Ethan's Temptress Bride

This was blatant baiting, Eve recognised, and foolishly took it. ‘Accounts for what?’

‘The annoyingly adolescent desire to insult and shock.’

He was so right, but oh, it hurt. Why had she willingly let herself fall into that? Eve had no defence, none at all and she had to turn to stare out to sea so that he wouldn’t see the sudden flood of weak tears that were trying to fill her eyes.

And who was the adolescent who made that cutting comment? Ethan was grimly asking himself, as he looked at her standing there looking like an exotic flower that had been cut down in its prime. Oh, damn it, he thought, and walked through the gate, meaning to get the hell away from this before he—

He couldn’t do it. Muscles were tightening all over his body on wave after wave of angry guilt. What had she ever done to him after all? If you didn’t count a couple of teasing come-ons and letting him catch her in a heated clinch with someone else’s man.

She’d also caught him naked and had had a full view of his embarrassing response, but he didn’t want to think about that. Instead he took in a deep breath and spun back to say something trite and stupid and hopefully less—

But he found he was too late because she had already walked off, a tall slender figure with a graceful stride and a proud yet oddly vulnerable tilt to her head. Still cursing himself for the whole stupid conversation, Ethan made himself walk up the path. Though, as he reached the shade of the veranda, he couldn’t resist a quick glance sideways and saw Eve was about to enter her house. One part of him wanted to go after her and apologise, but the major part told him wisely to leave well alone.

Eve Herakleides could mean trouble if he allowed himself to be sucked in by her frankly magnetic appeal. He didn’t need that kind of stimulation. He didn’t want to end up in the same fated boat he had been in before with a woman just like her.

What was it that Jack had called it? ‘Lusting after the unattainable.’ Eve was destined to higher things than a mere architect had to offer—as her grandfather would be happy to tell him. But it was the word lust that made Ethan go inside and firmly close his door.

CHAPTER THREE

EVE tried to enjoy the party. In fact she threw herself into the role of life and soul with an enthusiasm that kept everyone else entertained.

But the scene with Ethan Hayes had taken the edge off her desire to enjoy anything tonight. And she was worried about Aidan. He had been drinking steadily since he’d arrived at the bar on the beach late this afternoon and his mood suited the grim compulsion with which he was pouring the rum down his throat.

Not that anyone else seemed to have noticed, she realised, as she watched him do his party trick with a cocktail shaker and bottle of something very green to the laughing encouragement of the rest of the crowd, whereas she felt more like weeping.

For Aidan—for herself? In truth, she wasn’t quite sure. On that low note she surrendered to the deep doldrums that had been dogging her every movement tonight and slid open one of the glass doors that led onto the terrace. Then she stepped out into the warm dark night, intending to walk across the decking to the terrace rail that overlooked the sea—only it came as a surprise to discover that she was ever so slightly tipsy, so tipsy in fact that she was forced to sink onto the first sunbed she reached just in case she happened to fall down.

Well, why not? she thought with a little shrug, and slipping off her shoes she lifted her feet up onto the cool, cushioned mattress, then relaxed against the raised chair back with a low long sigh. The air was soft and seductively quiet, the earlier threatened storm having passed them by. Reclining there, she listened to the low slap of lazy waves touching the shore, and wondered dully how much longer she needed to leave it before she could escape to brood on her own terrace without inviting comment here?

At least Aidan was already in the right place for when he eventually sank into a drunken stupor, she mused heavily. This was his home, or the one he liked to call home of several the family had dotted around this tiny bay. With a bit of luck he was going to slide under a convenient table soon and she could get some of the guys to put him to bed, then forget about him and his problems for a while and concentrate on her own.

She certainly had a few, Eve acknowledged through the mud of her half-tipsy state. Ethan Hayes and his horrible attitude towards her was one of them. Her grandfather in his whole, sweet, bullying entirety was another. The older he got, the more testy he became, and more determined to run her life for her. She smiled as she thought that about him though, and allowed her mind to drift back to the last conversation she’d had with him over the phone before she’d flown out here from her London flat.

‘Grandpa, will you stop trying to marry me off to every eligible man you happen to meet?’ she scolded, ‘I am only twenty-three years’ old, for goodness’ sake!’

‘At twenty-three you should be suckling my first grandson at your breast while the next grows big in your belly,’ he complained.

‘Barefoot I presume, while making baklava for my very fat husband.’

Eve hadn’t been able to resist it, she chuckled into the night at the outrageous scenario.

‘Spiridon is not fat.’

‘But he is twice my age.’

‘He is thirty-nine,’ the old man corrected. ‘Very handsome. Very fit. The ladies worship him.’

‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to foist me off with the most notorious rake in Greece,’ she rebuked. ‘I thought you loved me better than this.’

‘You are the unblemished golden apple of my eye!’ Theron Herakleides announced with formidable passion. ‘I merely want you to remain that way until I see you safely married before I die.’

‘Die?’ she repeated. He was bringing out the big guns with that remark. ‘Now listen to me, you scheming old devil,’ she scolded, ‘I love you to bits. You are the love of my life! But if you stick one—just one—eligible man in front of me I will never speak to you again—understand?’

‘Ne,’ the old man answered, gruff-voiced and tetchy. ‘Yes, I understand that you bully a sick and lonely old man.’

Sick, she did not believe, but lonely she did. ‘See you soon, Grandpa,’ she softly ended the conversation.

And she would do—sooner than she’d thought too—because her grandfather was making a flying visit here tomorrow just to spend her birthday with her. The prospect softened her whole face. She loved that stubborn, bad tempered old man almost to distraction. He had been both her mother and father for so many years now that she could barely recall the time when she hadn’t looked to him for every little thing she might need.

But not a husband, she quickly reminded herself. That was one decision in her life out of which he was going to have to learn to keep his busy nose!

Why a sudden image of Ethan Hayes had to flash across her eyes at that moment, Eve refused to analyse, but it put a dark frown upon her face.

‘Here, try this…’ Glancing up she found Raoul Delacroix standing beside her holding out a tall glass full of a pinkish liquid decorated with just about everything, from a selection of tropical fruit pieces to several fancy cocktail sticks and straws.

‘What’s in it?’ she asked warily.

‘Aidan called it tiger juice with a bite,’ Raoul replied.

Tiger juice, how appropriate, Eve mused dryly, thinking of Ethan Hayes again.

‘I’m game, if you are,’ Raoul said, bringing her attention to the other glass of the same he was holding. ‘It might help take the scowl from your face that you seem to have been struggling with all evening.’

Had her bad mood been that apparent? Eve accepted the glass without further comment, but as Raoul lowered himself onto the sunbed next to hers, she felt a fizz of anger begin to bubble inside because she knew whose fault it was that she was feeling like this!

If she didn’t watch out, Ethan Hayes could be in danger of becoming an obsession.

‘Salute.’ Raoul’s glass touching the edge of hers brought her mind swinging back to where it should be.

‘Cheers,’ she replied, unearthed a curly straw from the rest of the pretty junk decorating the glass, put it to her lips and sucked defiantly.

The drink tasted a little strange but not horribly so. She looked at Raoul, he looked at her. ‘What do you think?’ she asked him curiously.

‘Sexy,’ he murmured with a teasingly lecherous grin. ‘I can feel my toes tingling. I will now encourage the sensation to reach other parts.’ With that he took another pull on his straw.

Laughing at his outrageousness, Eve did the same, and it became a challenge as to which of them could empty the glass of Aidan’s wicked brew first. After that she remembered little. Not the glass being rescued from her clumsy fingers nor the light-hearted banter that went on around her as the rest of the crowd discussed where the birthday girl should be placed to sleep it off. Aidan offered a bed, someone else suggested she was perfectly fine where she was. Raoul reminded them that her grandfather was due in on the dawn flight, so maybe the wisest place for him to find her tomorrow was in her own bed. This drew unilateral agreement because no one wanted to explain to Theron Herakleides why his precious granddaughter had been so rolling drunk she hadn’t even made it home. Raoul offered to deliver her there since it was on the way to his villa, and he’d only had one glass of alcohol. Everyone agreed because no one else felt sober enough to make the drive.

It was all very relaxed, very light-hearted. No one thought of questioning Raoul’s motives as they watched him carry Eve to his car. They were all such long-standing friends after all. All for one, one for all.

CHAPTER FOUR

ETHAN came shooting out of a deep sleep to the sound of a woman’s shrill cry. Lying there in his bed with his heart pounding in his chest he listened for a few moments, uncertain that it hadn’t been someone screaming in his dream.

Then the second cry came, and he was rolling out of bed and landing on his feet before the sound had come to a chillingly abrupt halt. Grabbing up a pair of beach shorts he pulled them on, then began moving fast out of his bedroom, across the sitting room and through the front door, where he paused to look around for some clue as to where the cries had come from.

It was pitch black outside and whisper-quiet; nothing stirred—even the ocean was struggling to make a sound as it lapped the shore. Peering out towards the sea, he was half expecting to see someone in difficulties out there, but no flailing silhouette broke the moon-dusted surface. The cries had been close—much closer to house than the water.

Then it came again, and even as he swung round to face Eve’s beach house he saw the shadowy figure of a man slink down the veranda steps.