Christos's Promise

She opened her eyes, glanced at him beneath lowered lashes. He looked grim, distant. Gone was the laughter, the fine creases fanning from his eyes.

The luxury sedan bounced down the narrow mountain road, the street unpaved, lurching across a deep pothole. Despite the seat belt, Alysia practically spilled into Christos’s lap. Quickly she righted herself, drawing sharply away. Christos’s mouth pressed tighter.

The silence stretched, tension thick. Squirming inwardly, aware that she’d helped create the hostility, Alysia searched for something to say. “You like Oinoussai?”

“It’s small.”

“Like America.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in faint amusement. “Yes, like America.” The amusement faded from his eyes, his features hardening again.

She felt his dark gaze settle on her face, studying her as dispassionately as one studied a work of art hanging on a museum wall. “Have you ever been to the States before?” he asked.

“No.” She’d always wanted to go, was curious about New York and San Francisco, but she hadn’t had time, nor the opportunity. Thanks to her father, she’d been too busy enjoying the special pleasures of the sanatorium and the convent.

“I have a meeting in Cephalonia, which we’ll sail to from here. And then I thought we could conclude our honeymoon someplace else, someplace you might find interesting before returning to my home on the East Coast.”

Honeymoon. She tensed at the very suggestion. He’d said he wouldn’t force himself on her, said he’d be content to wait. Honeymooning conjured up lovemaking and intimacy and…

She shuddered. This was a mistake. She’d made a mistake. He had to turn the car around, take her back to the convent now.

“We’re not going back to the convent,” he said, still watching her, dark eyes hooded.

Her head snapped up. She stared at him, shocked that he knew what she’d been thinking.

“My dear Mrs. Pateras, you’re not difficult to read. You wear your emotions on your face, they’re all there, right for me to see.”

He tapped her hands, knotted in her lap. “Try to relax a little, Alysia. I’m not demanding sexual favors tonight. I’m not demanding anything from you just yet. You need time. I need time. Let’s try to make this work, learn a little about each other first.”

Angered by his rational tone, finding nothing rational in being coerced into marriage, she lifted her head, temper blazing. “You want to learn about me? Fine. I’ll tell you about me. I hate Greece and I hate Greek men. I hate being treated like a second-class citizen simply because I’m a woman. I hate how money empowers the rich, creating another caste system. I hate business and the ships you treasure. I hate the alliance my father has formed with you because my father detests America and American money—” she drew a breath, shaking from head to toe.

One of his black eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Finished?” he drawled.

“No. I’m not finished. I haven’t even started.” But her outburst had leveled her, and she leaned heavily against the leather upholstery, exhausted, and suddenly silent.

She wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to fighting, to speaking her mind. Her father had never allowed her to say anything at all. Her father never even looked at her.

“What else is bothering you?” Christos persisted, his attention centered on her and nothing but her.

She shook her head, unable to speak another word.

“Perhaps we should leave our philosophic differences for a later date. Those big issues can be overwhelming, hmm?” He smiled wryly, his expression suddenly human. “Why don’t we start with the small things, the daily routines that give us comfort. For example, breakfast. Coffee. How do you take yours? Milk and sugar?”

She shook her head, eyes dry, gritty, throat thick. “Black,” she whispered.

“No sugar?”

She shook her head again. “And yours? Black?”

“I like a touch of milk in mine.” He spoke without rancor, the tone friendly, disarmingly friendly. “Are you an early riser?”

“A night owl.”

“Me, too.”

“Lovely,” she answered bitingly. “We should be perfect together.”

His expression remained blank, yet a hint of warmth lurked in his dark eyes. “A promising beginning, yes, but I do think a week or two alone should help rub some of the edges off, take the newness away. And with that in mind, I’ve cleared my calendar and after this meeting on Cephalonia, will have the next couple weeks free.”

“How accommodating.”

“I try.”

Her exhaustion fed her fear. She felt a fresh wave of panic hit. What if she couldn’t break away? What if he stayed too close, paid too much attention, to allow her to leave? She’d be trapped in this relationship, forced into marriage. The possibility made her almost ill, and a lump lodged in her throat, sealing it closed.

She couldn’t afford to wait. She had to escape, and soon. Before boarding the yacht. Before appearing in public together.

He must have sensed her panic because he suddenly lifted her hand, examined the ring on her finger, before kissing the inside of her wrist. “You don’t have to hate me.”

A tremor coursed through her at the touch of his lips, her blood leaping in her veins. She tried to disengage but his mouth caressed her wrist in another sensitive spot.

“Please don’t,” she said, pulling at her wrist, attempting to free herself from his clasp.

“You smell like lavender and sunshine.”

Anger hardened her voice. “Mr. Pateras, let me go.”

He released her arm and she buried her hand in her lap. Her inner wrist burned, the skin scorched, her pulse pounding.

She hadn’t realized she’d become so sensitive.

Alysia forcibly turned her attention back to the rocky landscape, watching the rough road as they snaked down the hill, kicking up dust and loose gravel. They were nearing the outskirts of town.

An unwanted thought suddenly crossed her mind. “Will I see my father in town?”

“No. He flew out this morning for a meeting in Athens.”

Relief washed over her. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with him right now.

“You don’t care for him much, do you?” Christos asked, checking his watch and then glancing out the window again.

“No.”

“He seems like a decent man.”

“If you like maniacally controlling men.”

His eyebrows lowered, his brow creasing. “He’s tried to do what’s best for you.”