Andreas shrugged, a wry smile on his face. ‘The volcano is rebuilding itself. Sometimes the island rumbles with the reconstruction, and sometimes she makes herself known in more obvious ways and lets off a little steam, but for the most part the earth is quiet. You are no doubt much safer here than on the streets of London.’
She breathed out. ‘Maybe you’re right, but Kangaroo Crossing is looking better by the minute. We lack the views of course, there’s nothing but red dust and Spinifex bushes as far as the eye can see, but at least it comes with no nasty surprises.’
‘You mean you don’t have poisonous spiders or snakes? What part of Australia is this?’ And she had the grace to blush.
‘Come,’ Andreas said, ‘let’s eat, and then I must return to work. There is a pool on the lower terrace where you can swim or you can explore the town on foot. Do you think you will be able to amuse yourself during the day?’
‘I’m sure I will,’ said Cleo, surprised by his apparent interest in her, but her attention snagged as she sat before the breakfast table laden with what looked more like a feast. There were bowls of creamy yoghurt drizzled with honey and platters of
pastries and rolls along with a selection of cheeses and fruit from which to choose.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘and then tonight I will show you the sunset and you will see it’s not so bad to live on a cliff top overlooking a volcano.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ she said, ridiculously pleased with herself when she caught his answering smile.
Refreshing was the word, he decided as he headed towards the suite of offices housed within the mansion. There was an innocence about her, a lack of sophistication that was charming.
Did she really fear for her safety here on Santorini when she came from a country with a reputation for its dangerous wildlife? It was laughable.
‘Andreas, you’re back at last.’ Petra perched herself on the edge of his desk, crossed her legs and smiled, flashing two rows of perfect white teeth between blood-red lips. ‘Your mother called.’
He didn’t miss the show of leg revealed by the split in the skirt, a skirt he’d never seen before. Was it his imagination or was Petra putting up a fight for his attention, first with her skin-tight clothes display last night, and now a skirt that was split to her thigh? ‘Did she leave a message?’
‘She said she’d like you to visit, said she hasn’t seen you for ages. I said you’d call her back later.’
Andreas wondered what else she might have said. ‘Was there anything else?’
Petra looked miffed, the coffee she’d brought them both forgotten. Coffee together in his office around this time of day had been almost a daily ritual, where they would discuss whatever business had arisen or opportunities that might be in the offing. To him, there’d been nothing more in it than one colleague talking to another. Clearly Petra had read things differently.
‘No, nothing.’ She eased herself off his desk, straightening her skirt with her hands, the motion accentuating her cleavage. So different from Cleo’s ingenuous innocence that he almost felt sorry for her. Cleo didn’t have to play games to draw attention to herself. He’d noticed her attributes even before the makeover experts had woven their magic. Hers was a natural beauty, fragile, buried under a lifetime of feeling not good enough.
Cleo was more than good enough. Having her in his bed last night and trying not to touch her had been sheer torture. Only when he had been sure she’d drifted off, he’d allowed himself to gather her against him and breathe in the subtle scent of her skin and hair. Without even realising, she’d spooned her body next to his and it had taken every shred of self-control he owned to leave her sleeping when every part of him had been screamingly awake.
‘Although,’ Petra continued so abruptly that he looked up, surprised to see her still there, ‘I guess I should remind you about the Kalistos ball tonight. You’ll be taking Cleo, I imagine. Otherwise you and I could travel together…’
‘Of course, I’m taking Cleo,’ he barked as he sent her on her way. He suppressed a groan as he leaned back in his chair. What was wrong with him? It was clearly marked on his diary, but at breakfast he’d forgotten all about the ball and was thinking in terms of sunsets with Cleo instead. He knew what he’d rather do. But with Kalistos still to give his decision on Andreas’ latest proposal to tie their businesses together, a proposal that could benefit both companies to the tune of millions of Euros, there was no way he couldn’t show up. As for taking Cleo, she was starting to relax with him, but ideally he’d like another day or two before he could be sure she’d be completely convincing on his arm.
