Chapter Ten #2
The volcano in her chest bubbled up again, giving her something to focus on other than those bittersweet memories.
‘And I should have specified no controls in Greek,’ she threw back at him. ‘I guess we both don’t get what we wished for.’
His gaze raked over her, stopping pointedly at her breasts, which peaked painfully under the four layers of clothing she had on. Because of course they did, the traitors.
‘I guess not,’ he murmured, but she had the impression they were no longer discussing computer controls or Christmas decorations any more—as that searing gaze made her body hum in inappropriate places.
He dug his fingers into his hair and glared at the tree. But the expression that crossed his features looked almost hunted.
‘Why do you hate Christmas so much?’ she asked, curious because her own relationship with the season now seemed more conflicted than she’d realised, too.
‘I don’t hate it,’ Theo said gruffly. ‘I just don’t celebrate it. I never have.’
Was that a Greek thing? She had no idea if they celebrated Christmas in Greece. But from the shuttered look on his face, she suspected his aversion to the festive season was a lot more personal.
‘Not even as a child?’ she probed.
Not everyone loved Christmas. It could heighten emotions and make you remember things that weren’t always easy—she ought to know. But his cranky reaction was going to make the days ahead even tougher to negotiate—so she figured she deserved an explanation.
‘I was never a child,’ he murmured. But instead of his usual cynicism, the comment sounded almost weary.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked carefully, his far-away expression dousing the volcano.
He blinked, and the wary look in his eyes disappeared—but she sensed he had been a long way from here, just as she had moments before, and he seemed a lot less happy about his journey.
‘Nothing…’ He scrubbed a hand down his face. But she knew it definitely wasn’t nothing. Were his Christmas memories even more difficult than hers? Perhaps they could make a new start, rediscover the season here, together?
But when her heart pulsed hard in her chest, she felt like that young girl again—yearning for a closeness, for a connection that probably wasn’t even real.
Theo Caras’ crappy Christmases as a child were not her concern. And it wasn’t her job to fix them, either. Any more than she needed to forgive, or even understand, her mother’s decision to choose Danny Charbonnet over her marriage and her three children.
Theo hefted one of the bags onto his shoulder. ‘I need to crash.’ He slung her pack to her. Then nodded at the other large bag he’d brought in from the car, which was still on the floor.
‘I asked my assistant to pack a bag for you, too,’ he said.
‘Toiletries and clothes and stuff. Apparently, you need seven layers to go outside here. The larder and cold room are fully stocked if you want to eat—assuming you know how to cook. I’ll take the room at the end of the corridor.
Don’t wake me unless it’s an emergency.’
After delivering the dismissive and frankly insulting list of demands, he strode out of the living space and was gone—leaving her volcano simmering again.
Ten minutes later it had erupted, because she had no clue how to say ‘shower on’ in Greek.
‘You’re going to have to give me some Greek lessons!’
‘Huh?’ Theo squinted at the woman standing by the kitchen island and tried to clear the sleep from his brain.
He’d been exhausted last night when they’d arrived.
And crashed headlong into the deluxe king he’d found in the main bedroom.
Fourteen hours later, he’d woken still groggy and sporting an impressive morning boner.
And this woman was the cause, thanks to the erotic dreams that had managed to permeate his coma.
She looked young and fresh and a lot more approachable than she had last night in the morning combo of stretchy black pants and a simple white T, but for the glare she was currently trying to eviscerate him with.
He grunted and scratched his stomach—aware of the reaction building in his groin that he’d only just handled in the shower.
‘Why do you need Greek lessons?’ he asked as he opened the double-wide fridge and dug out a carton of OJ.
‘Because I can’t even work the shower—and my lights were on all night because I couldn’t turn them off.’
He chugged the juice straight from the carton, then lobbed it into the trash, before tugging his phone out of his sweatpants.
‘Which room are you in?’
‘The one down the hallway from yours.’
He adjusted his pants. Too close for comfort, then.
After connecting to the house’s satellite system, he tapped out a message to his assistant. A reply popped up a few seconds later.
‘Give it ten minutes, I’ve asked to have your room’s controls switched to English.’
‘Just my room?’ she asked, still sending him the death glare.
‘Yeah, what’s the problem?’
‘What if I want to control other things in the house?’
