The Stephanides Pregnancy

Cristos swore long and low. He had seen the stark fear blossoming at the back of her eyes and done nothing to assuage it. Was she used to men who lashed out with their fists? That concept shook him. He had never hurt a woman in his life. No woman had ever looked at him in that way before. No woman had ever had cause. He released his breath in a raw exhalation, acknowledging that he had been prepared to use her fear to his own advantage. His continuing health could well depend on what he could learn from Betsy Mitchell, but frightening her had been a wrong move.

Betsy cut up through the sand dunes and scattered the clutch of small wiry sheep grazing there. ‘Relax,’ she told them apologetically, but they kept their distance.

Just as she would keep her distance from Cristos Stephanides until his temper had had time to cool, she decided. In spite of the heat she still felt cold when she thought about Joe Tyler. She doubted that that was even his real name, for he had only come to work at Imperial Limousines after the Stephanides booking had been made. No wonder Joe hadn’t mixed with the other men. His objective must always have been the kidnapping of Cristos Stephanides. But she was mystified as to why Joe Tyler had shown such a keen interest in her from the outset and asked her out.

She sheltered from the sun under a clump of trees and tried not to think about how desperately thirsty she was. She could still see the terracotta roof of the stone house and beyond it another smaller building. A boathouse? A slipway ran between it and the jetty. In every direction she looked the views of sparkling turquoise sea, pale golden sand and lush green vegetation were incredibly beautiful. But she would have given them all up just for a drink. But how were the sheep surviving? Somewhere, she registered, there had to be fresh water.

Trees overhung the stream she found and the water ran so clear that she could see the colour of every pebble. Using her hand as a scoop, she drank deep and long and splashed her face into the bargain. Drowsiness overwhelmed her then and in the cool of the shaded bank she pillowed her head on her arms and let herself sleep.

Betsy wakened with a start, glanced at her watch and realised that she had been dead to the world for hours. Dusk was beginning to roll in and she scrambled upright and headed back in the direction of the beach. On the way there she stumbled and cut her foot on a sharp stone. Peeling off her ruined tights, she examined the wound. It was bleeding freely and she grimaced and ripped up the tights to make an impromptu bandage. Someone had once told her that salt water could act like an antiseptic and she limped with difficulty across the sand and clambered onto the rocks that stretched out into the sea to find a place where she could safely bathe her foot.

Cristos was finishing his fifth complete circuit of the island. As the afternoon had worn on into evening and he could still find no trace of Betsy Mitchell his concern had grown in proportion. He had searched every possible hiding place and come up with nothing. When he saw her standing on the promontory his relief was immense. He strode across the beach towards her. She was standing on one slender leg like a heron but she lacked the bird’s one-legged balance and she was swaying in apparent indifference to danger on the edge of the rocks washed by the surf.

‘Betsy…come back from there!’ Cristos launched at her in the command intonation that always extracted instant unquestioning obedience from his employees.

Betsy was startled by that formidable intervention when in the very act of dipping her throbbing foot into the rock pool she had discovered, and her head flew up. Her attempt to twist round and see him was her downfall because she lost her balance. Her toes had no grip on the slippery rock and she went flying backwards into the sea with a shriek of dismay. She panicked, for the water was deep and the current strong. She was sinking below the surface for the second time, hands frantically beating at the surf, when Cristos, who had never moved so fast in his life, dived in.

She thought her lungs were going to burst. Strong arms grabbed her and buoyed her up out of the water again where she coughed and spluttered and struggled to suck in enough oxygen to satisfy herself. He swam back to the shore with her and heaved her up the beach.

‘I’m OK…’ she gasped.

He said something raw in Greek but the hands that held her were surprisingly gentle. The terror that had engulfed her in those frightening seconds when she had been in the water alone brought a shocked surge of tears to her eyes and, although she was struggling to hold them back, a stifled sob escaped her.

Recognising the depth of her distress, Cristos helped her back towards the house. ‘What have you done to your foot?’

‘I cut it…’

Lean, strong face taut, he bent down and scooped her up to carry her indoors. When he set her down in a bathroom, she was shaking. ‘You’re all right. Nothing is going to happen to you. Nobody is going to harm you,’ Cristos asserted fiercely. ‘You are safe with me…OK?’

She collided with lustrous dark golden eyes and her heartbeat limbered up as if she were about to go for a sprint. ‘OK…’

‘Let me look at your foot.’ He sat her down on the cushioned wicker chair and turned up her sole, ebony brows drawing together when he saw the gash.

‘I want a bath,’ she whispered.

‘You should stay out of the water with that cut.’

‘I smell like seaweed…’ Betsy pointed out.

‘And look like a mermaid…’ Cristos stared down at her. Drenched, her hair was more vibrant than ever but the sun had flushed her pale skin and her clear eyes were as bright and changeable a blue-green as the sea he loved.

‘Something fishy about my legs?’ she teased.