Another day or two he didn’t have.
Cleo had never been more nervous in her life. She’d wondered why Mme Bernadette had insisted on her taking the numerous
gowns and had half suspected she’d been merely feathering her own nest—a Greek island sojourn surely wouldn’t require ball gowns?—and yet here she was, dressed in the pale gold halter-neck gown, her hair piled high on her head with coils trailing around her face courtesy of the hairdresser Andreas had sent to their suite, curtailing her sightseeing plans for today.
Andreas hadn’t helped relax her when he’d taken one look at her and whistled low through his teeth, sending her pulse and her senses skittering. And he certainly wasn’t helping relax her now as they drove down the windy switchback road to the port.
‘Constantine Kalistos is not only one of the major business and political leaders on the island, but also owns the largest charter boat operation in Greece,’ he told her, in a tone that suggested she should be taking notes. ‘He’s considering a business proposal I put to him and he’s the main reason we’re here tonight. He’s the perfect host but, at the same time, he’s a man you don’t want to offend.’
Cleo battled to absorb the information, growing more nervous by the second as the car pulled closer to a wharf lit with coloured lanterns, music spilling from the massive yacht moored alongside, couples dripping with jewellery and designer fashions emerging from the limousines and sports cars lined up before them.
Help.
She’d never been on a boat bigger than a canoe and she’d never been to any function more glamorous than the Kangaroo Crossing Bachelor and Spinster Ball, where Akubras were just as likely sighted as bow ties. She swallowed. There were no Akubras here.
Andreas followed her from the car, his hand collecting hers, and she’d never been more grateful to have him alongside. She was so nervous she was sure she was going to wobble straight off her gold kidskin spike-heeled sandals, especially as she
stumbled with the gentle movement of the gangplank under her feet.
‘Relax,’ Andreas whispered, setting her coiling hair dancing around her ear. ‘And smile. You’ll be fine.’ And then he was tugging her forward, onto the brightly lit boat with the even more brightly lit people, and they were greeting Andreas and giving her openly curious glances and she wondered how a girl from Kangaroo Crossing got to be here, in a softly swaying yacht filled with Santorini’s who’s who with clearly the most handsome man on the island. One look around at the glittering attendees was enough to confirm that.
‘Are you okay?’ Andreas asked softly, breaking off a greeting to someone, and she looked up into his dark eyes, confused. ‘I thought you wanted something,’ he added. ‘You squeezed my arm.’ And she smiled and nodded, not even having realised she’d done it. ‘I’m fine,’ she told him, wishing for nothing more than for the butterflies in her stomach to settle down.
Something passed between them then, some spark of approval or warmth, she didn’t know what to call it, but she felt it in his glance all the way down to her lacquered toenails, and she knew from his answering smile that he’d felt it too. So what if the only thing that bound them was a business contract? Would it be so wrong to like the man into the deal?
Someone slipped a glass of champagne into her hand as the boat slipped from port and Cleo felt the first uneasy twinge as the vessel rocked sideways before pulling away. Slowly it built up speed in preparation for its circuit of the islands and Cleo prayed that they’d soon find calm water as the butterflies turned to moths. Somersaulting moths. She forced a smile to her lips as Andreas introduced her to more and more people, all of whom seemed oblivious to the motion, and all the while shuffling on her stiletto heels in search of the ever-elusive balance as the boat sliced through the gentle swell.
She abandoned the barely touched glass of champagne, exchanging it for water, which still failed to settle her stomach. The fresh air on deck didn’t help, not when all she could notice was the line of lights atop the cliffs moving up and down and the passenger catamaran skipping away from them on the seas. When perspiration started beading at her forehead, she knew she was in trouble.
‘Andreas,’ she said, one hand on her stomach as they moved between groups on the deck. ‘I don’t feel—’
‘Andreas! There you are.’
