Seasons of Sin

Chapter 1

She’d never noticed how long Anita’s legs were.

Strange, given that the two women had been best friends since Saphire’s tenth birthday.

But apparently there was a lot she hadn’t really noticed about her friend before.

The depth of her tan. The red of her fingernails. The tattoo of a butterfly that had danced darkly at the top of her thigh as she’d wrapped her legs around Saphire’s husband’s waist and begged him to, “Take me, baby, now!”

Saphire blinked but the image was still there, where it would undoubtedly remain forever. Her best friend and husband making love against the perfect Laura Ashley sheets Saphire had picked out only a week earlier.

No, they hadn’t been ‘making love’. Making love was what she and Jordan did. Making love was calm and affectionate; predictable and reassuring.

Anita and Jordan had been going at it like wild beasts. They’d been having passionate, animalistic sex all over her perfect bedroom and what she’d thought was her perfect life.

Her finger jabbed at the ‘call’ button in the armrest impatiently and a hostess appeared almost instantly.

“Yes, madam?” She smiled politely, pretending not to notice the pallor of Saphire’s skin and the eyes that were bloodshot from far too much crying.

“Another champagne, please,” Saphire murmured, crossing her legs and consulting the map shown on the screen that was recessed into the seat in front of her. The flight looked to be still at least an hour out of Athens and God, how she wanted to land.

Despite its decadence, the plane was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. She sucked in a deep breath and, when the hostess returned a moment later with a crystal flute, Saphire took it as though it were a lifeline.

The bubbles burned a little as she drank; she didn’t care. She threw back half of it in one go and then squeezed her eyes shut on the stingingly acidic sensation.

How would she explain any of this to her parents?

Two months after marrying a man they’d never approved of – a man she had insisted was the love of her life because of his trustworthiness and kindness, a man she’d thought would always do the right thing by her if only because he worked for her dad – she stood on the brink of … of what? Divorce?

The thought left her with a cold ache in her gut.

How could she leave Jordan? They’d been dating for ten years before he’d suddenly suggested, out of the blue, that they make it official.

The wedding had taken place a week after that and had surprised all of their friends and family, despite the amount of time they’d spent as a couple.

Had they been surprised not because of the speed with which Saphire and Jordan had married, but rather that they’d married at all?

Had they all known that Jordan Arana was sleeping with the bride’s best friend?

Had everyone known, and chosen to keep it secret?

She pressed back into the comfortable leather seat and angled her head so that she could look towards the window. Only a man was between her and it, and his eyes were resting on her face with undisguised appraisal.

Saphire hadn’t noticed him at all until that moment. They’d been flying for a while, but she’d been in such a state of shock that she’d barely computed her surrounds. It was a testament to good luck alone that she’d managed to get through customs and onto the flight in time.

“By my count that is your third glass of champagne.”

She arched her brows, refusing to notice that he had a face like a movie star’s.

No, it was better than that, because it wasn’t ‘pretty’ or soft.

There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that his stunning good-looks were a result of vanity or effort.

It was a naturally chiseled face, with slashed cheek bones, a swarthy tan, eyes that were so dark they looked almost black and thick brows that perfectly framed his slightly mocking expression.

His hair was dark too, cropped close to his head, giving him an air of strength and virility that Saphire instinctively recoiled from.

“Should I be impressed at your basic grasp of mathematics?” She retorted sarcastically, reaching for the glass once more and finishing the rest of it easily. She hiccoughed quietly as she placed the flute back on her tray table, keeping the fingers of one hand curled around the elegant stem.

He pressed his own call button without taking his eyes off her face.

Saphire dreaded to imagine how she looked.

Her hair, a polished shade of ebony, was always smoothed into a shimmering curtain but today it was flyaway and wild.

Her makeup was minimal – just what she’d been able to scrounge from the bottom of her handbag as she’d instructed the cab driver to take her to the airport.

At least her clothes were decent; she’d worn a Prada dress for the intended-lunch with her mother before realizing she’d left her cell phone at home and doubling back to collect it.

She’d only been out of the house half an hour – Anita must have been practically waiting in the driveway for Saphire to leave, to have had enough time to peel her clothes from her slender frame and step into Saphire’s bed. Bitch.

