It was James all over again. A man she’d given herself to who’d kept the important pieces of himself locked away.
She ground her teeth to stop from crying, but inside, years of grief and pain were folding around this new rejection and hurt, so she felt physically weakened by everything she’d been through. And this was supposed to have been the start of the new phase of her life. Her pleasure. Her redemption arc.
A single tear rolled down one cheek and she was grateful Nikos was walking to her other side, so she could surreptitiously wipe it away as she turned to look at the stunning view. Now she could see other islands in the distance, and possibly even the mainland. So they had not been so isolated, after all.
The ocean was so deceptively calm now. It was hard to imagine the swell that had tipped her boat clean over, snapping the mast in half.
The ground began to level off, and compressed gravel gave way to sand, down the far end of the cove she’d landed in. If she’d kept walking, she would have eventually found this clearing and been able to walk a much easier path to the cabin, she thought derisively. But the weather had been so bad, she had hardly been able to see five feet in front of herself, much less to the end of the beach.
A small rubber dinghy had been brought right onto the sand. She eyed it simply to avoid looking at Nikos.
‘Genevieve,’ he said, voice deep. She closed her eyes, stomach clenching.
She turned to face him then, waiting, aware that there was a man standing with the rubber dinghy who was also waiting.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, when it really wasn’t. But her marriage to James had taught her to hide her pain and process it later. It was her conditioning, and in that moment she was glad for it.
He stared at her, long and hard.
‘This was just sex,’ she reminded him, pleased her tone sounded light. ‘It was great. Fun. But we always knew I’d leave when I could. So…thanks.’
‘Thanks,’ he repeated, his brows quirking.
She nodded, knowing she needed to leave, but finding her feet strangely recalcitrant. ‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘And good luck. With the island and everything.’ It made no sense. She was babbling. ‘Okay. Bye.’
She turned to walk away from him, plastering a smile on her face as she approached the waiting man, who, to her relief, spoke English, so she was saved the further need of involving Nikos. She gave the name of the town she was staying in, and then went to climb into the dinghy. But Nikos was suddenly there, and her heart went into overdrive with an emotion she’d thought she’d learned to suppress: hope.
He was not there to ask her to stay though. Nor to apologise for keeping something so important secret. He simply held out his hand and offered it to her, to steady her as she stepped into the small rubber boat. She thought about not taking it. She thought about ignoring him. But then, the boat rocked a little and the thought of falling into the ocean at his feet had her weakening, and placing her hand in his, to step onto the craft. Sparks exploded beneath her skin as her body, used now to craving him at the slightest touch, burst with anticipation.
She tried to tamp down on those feelings: she’d never know the pleasure of Nikos’s possession again. And though the storm had cleared, as the man began to row the dinghy towards the large speedboat, she felt as though a dark cloud had appeared, right over her.
She didn’t look back, and he was glad. But for his part, Nikos stayed on the beach, watching the boat, until it had turned into a tiny white dot on the horizon. And the whole time, he told himself he’d done the right thing. He clung to that, until he reached the cabin and saw small signs of her occupancy everywhere. From the neatly made bed—she must have done that while he called Theo then stayed out of the cabin—to the two cups and two plates that were still drying on the edge of the bench from the night before. She was in the Irish strawberries that were in the middle of the table, a pretty arrangement she’d made with the few he’d stuffed into his pockets during the break in the storm. And she was in the bookshelf—the way the cookbook had been placed differently, in haste, by his own hand, made him realise he hadn’t pulled it out to look at it in over a year.
He moved to it now and opened it to the page with the photograph, closing his eyes a moment against the swell of pain that predictably enveloped him.
He pressed a finger to Isabella, guilt and grief mixing to push everything else from his mind. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, but he could no longer be sure if he was talking about Isabella or Genevieve.
For the first time in a long time, he dreamed of Isabella. It was a little like a memory, yet it was different from what had actually happened. She looked different. Her hair was short and her eyes were blue.Why won’t you fight with me? Why won’t you shout and yell?He’d never shouted. Why would he? She’d never made him angry, she’d never made him anything other than frustrated, and even then, he’d simply wanted her to be happy.You keep so much of yourself locked up. I hate it! Don’t you think I deserve the respect of honesty, at least? Don’t you think I deserve that, Nikos?
She’d said that often. She’d worried he was cheating, when, of course, he never would. He had simply worked long hours. But to Isabella, honesty had been the hallmark of a good relationship. It had been everything to her. Which was why she’d told him when she’d slept with another man. Only she’d told him in that way of wanting to hurt him, of hoping it might mean he would show something more to her. That it might snap him out of his obsessive work fog. It hadn’t. He’d asked if she wanted a divorce, and she’d sobbed, shaken her head, and fallen into his arms. He’d forgiven her easily. It was Isabella; he’d wanted her to be happy.
She deserves the truth, too. Don’t be like her husband. Don’t hurt when you can heal.
The words were in his dream, but they might as well have been a sledgehammer against his temple, for how they acted to wake him up. He pushed up in the bed and stared at the wall opposite, his mind spinning over that, his breath coming in rushed fits and spurts.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt Genevieve. His own pain was something he relished, something he sought at every opportunity. But Genevieve, he’d wanted to help. To heal, just as Isabella, in his dreams, had said.
The thought of Genevieve being back in Katanos, being hurt that he didn’t tell her about Isabella, thinking that it was in some way a reflection of her, rather than it being whohewas, and he knew he couldn’t leave things as they were. He’d had three long years to carry his guilt. There was nothing he could do for Isabella now, except suffer because of how he’d treated her. But at least he could explain to Genevieve. It was the very least he owed her.
Chapter Eight
KATANOS WAS Asmall coastal town, and though it was very beautiful, it was not really set up to cater for tourists. In summer, she could imagine it might be busier, but now, in winter, the place was quiet, populated sparsely with locals. She’d had her choice of the two hotels, and had opted for the smaller, because it had sweeping views out over the water. Now, however, she couldn’t look towards the windows without thinking of Nikos. In the distance, she was sure she could make out the cliff faces of his island, the dense forest that covered them, and any time she happened to glance in that direction, she felt a pounding of blood in her ears.
An anger and hurt, a twisting inside her to know she’d never see him again. It was what they’d agreed to, and she’d known it all along, but, despite her best efforts, he’d got under her skin.
She’d become used to him.
She’d allowed herself to like him. Maybe, in the very back of her mind, even to wantmorefrom him. How stupid was she? After everything she’d been through with James, she should have been giving all men a seriously wide berth. Not falling into bed with the first willing partner.