Cleo stepped back, wondering if she could just slip away as Andreas was swept into a man’s embrace, his back slapped by one beefy hand. It was no mean feat given the man barely came up to Andreas’ shoulders, his black jacket widest around his ample stomach, and his features creased and heavy with age and excess.
‘Constantine,’ Andreas said, ‘it is always a great pleasure. Allow me to introduce Cleo Taylor, all the way from Australia.’
‘Ah,’ said the beaming Greek, his eyes sizing her up and taking her hand gallantly. ‘Then it is in fact my pleasure.’ He held out a hand and gestured around him. ‘Tell me, what do you think of my little runaround?’
It was hitting the ferry’s wake that did it. Her stomach felt as if it had speared into the sky only to be slammed down again and she knew it was too late. If she opened her mouth, she was lost. She pushed her glass into Andreas’ free hand, shoved a path between the two men and bolted for the bathroom.
W
HAT
had he been thinking? Cleo was hopeless. A blow-up doll would have made a more convincing mistress. And the look Constantine had given him when they’d been offloaded back on shore had spoken volumes. Andreas wasn’t holding out for good news in that department any time soon. The ‘I told you so’ look Petra had thrown his way as they’d disembarked hadn’t helped.
The car slowly wound its way up the cliff-face road, the lights of Con’s yacht heading once more for the sea, the music and laughter drifting upwards on the breeze, rubbing salt into his wounds, while alongside him Cleo sat hunched and looking despondently out of her window.
Damn it, was it too much to ask to get
something
for his million dollars?
Carrying her shoes in one hand, Cleo made straight for the bathroom where she spent at least five times the recommended daily time with her toothbrush and at least that again holding a cold towel to her red and swollen eyes. Andreas had thankfully kept silent all the way home, although she’d known that simmering silence would erupt at some stage, especially after the pleasure boat had had to make a special trip back to the wharf to drop them off.
So be it. She knew she was already a disappointment to him. And now she’d probably blown a million-Euro business deal. But she’d warned him she wasn’t the right woman for the job. Maybe now he might listen. Maybe now he would let her go. If he didn’t throw her out first.
She sniffed, close to tears again. Did it matter? Either way, she was going.
He was sitting on the bed, flinging off first one shoe and then the other when she emerged. Following them with his silk socks. Without following her progress across the room, he spoke. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you get seasick?’
She stopped, just short of pulling open the wardrobe door. So the volcano was about to erupt? She was surprised he’d kept quiet this long. ‘Maybe I didn’t know.’
This time he did look up, disbelief plain on his features. ‘How could anyone not know?’
‘I’ve never been on a boat before. There’s not a big call for boats where I come from.’
He answered with nothing more than a grunt. ‘It could have been worse,’ she offered, trying to sound light but having to bite down on her lip to counter the prick of tears.
‘Do you think? Do you really think it could have been worse?’
‘Sure. I could have thrown up all over the both of you.’
‘You might just as well have, for all the good taking you tonight is going to do me.’
She closed her eyes and swayed against the door, liquid spilling from her eyes, and the sound of his clothes hitting the floor piece by piece like a series of exclamation marks. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath and reached in, hauling out her pack from the depths of the wardrobe. ‘It won’t happen again. There’s no way it will happen again.’
Andreas seemed to come from nowhere, his arms forcing
her around even as she clung onto the pack. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face. But it was no compensation that her eyes were met by the wall of his naked chest, a naked chest she’d never see the likes of again after tonight. ‘I can’t do this, Andreas,’ she said as her mind set about imprinting every square centimetre of his perfect skinscape on her memory while he slipped the pack from her hands. ‘I’m going home.’
‘You can’t go. We have a contract!’
‘I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I’m hopeless in this role, and you know it.’
‘No! That’s not true.’ He didn’t know where the words came from. Hadn’t he thought the very same thing himself tonight? But he had no answer for that mystery. All he knew was that he couldn’t let her go, couldn’t let her walk out of his life. Not like this. Not when he knew the sunshine of her smile. Not when he knew he was the one who had taken it away from her.