She shuddered as recollections of her husband and best friend’s tangled limbs flailed enthusiastically into her mind, like two octopuses happily scarpering along the depths of the ocean. The hostess appeared and the man said lifted his gaze to her face. “Macallan, two cubes of ice.”

“Right away, Mr Konstanides.” The attendant’s eyes dropped to Saphire. “And for you, madam?”

Saphire had decided to quit while she was most definitely not ahead, but at the attendant’s query she said, a little groggily, “I’ll have the same. No ice.”

“She will also have two ice cubes.”

“No, she won’t.”

His smile showed true amusement. “Scotch is meant to be enjoyed with ice. It will show a richer flavor.”

She blinked and then pursed her lips. “No ice.”

Her companion raised a brow but wisely said nothing.

Instead, he shifted his weight in the chair, so that he was a little closer to her.

He smelled good. Something unrecognizable spiraled through Saphire’s gut and it quickly gave rise to reluctant curiosity.

He was so different to Jordan; Jordan, a high-flying lawyer and the son of a distinguished politician and a supermodel, was handsome, polite, wealthy, and oh so very civilized, in a sort of uptight way.

This man was … she frowned. He was all those things too.

Certainly the former. Gorgeous, virile, obviously wealthy if his suit, watch and the fact he was in the same first class cabin as she was, could be any guide.

But there was a sort of feral animalism to him; something uncontained and restless that was at odds with his urbane demeanor.

“Where do I know that name?” She pondered, her brain a little too fogged by champagne and grief to sort through the information she had stored at her fingertips.

“Which name?” He prompted. His voice was like honey and caramel, thick and rich with a satisfying spice in the crispness of his vowels.

“Konstanides.”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of the airline,” he prompted with an air of unconcern that was almost definitely assumed.

“Yes!” She jabbed a finger at his broad chest and smiled proudly. “You have the same name as this …” she waved her hand around the cabin, “As this plane person. People.”

His smile was sardonic; it sent a shiver trembling down her spine. “Fancy that.”

“The people who own the plane, I mean.”

“Not just this plane; presumably they own the airline too.”

She nodded. “Yes.” Again she jabbed at his chest. “That’s strange.”

He hid a laugh. “Indeed.”

She lifted the scotch to her lips. She hadn’t drunk the liquor in a long time but she had a small taste now and didn’t hate it. She was numb, of course. Ordinarily it would have sent her retching to the bathroom. She had another mouthful.

Her companion’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You drink like someone wanting to forget.”

“Do I?” Saphire was shocked. Was it so obvious? Or was this man just unfathomably astute? She took another sip hoping to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Maybe I just drink like someone who wants to get drunk.”

“In my experience, it’s the same thing.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with drunk women on planes, then?” She asked, blinking her eyes innocently.

They were a startling shade of blue; they reminded him of the Aegean Sea on a bright summer’s day.

The effect, in her pretty face with bright red lips and dark brown hair, was stunning.

Literally, he had found it difficult to wrench his eyes off her.

“No.” He did his best to avoid talking to strangers, particularly beautiful, obviously troubled, hiccoughing, sobbing, champagne-sledging women such as this. And yet here he was, staring at her as though she held the secret to eternal life.

“Who are you?”

She dropped her gaze to the drink and ran her finger over the rim distractingly. “No one.”

Her reticence infuriated him. He told himself to sit back against the seat and ignore her, but how could he? She was the one drinking like a soldier but the intoxication was wrapping right around him. He cradled his scotch without bringing it to his lips. “No one, huh?”

“Why do you care?” She snapped, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a shaky breath.

It smelled of scotch. Her eyelashes were the longest he’d ever seen.

He wondered, briefly, if they were fake, but immediately discounted the notion.

There was nothing fake about this woman.

From her inky hair and pearly complexion to those full, cherry-red lips and perfect breasts that were pushed up to reveal a heaving cleavage, she was all-woman and all-real.

His eyes were drawn to the creamy color of her décolletage and lower still to the round orbs that would be more than a handful, even for him. Her nipples were peaking against the fabric. He wanted to touch them. To touch her.