Chapter Two
No Mortal Man
September, Los Angeles, California…
Helena steered her white Mercedes along Sunset Boulevard, her windows rolled down slightly, letting the warm, west coast breeze tangle her loose hair.
Her skin glistened beneath her blush pink, cotton-ribbed knit dress, and the afternoon sun beat down on her bare shoulders through the sunroof, but she refused to turn on the air conditioning, having always found pleasure in the California heat.
It reminded her of summer days spent walking the beaches and hills surrounding Athens with her mom, as she sought inspiration in the natural world.
She’d just left a meeting with her client, Ni Luh––an Indonesian tech mogul who lived in Pacific Palisades––and desperately needed to get home, shower, and prepare for the busy week ahead.
Ni Luh had an insatiable appetite for contemporary Southeast Asian art, and her recent obsession with a reclusive portrait artist meant a flight to the Philippines in two days to meet with the introverted painter at his home in Manila.
She had never seen Ni Luh so excited about a potential acquisition, and as one of only a handful of women on her client roster, Helena was devoted to making her happy. But the opportunity meant Helena would have to postpone her trip to San Fransico this weekend.
Luckily for her, the man devoted to making her happy, understood the demands of her career.
She should be thinking about packing, and travel arrangements, and securing a sitter for her one-year-old calico kitten, Thea––a rescue from the Los Angeles Humane Society––but her mind was four-hundred miles away in San Francisco.
It had been six weeks since Dimitris’ party in Oía, and in that time, she and Raph had spent every possible moment together.
His work life mirrored Helena’s more closely than one might expect—the impromptu meetings, the way they might have to jet across the country, or to the other side of the world at a moment’s notice––but the unpredictability of their schedules kept things exciting, making every moment they had together feel like it was both the first and the last.
Their weekend getaways were divine, with spontaneous trips to Santa Barbara, Paso Robles, and Carmel, where they’d lose themselves in good wine and deep conversation.
Dinners were leisurely and intimate, whether at an exclusive restaurant in San Francisco, or curled up on her couch with Thea, take-out, and a good movie.
And the fact that he spoke fluent Greek, and understood the cultural nuances that shaped her worldview, was icing on what tasted like an already perfect cake.
And the sex…
Helena bit her bottom lip and smiled as she turned off Sunset onto Los Liones Boulevard.
The sex was absolutely divine. The first time they’d slept together––the night of their first date in California two weeks after they’d met––she’d thought it was a fluke.
Unable to believe that a mere mortal man could make her come so many times in so many ways, Helena had been convinced that Rapheus Giannopoulos was a god.
And every time they were together, he found a new button to press, a new, sweet sentiment to whisper in her ear as she crashed beneath him, over and over again, like waves against a cliff.
Her sex pulsed as she turned onto Bollinger Ave, her palm tree-lined street in Brentwood, and her mind wandered back to the morning after Dimitris’ party, when Raph had invited her to have lunch with him and his grandfather at the Giannopoulos estate.
She’d been so apprehensive about meeting Raph’s family when she hardly knew him, but Andris Giannopoulos’ sweet nature and welcoming smile had immediately put her at ease.
“My wife, Kerena, was from Athens, too,” he’d told her over dolmades and tzatziki. “She would have liked you very much,” he’d added, as he’d given Raph an approving nod.
When Andris had asked about her father, Helena had told him the truth: she’d never known him, never even met him. The old man had reached across the table to pat her hand, his voice soft with compassion. “His loss for not knowing you, Helena.”
Her mother used to say the same thing each time she told Helena the story of Leif, the twenty-year-old Swedish backpacker who had unknowingly left a piece of himself in Athens.
He’d been making his way to Turkey when he’d spent two nights at a hostel where Helena’s nineteen-year-old mother, Elena, was working at the front desk.
They’d shared a brief, intense connection and before he’d left for Crete, he’d promised to come back to Athens on his way home.
But he never called, and she never saw him again.
He might as well have been a ghost. His name and nationality were the only details Elena had, and her beautiful, blue-eyed, brown-haired baby, the only proof that he’d ever really existed.
Raph, on the other hand, had been an open book, walking her through every stage of his life, sparing no details, as though she had been tasked with writing his biography.
Helena sighed as she parked in front of her apartment building and turned off the engine. She leaned against the headrest and instinctively reached for the silver locket that held a photo of her at age four, sitting on her mother’s shoulders in front of the acropolis.
Raph had been so guarded initially, all sharp edges and careful control—a serious, impossibly handsome man who watched her with an intensity that made her knees buckle.
His reserved nature worried her, though she had to admit there had been something magnetic about that restraint, and the sense that something powerful and deep simmered just beneath the surface.
The first time she’d kissed him in the shadows of the narrow, cobblestone alleyways of Oía, she’d melted like butter the moment their lips met. His powerful grip on her backside, his erection pressing into her sex, the way he devoured her like warm, sticky honey…
Despite her coyness that night, she’d been eager to see him again, eager for them to be alone, and learn who Rapheus Giannopoulos really was. And in the weeks since, she’d watched him slowly relax.
When he talked about his brothers or his work, animation lit his features.
And when he laughed—really laughed—his whole face transformed, and she caught glimpses of the laid-back man she sensed he could be.
And god, he was beautiful—tall and broad-shouldered, with those striking green eyes flecked with amber, and a mouth that promised a spiritual experience.
She touched her fingers to her lips, hopeful that with each kiss, each moment they carved out of their busy, chaotic schedules to be with each other, Raph would continue to open up and let their love grow.
Love? The word echoed in her mind.
Helena pressed her hand to her chest as she rolled up her windows and gathered her cell phone and purse.
Did she really love Raph?
That question followed her like a shadow as she walked toward the entrance of her apartment building.
Was it love––real love––with a man whose own personal experiences so closely mirrored her own, whose lifestyle matched hers, and who would give her the world if she asked him to?
Or was it all just a long-lingering summer fling, destined to fail the test of time?
Inside the lobby, Helena gave a quick wave to, Aarón, the building concierge, and as she took the elevator to the fourth floor, she wondered when Raph would let down his guard and let her see him for who he really is beyond the carefully crafted persona he showcased to the world.
Maybe then she’d have the answer to that burning question.