She tried to shrug away, even as his thumbs stroked her collarbone. ‘You don’t have to try to be nice to me. I know you’re angry and you have a right to be. I told you I wasn’t the right person for this job. I’m a cleaner. A cleaner who jumps every time you touch her. A cleaner who’s just discovered she gets seasick. Not exactly an asset to you.’
‘Not every time.’
She blinked up at him, frowning. ‘What?’
‘You don’t jump every time. You’re not jumping now. And I’m touching you. And I’d like to go on touching you.’
Her blue eyes widened. ‘Andreas?’
And he answered her question the only way he knew how. With a kiss that he hoped would tell her he wanted her to stay. That he didn’t want her to leave. He drew her closer against him, until the silk of her golden gown pressed warm and
slippery and seductive against his skin. He managed to prise his lips away from hers long enough to say the words. ‘I want to make love to you, Cleo.’
She was gasping for breath, and no doubt searching for reason. ‘The contract…’ she uttered.
‘This is nothing to do with the contract. This is between you and me. Make love with me, Cleo.’
Did he mean that? Her thought processes were blurred, her senses packed to overload. What he could do to her skin with the touch of one thumbnail. What he could do to her breasts with just the brush of one fingertip. What he could do with one whispered request…
‘Make love with me.’
He wasn’t playing fair. Sex as a by-product of their arrangement—it should be clinical and dispassionate, surely. And then she could be rational and sensible in her rebuttal. But this assault was like a drug, winding logic into sensual knots, feeding into those parts of her that longed for more of what Andreas could provide.
His hands slid down her arms, captured her breasts and forced the air from her lungs.
‘Make love with me.’
And the only answer she could find was to lift her hands behind her neck and unclip her halter top, so that the fabric slid down over the hands that now supported her breasts.
He growled then, and swept her into his arms, carrying her like a prize and laying her down on the bed, peeling down the silk until her breasts lay exposed to his gaze. She watched him watching her, her hands around his neck, his dark eyes heavy with longing, and never had she wanted anything more.
And then she felt nothing beyond the ecstasy of his hot mouth on her breast, his tongue hungrily circling her nipple.
‘Andreas,’ she implored, not knowing why or what she wanted. He growled a laughing response and she almost cried
out in despair when he withdrew and cold air replaced where he’d been, only for his mouth to claim the other. His hands scooped her sides, moulding to her flesh, drinking it in as his lips drew her breast deeper into the furnace of his mouth.
Somewhere in some vague recess of her mind, she was aware of his hand at her back, and the downward buzz of a zipper, but it was the sensation of the silken gown sliding down her body that took precedence and the feel of his hot mouth at her belly.
Some time, she couldn’t remember when, she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair. It was thick and silky, the waves curling around her fingers possessively.
And then there was nothing between them but underwear, nothing that could disguise his need or hide her want.
Oh, God!
The panic welled up even as his hand scooped down her body, from shoulder, over breast, to stomach, to
there
, where she forgot about panic and ached instead with something that felt like desperation. His fingers slipped under the lace, scooping low, driving her crazy with his feather-light touch.
And then so gently, so tenderly he parted her and her back arched from the bed. She could feel what he could, her slickness, the moistness that let his fingertips glide against her tender flesh like satin over silk, while his thumb circled a tight bud of nerves that combined agony with ecstasy, the pressure building and building until they screamed for release.
His lips found her nipple and it was Cleo who screamed, Cleo whose world fractured and split apart in a blinding explosion of colour and sensation that left her shattered and gasping in his hands.
She was more responsive than he’d imagined and now he wanted her more than ever! He dispensed with his underwear
and reached for protection in almost the same movement. The scrap of lace hit the floor in the next as he kissed his way up her still-shuddering body, positioning himself over her. He’d known he would enjoy her body. She was lush and curvy and her breasts filled his hands better than he could have hoped.
