Her fingers moved over the sheet, pleating it into neat little folds. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Athens.’
Her eyes flicked to his.
‘Have you been?’
She nodded once. ‘I flew into Athens, but I only spent one night. I’d like to go back at some point. Before I head home.’ She laughed softly. ‘If I ever make it off this damned island.’
‘When the storm breaks, you can leave,’ he said, as much as a reminder to himself as her.
‘But how?’
‘We’ll work it out.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
She was right. He was being deliberately cagey, and he realised why. He liked her not knowing who he was. He liked that she didn’t know about his money, his business, his empire. He liked that they were sitting here, talking as two people, with shared experiences of grief, though she wasn’t aware of his. But why hide the truth from her? He was Nikos Konstantinou, and he had no intention of hiding that from her for ever. He split the difference, in the end, deciding to reveal some details without showing his full biography.
‘I have a small, old helicopter in a clearing behind the cabin,’ he said, voice neutral. ‘I can get the radio working, once the storm stops, get someone to come over for you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘A helicopter?’
He reached for his coffee, took a long drink, then glanced towards the window. ‘I doubt the weather will clear today, though. You’re stuck here a while longer.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I can deal with that.’ Her cheeks flushed pink, and it was easy to understand why. To know what she was thinking, because his mind was going there, too. They had very limited time together, and he wasn’t going to waste it. He’d made his peace with the fact they’d slept together, because it was temporary and meaningless.
Except, maybe it wasn’t completely meaningless. Oh, for Nikos it could never be more than a physical connection, but was it possible he could help heal the wounds her terrible excuse of a husband had created? Could he help put her back together, in the way he should have been able to do for Isabella? It would not cure his guilt, but at least it would be something. An offering to the gods of karma, a righting of the scales, in some small, desperate way.
Genevieve stared at the ceiling, cheeks flushed, body covered in a fine film of perspiration, mouth unable to form words. Brain barely able to conceive of them. What had started with coffee in bed had turned into something else entirely, and hours had passed with them exploring each other’s bodies. His every touch, his kisses, his fascination with her, until a fever had gripped her and she was spiralling into a whole new dimension, unlikely to ever return to this one again. At least, not as she’d once been. This version of Genevieve was completely different. She was fire and flame, awoken and hungry. It was as if he’d turned on a pleasure tap within her, and now she knew it existed, she had to accept that it was a part of her, and always would be.
How strange to have lived her whole life with no concept that she was a sexual person. With no idea that a single touch could set her skin alight.
Even stranger to see how she’d surrendered herself to this. Because with every minute that passed, every raindrop that fell, the heavens were closer to exhausting their supply of tears, and that meant one thing, and one thing only: she would leave again. She would leave this island, return to the small coastal town she’d rented a little room in, and go on with this holiday. The ‘honeymoon’, she’d called it, because it was a trip she’d planned to mark a commitment back to herself. It was a way of celebrating her freedom, and the second phase of her life.
Whatever that would look like.
And whatever her ‘freedom’ meant, because though she’d been able to divorce her husband, he still held the strings. He was her puppet master, and would be until she was able to properly stand on her own two feet. For as long as he held her mother’s medical expenses over her, Genevieve had no choice but to be the contrite, good ex-wife, toeing whatever line he asked her to. Even to come away on this holiday, she’d had to barter with him.
Anger rushed through her, catching her totally unawares, because it was something she was usually able to keep under control. Except with Nikos, somehow, he’d uncorked the passion centres of her body, so now everything was heat and flame.
She pushed up onto one elbow, so she could face him. His eyes were closed, his face held tersely, and she frowned, realising that the last time they’d made love, he’d got straight up and gone to shower. Was he thinking about doing that again?
Was he holding back, for her?
‘If you need to go wash, you can,’ she said, pleased her voice sounded somewhat level.
He turned to face her, eyes landing on hers and causing her heart to thud. ‘That wasn’t about you.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
He reached out, brushing a hand over her cheek. ‘Where are you staying?’
She frowned, not immediately understanding.
‘You said you flew into Athens. Where are you now?’
‘Oh. Katanos,’ she said, naming a small coastal fishing village somewhere across the Aegean. ‘Do you know it?’