He looked. He knew he shouldn’t because his body was already reacting to the mere presence of hers with a ferocious craving that not even his usual rock-solid discipline could kill. ‘You have incredible legs,’ he told her truthfully, for those slim thighs, elegant knees, narrow ankles and amazingly tiny feet of hers were in his far-from-humble opinion amazing works of art.

She went pink and, suddenly shy of him, she got up to run herself a bath. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she muttered, belatedly recognising the reality that his clothes were wet as well.

He glanced back from the door, inky black lashes low over his brilliant incisive eyes. ‘You can’t swim. Don’t go dancing on the rocks again,’ he warned her drily.

‘I wasn’t dancing…I was trying to bathe that cut in salt water to prevent infection—’

‘You were willing to risk blood-poisoning and drowning sooner than return here?’ Cristos dealt her a stark look of impatience. ‘Stop dramatising yourself—’

Betsy went brick-red with embarrassment. ‘I don’t dramatise myself—’

‘What else were you doing when you ran away from me?’ Cristos slung back with scorn. ‘I don’t abuse women. Have you got that straight, because I don’t want to waste any more time chasing after you? I spent all afternoon searching high and low for you when I should have been concentrating on more important issues—’

‘I didn’t ask you to go looking for me. For goodness’ sake, I was upset. I wake up feeling like hell and find myself in a totally strange place with a very angry guy…’ Recalling the fact that that same guy had undoubtedly saved her life when he’d rescued her from the sea, she squirmed at the awareness that she had yet to thank him for that feat. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the water,’ she added in a small voice.

‘No problem. I wouldn’t dream of letting harm come to you,’ Cristos contended silkily. ‘If you were part of the kidnapping plot, I want you all in one piece to hand over to the police.’

Betsy sent him a furious look from eyes that flashed like emeralds. ‘Get out of here!’

Wide shoulders thrown back, long, lean, powerful length fluid, Cristos sauntered out. On the other side of the door he smiled. It was very easy to get a rise out of her.

Betsy slid into the sunken bath that was embellished with water jets and set in a surround of exquisite multicoloured mosaic tiles. The floor was made of marble. No expense had been spared. The house might look delightfully rustic on the outside but from what little she had noted indoors the finish was more in the luxury millionaire class. Were kidnappers usually so generous to their victims?

Her hair rinsed and squeaky clean, Betsy wrapped herself in a big fleecy towel and padded back out to the bedroom. It rejoiced in Mediterranean-blue painted walls, a giant bed with a carved wood headboard and crisp white lace-edged linen bedding.

Cristos appeared in the doorway. Hair brushed back from his brow and clean-shaven, he was so incredibly attractive that just one look deprived her of the ability to breathe. ‘I used the shower outside.’

In some disconcertion she studied his exquisitely tailored beige chinos and his short-sleeved black shirt. ‘Where did you get the clean clothes?

‘My weekend case travelled with us. Let me have a look at your foot. I found a first-aid kit in the kitchen.’

His hands were cool on her warm skin. His luxuriant black hair gleamed in the fading light arrowing through the window and she was horribly tempted to curve her fingers to his handsome head. Hands curling in on themselves to resist a level of temptation that was new to her, she sat very still while he demonstrated how extremely resourceful he could be with antiseptic and plasters.

‘I’ll loan you a shirt,’ he murmured, vaulting upright again.

Finding that she was too self-conscious to look at him, she turned away, wondering why she got so embarrassed and tongue-tied around him. ‘Nothing here is what you expect,’ she muttered to fill the silence.

‘Isn’t it? I think this is an upmarket honeymooners’ retreat that has been hired purely for our benefit. In the room next door there’s a most incongruous arrangement of flowers and a bottle of celebration champagne awaiting us.’

‘A honeymooners’ retreat?’ She grabbed at the shirt he tossed.

‘The perfect place. Someone choosing to vacation on a tiny deserted island doesn’t want company so whoever is in charge of this place won’t visit. I imagine that there was a radio here for communication in the event of an emergency but that has naturally been removed.’

Betsy slid her arms into the blue shirt and began carefully to roll up the sleeves. Having buttoned the shirt, she gave the towel a discreet jerk to detach it. Watching her, watching her even when he knew he should not, possessed of the very knowledge that she was naked beneath his shirt; Cristos was endeavouring to get a grip on a powerful surge of rampant lust. His own weakness angered him. She was the gorilla’s girlfriend. He was damned if he wanted a kidnapper’s leavings. The cotton was so fine he could see the pale pink crests of her pert breasts, the faint hint of tantalising shadow below her belly. He was damned beyond all hope of reclaim. It was the weird situation, Cristos assured himself grimly. It was making him act out of character, it was making him behave like a testosterone-charged teenager who had only had sex in his own imagination.

‘Right now all I care about is eating.’ Betsy stepped past him out into the spacious reception room beyond. ‘Please tell me there’s food.’

‘Do you cook?’

Betsy entered the pristine kitchen. ‘Abysmally…strong men have been known to weep at my table,’ she lied, heading straight for the fridge.

‘How did you comfort them?’ Cristos enquired huskily.

Hot colour ran in revealing ribbons across her cheeks. ‘I was joking.’