He watched her digest that detail, before she added, ‘And you’re descended from those people. The tough guys of Greece. Is it that warrior mentality that led you to become a bounty hunter—I mean,“recovery expert”?’
‘No.’ His choice to become a recovery expert had its origins in an entirely different sphere. ‘My parents are humble orchardists, like their parents and their parents before them. They still live there.’
She nodded, as if summing up his answers. ‘And so how old are you? You never said.’
He sighed. ‘Is this entirely necessary?’
‘No, but I think it’s fair, given you probably know details about me down to my shoe size and whether I squeeze toothpaste from the middle or the end of the tube.’
‘I’m thirty-four. And no, I don’t know how you squeeze your toothpaste. Nor do I particularly care.’
‘Ha, but shoe size, you know!’
He pushed his chair back and stood, unable to sit opposite her any longer. This wasn’t about him, but she was like a heat-seeking missile and her interrogation was only serving to ramp up his temperature, rendering him a more susceptible target. He moved to the windows, watching the blurred fronds of the palm trees being pelted by the tempest outside. Curse this weather. A glance at his watch told him that they should be in Sydney by now, boarding his private jet and a mere twelve hours or so away from landing in Rubanestein. Whereas right now he was stuck here on this island, with an ungrateful princess who seemed to want to needle him any chance she got and no guarantees that the weather would be any better tomorrow.
‘Feeling better?’ she asked.
‘Define “better”.’
She laughed. And he cursed that even her laugh held that accent that seemed to want to coil its way into—not just his hearing—but through his skin and into his bones.
‘So, do you have a wife—or a lover—at home?’
He spun around. ‘That sounds odd coming from the woman who didn’t seem to care last night that she could invade my bedroom and throw herself at me. And only now you think to ask if I was in a relationship.’
‘I didn’t throw myself at you. I was worried about you.’
He put a hand to his brow. She had a point. It was he who’d had to resist pulling her into the bed and tumbling her beneath him. But it was she who’d put herself into that situation. It was she who’d made his body react.
‘So, is there someone special in your life? Are you married?’
His eyes swept the ceiling. ‘I was.’
‘You were? Separated or divorced?’
He ground his teeth together. ‘I’m—a widower.’
She looked sideswiped. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean—’
Theo didn’t wait to hear what it was she didn’t mean. He shoved his chair back and stood. ‘Now, if you’re done with the questions? Because I sure am.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ISABELLA WATCHED HIMstride from the room. Until her final question, when Theo had snapped, she’d been enjoying the question-and-answer session. The man had to have a weakness somewhere and she was determined to find it. Anything she could glean, she figured, would flesh out more about her captor and had to help her in her quest to escape.
She knew she hadn’t learned enough to save her yet, but she now knew more than she had. Theo was a proud Greek, a protector, a bodyguard—and a widower.
That was news.
She wondered about his late wife. What kind of woman could possibly have tamed this cold and hard man-mountain into a loving husband?
And what had happened to her?
Two things were clear—she’d made him angry by raising the topic. And the other more important thing he’d revealed—he wasn’t in a current relationship. Because she’d given him every opportunity—surely he would have said if he was? Surely he’d be wanting to deter her from making another attempt at invading his bedroom and throwing herself at him?
And yet he’d not said anything.
Interesting.