‘Like what?’ he countered.
‘Like maybe the kitchen equipment.’
‘You planning on doing the catering?’ he goaded.
The glare became radioactive, but for some reason it only made the heat in his groin pulse harder. What was it about this woman that the angrier she got, the more he wanted her?
‘I intend to cook for myself, yes,’ she replied.
‘You know how to cook?’ he asked, doubt dripping from every word.
‘Not precisely,’ she said, her gaze skidding away from his as her cheeks pinkened. ‘But I want to learn, before I get to Zurich, or the money I have won’t last.’
He bristled at the mention of Zurich again. Why was she so determined to go it alone? When she had him to support her?
‘And this is as good a time as any,’ she continued, oblivious to his irritation. ‘Because we’re stuck here for days with nothing else to do.’
He could think of a ton of things they could do. All of them more pleasurable than cooking. He stiffened against the renewed rush of desire.
Whoa, boy. You tried that once. It just created more problems.
He shoved his fists into his pants pockets, then his cell pinged. Dragging it out, he read the new message from his assistant.
‘Apparently the voice controls on the equipment can be overridden if you use the manual controls—all except the locks for the outside doors.’
And he wasn’t telling her how to open those, because he didn’t trust her not to run off and get lost in minus-thirty-degree temperatures.
‘Then you’ll need to tell me how to control the outside doors in Greek.’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to know how to open them.’
‘Yes, I do, or I’m a prisoner!’ she announced, her exasperation clear. But right alongside it was the ripple of panic.
‘You’re not a prisoner,’ he said, and meant it. Mostly. ‘You want to leave the house, you can. You’ll just have to come get me first so I can accompany you.’
She crossed her arms over her chest, her expression darkening, and her breasts plumping up. The desire in his gut sharpened like a knife.
He stifled a groan.
Damn, no bra again.
Was she trying to kill him? Or was she so innocent she didn’t realise what effect it had on him to see her unfettered breasts jiggle and sway under her T-shirt?
Unfortunately, he suspected it was the latter, which only crucified him more. His cock became heavy in his sweats. He licked his lips, the taste and texture of her puckered areolas so vivid he was starting to sweat.
‘That’s not good enough,’ she said, her voice rising with indignation. ‘I refuse to be dependent on you for my freedom.’
He could have dismissed the impassioned plea but for the definite shimmer of panic now in those wide emerald eyes. His gut knotted—because he suddenly felt like a bully. No better than her bastard of a father—who had tried to force her to marry an old man.
He stepped towards her—the urge to reassure her confusing, but undeniable.
‘Don’t freak out, Freya,’ he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
She swiped his hand away, her misty eyes belied by the hard set of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin.
‘Then don’t patronise me,’ she said, her breathing unsteady. ‘I know the land deal is the only reason you offered to help me escape and why you insisted on bringing me here…’
He wished that were true, it would simplify everything… But his motives had always been more complicated—bound up not just in the incendiary connection they’d shared in September, but also in the fallout since.
Why else would he have found it so difficult to focus on his business interests…? And why else would he have freaked out so spectacularly when he’d discovered her virginity?
‘But I refuse to be treated like a possession you own,’ she continued. Beneath the declaration, though, he could hear her panic still, and her fear. ‘Because I’m not. I own myself now. And no one is going to take that away from me. Not ever again.’
Her statement triggered something inside him, something he had never realised he was capable of. Empathy.
He’d dismissed her as a pampered princess who led a charmed, indulged life—and would never know the hardships he’d suffered, would never have to fight for her place in the world, the way he’d been forced to fight, tooth and nail, for years.
But he had known for a while the truth was more nuanced. Maybe she’d never known what it was like to be so hungry your stomach hurt. Or so cold it made your bones brittle. Or in so much pain from a beating your skin felt as if it were on fire.
But she did know what it was like to feel trapped. Exploited. To feel as if all your choices had been taken away from you, through no fault of your own.
And that gave them common ground he had not expected. But he didn’t want to admire her tenacity, and her bravery, especially as it was going to screw up his plans.
Empathy was one thing, trust another. And he’d never been dumb enough to trust anyone one hundred per cent. Not even his brother.
‘Don’t confuse me with your bastard of a father,’ he said, his tone edged with tension.