‘The house’s controls are all voice activated,’ he said by way of explanation as he marched past her carrying the bags.
‘InGreek?’ she demanded.
‘Yeah, I had the computer reprogrammed. I don’t know any Finnish. Do you?’
‘No, but I also don’t know any Greek!’ Which he surely had to be aware of.
She stomped after him up the internal staircase. Had he engineered this? To make her helpless? Was this another way of controlling her, the way her father had always controlled her? Infantilising her and making her dependent on him for her every move. Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d kidnapped her? And delayed all her carefully laid plans to start creating a life for herself—on her own terms—at least until the new year?
Her outrage simmered like a volcano, right under her breastbone. That would be the volcano she had been trying to prevent from erupting ever since their argument on the jet, at least until they both got a decent night’s sleep.
‘Good thingIspeak Greek, then,’ he cast over his shoulder, either unaware or unbothered by her active volcano.
She swallowed down the latest lava flow as she followed him into a large open-plan living space. The cathedral-like room was bathed in the shadowy twilight coming through the doomed window at the front of the house, while underlighting illuminated a lavish state-of-the-art kitchen on the far side.
Even in the half-light, the space was breathtaking—minimalist and sleek but also designed with comfort in mind.
Theo issued another order in Greek, and more lights switched on, illuminating vaulted ceilings, oak beams, polished wooden floors and a suite of luxury furniture arranged around a sunken seating area. Flames leapt to life in the fire pit in the centre. Then the colourful lights of a Christmas tree placed by the statement window flickered on, too. The gold and silver baubles and bows on the ten-foot fir tree gleamed, the piney scent filling the air. Freya dropped her head back and released a reverent breath, noticing the other decorations hung from the rafters in swathes of silver and gold.
And, completely unbidden, a wave of images from that long-ago Christmas came flooding back.
Vivid memories swirled in her head, of the trek into the forest with the bodyguard tugging a sledge with her and her brothers on it, so they could cut down a similarly enormous tree to surprise her mother on Christmas Eve. Of the day spent dancing to Christmas songs, her mother attempting to bake gingerbread cookies and the bodyguard finding a box of decorations and untangling a string of lights so they could decorate their tree…
Warmth enfolded her, along with those long-lost memories.
‘Danny…’
The name whispered across her consciousness. The bodyguard’s name had been Daniel Charbonnet. But her mother had called him Danny, they all had by the end of that week. Shehad made herself forget his name—and how she had come to adore him as well, when he’d perched her on his shoulders and insisted she place the angel she’d purchased at the Christmas market on top of that tree. Equally vivid too was the memory of lying in bed that Christmas Eve, listening to her brothers chatting excitedly about the snowman Danny had promised to build with them the next day, and wishing with every fibre of her being that Danny could be their father—instead of the austere and distant prince who had sired them. And not just because Daniel Charbonnet had helped make that Christmas so special, but because he had made her mother smile again, and laugh.
A wave of sadness washed over her, even as regret and confusion curdled the memories. Had she been wrong to believe that Daniel Charbonnet cared about her, that he wasn’t just using her and her brothers to get into his queen’s panties? Or had she witnessed something that Christmas that made sense of her mother’s desertion?
Theo dropped the bags onto the polished flooring, jerking Freya out of her reverie. He swore. This time in English.
‘I should have specified, no Christmas crap,’ he grumbled.
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.
