no ties other than to history, her major obligation to the fidelity of interpreting the past. Her job was to find its secrets, lovingly translate them and share, as she could, with the present.
To educate and inspire.
This was something else.
‘You need to eat something.’
She blinked across at him as the engines roared to life.
‘And you need to sit down.’
She just stood there, looking from Aristotle to the door, perhaps, in the back of her sluggish mind, wondering if it was too late to back out of this. To walk off the plane and never look back.
‘Christós,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
And then, to her shock, and chagrin, two strong, broad hands were curving around her upper arms, drawing her towards one of the sleek leather armchairs.
His touch was practical, but that didn’t matter.
It didn’t stop the flames that curled and licked across her skin, the goosebumps that trembled across her.
It didn’t stop her from breathing in and catching a hint of his masculine fragrance and remembering what it had been like, that afternoon in the courtyard of his mother’s villa, when Aristotle had driven into her as though the passions of all time were at his back.
She was a student of history, and the one thing that always resonated with her was the familiarity of the basic human condition.
Certain traits and emotions that were embodied by people across time.
It was a uniquely bonding experience to look upon the ruins of Pompeii and see people clutching at each other in their final moments.
Realising that at the end of all time, their sole comfort came from companionship.
Passion was another such emotion, in all its destructive urgency. What better way was there to define what had taken place between them? Like the bringing together of an accelerant and spark, after four years, they’d been together barely five minutes and it had ignited.
‘Sit,’ he commanded, needlessly, because his hands had welded her to the chair. Or perhaps it was that his touch had weakened her knees sufficiently for him to be able to fold her downwards without any opposition.
The plane began to push back. Unlike on a commercial jet, there was no safety video, no flight attendant walking the aisle to check that they were properly in situ. Everything was left to them. Well, to Aristotle. Rosie had turned into an incompetent gaping fish.
With an exhalation of impatience, his hands were at her hips then, reaching for the discreet seatbelt, bringing it across her lap and fastening it.
She jumped, hurtling back into the present, shoving her gaping fish persona behind a wall of irritation. ‘I can do it, for goodness’ sake!’
His eyes flicked to hers, his expression sheer mockery. ‘Can you? Show me.’
With a mutinous expression, she moved to take the seatbelt, but his hands were there, and it was impossible not to brush against them. Those same fires licked and flamed across her flesh. Before she could stop it, a breath hissed from between her teeth.
Now his expression displayed something other than mockery. Something far more dangerous, because it reflected the heat that was stirring in her veins. A shiver ran the length of her spine as memories flooded her before she could control them. His touch, his mouth, his whole self.
‘Aristotle—’ She said his name on a soft exhalation that came dangerously close to a plea. She blinked quickly, pulling back, clinging to whatever threads of sanity she could find.
He seemed to do the same, straightening, hands falling to his sides before he turned and moved to the chair opposite. She couldn’t help but notice how much of the seat he took up with his large, broad frame, his arms resting on the sides.
She swallowed quickly, tamping down on the last embers of need.
‘We should talk about the wedding.’
The plane began to move faster down the runway, the perfect metaphor for the juggernaut she’d climbed aboard. The way he said that so matter-of-factly—‘the wedding’—as though there was no doubt in his mind that this was happening.
Her eyes dropped to the enormous ring, the visual confirmation that she had, in fact, agreed to this.
‘What about it?’
‘It makes sense to marry as soon as we can arrange it.’
Her throat seemed to be tightening unbearably.
‘In terms of the ceremony itself, I presume you have some thoughts on what you’d like?’
She stared at him, drawing a complete blank. ‘No, actually. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Getting married?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’
She pulled a face. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘Given that we’re about to get married, yes.’
Fair point.
‘I just never really planned on doing the whole wedding thing,’ she said, lifting one shoulder, as the plane began to climb into the sky, gaining altitude quickly.
‘Interesting.’
‘Is it?’
‘You always struck me as someone who believed in romantic fairytales.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Because I’m a woman?’
‘Because you were forever reading, most of the time, romances.’
She ignored the strange lurching in her stomach that came from his unspoken admission that he’d seen her, as a teenager. Back when she’d presumed herself invisible to the tall, older, beautiful guy she’d been swooning over from afar.
Heat flooded her cheeks and she blinked towards the windows, taking a second to steady her breath.
‘Reading romance doesn’t mean you believe in it.’
‘You’re saying you don’t?’
‘After what happened with you? How could I.’
The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt heat spread to the roots of her hair.
She hadn’t meant to say that. To admit to him how much his behaviour had affected her.
Besides, her aversion to ‘happily ever after’ went way back, to a time before she even knew the name Aristotle Machairas.
His frown was reflexive, his eyes holding hers for a beat too long, in a way that made her insides lurch.
‘I didn’t know you were a virgin.’
She shook her head, not wanting to talk about it.
‘You made that clear. Anyway, I was joking. I mean, the experience with you was hardly the best, but you’re really only partly to blame. My belief in happy endings was destroyed a long time before I met you.’
His lips compressed and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to let what had happened between them go, or push her further on it.
‘Because of your parents,’ he said eventually.
A noise behind her heralded the arrival of a flight attendant, carrying a tray with water and snacks.
It wasn’t until that moment she realised how hungry she was.
The flight attendant slid a table out from the wall, clicked it into place, then set the food and drinks down between them. Rosie was glad for the distraction. This conversation was somehow too close to the truth for comfort.
‘How old were you when they divorced?’ he asked casually.
So, they weren’t moving on then, after all.
She sighed. ‘Nine.’
He frowned. ‘And they fought most of your childhood?’
‘I don’t remember a time where they weren’t fighting,’ she admitted.
‘So why not divorce sooner?’
‘It was just a toxic environment,’ she murmured, reaching for the water and taking a sip.
‘How so?’
She pulled a face. ‘Does this matter?’
‘For various reasons, yes.’
‘What reasons?’
‘We’re about to have a child together, so understanding you and your values seems important. Secondly, your father is married to my mother. If the environment was so toxic, it would be nice to know history isn’t repeating itself.’
She stared at him with a strange sense of betrayal forming inside of her. ‘Are you using me to get to my dad?’
A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘My father died less than a year before their wedding.’
‘I know how hard that must have been for you,’ she said gently.
His nostrils flared.
‘They became friends, over the years. Your father, mother, my father. They treated him like an equal. After your father’s death, I know your mother turned to Dad for comfort, familiarity. Their relationship caught them both by surprise.’
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. ‘Prior to marrying my mother—who is worth tens of billions of dollars in her own right—and becoming “friends” with my parents, your father was her chauffeur. You don’t think I have a right to be a little concerned?’
‘They’ve been married—happily, I might add—for years. Not that you’d know, you’re never even around. So don’t sit there and act all protective and invested in your mother’s life, Aristotle. I don’t buy it.’
His eyes were impossible to read, but there was a darkness swirling in their depths that might have made someone else panic. Not Rosie. She’d already run the gamut of emotions with this man; he couldn’t scare her, no matter how darkly brooding his expression.
She reached for the glass and took another sip of water. When she settled back in her seat, it was to find his gaze still on her face.
‘You’re saying the fights were your mother’s fault?’
She opened her mouth to respond then clamped it shut, taking a moment to process that.