His erection bucked, eager now, and more than ready. Still, he took a moment to lap at one rose-coloured nipple, to nuzzle at her neck before brushing the hair from her turned-away face and pressing his lips to her cheek, only to taste salt.
He took her chin in his hand and pulled it around to face him. Tracks stained her cheeks, moisture clung to the lashes of her closed eyelids and her lips were firmly pressed together. ‘You’re crying? Did I hurt you?’
Reluctantly her blue eyes opened to him. Awash with tears, they looked the colour of the sea as she slowly shook her head, swiping at her eyes with one hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed, ‘but that’s never happened to me before. I didn’t know…’
Never happened?
Confusion clouded his mind for a moment, clearing just as quickly as a wave of fury rolled over him. He sat up. ‘You are a virgin!’
Vlaka!
He was such a fool. He left the bed and strode across to a wardrobe, plucking out a robe that he lashed around himself, giving the tie a savage tug. No wonder she had been so coy, so sensitive to his touch. No wonder she had been so bad an actress! She had been touched by nobody!
He rounded on the bed, to where the girl now sat huddled over her knees, scrabbling for her golden gown in an effort to cover her nakedness. A virgin! That was the last thing he needed. ‘You told me you had slept with men before! You told me you were not a virgin. What the hell are you doing here?’
She dropped her head onto her knees as a fresh flood of tears spilled from his eyes, only magnifying his fury.
‘What kind of woman are you? Were you so hungry for money that you would risk that which is most precious to you?’
‘No,’ she cried, raising her tear-stained face up at him, ‘because I’d already thrown that away for nothing!’
She sniffed again and swiped the back of one hand across her cheeks, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing, the gown bunched ineffectually around her. ‘I’m not a virgin, if that makes you feel any better. So you don’t have to worry about deflowering me. Somebody else got there first.’
He supposed he should have been relieved. He watched her flight for the bathroom while he stood there wondering why all of a sudden that thought was somehow so very unappealing.
‘You made out like you’d had sex plenty of times.’
She didn’t even turn around. ‘So sue me.’
‘But you’ve never even had an orgasm.’
This time she did, glaring over her shoulder at him. ‘I don’t recall seeing that condition in the fine print.’
He consumed the distance between them in a handful of purposeful strides, catching her by the arm just short of the bathroom door and swinging her around to face him.
‘So why not? How many times have you had sex? How many men?’
She looked down at his hand on her arm, before turning her face slowly up to his. The tracks of her tears had messed up whatever had been left of her make-up. There were dark smudges under her blue eyes and her hair was still tangled and messy from thrashing her head around when she’d climaxed.
When she’d climaxed for the very first time.
He’d given her that.
Despite the tears and smudges and tangled hair he saw only that. He felt the thrum of blood return, the heaviness building once again in his groin.
‘How many?’
‘One.’
And he felt himself frown. ‘One man?’
Her eyes looked sad and pained at the same time, before she blinked and turned her head away and he knew.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She flinched and tried to pull away and he couldn’t blame her. He’d growled out the words so harshly that even to his own ears his question had sounded more like an accusation. But damn it, she was supposed to be pretending to be his mistress. ‘You should have told me, instead of making out you’d had sex plenty of times.’
Her head snapped around, her blue eyes blazing. ‘You think it’s easy to admit to someone you barely know that you’ve had sex only once and it was so lousy anyway you really wish you hadn’t bothered? Especially when sex isn’t part of the deal.’ She gave an exaggerated shrug to accompany a wide-eyed look of innocence. ‘And you so understanding. Heck, why didn’t I tell you?’
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to tell her she’d been wrong ever thinking she could pull this off, that she should have admitted the truth when he’d first put his proposition to her, and maybe he would do both of those things, but first of all there was a raw pain in her liquid eyes that made him want to tear somebody else limb from limb first.
‘Who was he?’
‘It doesn’t matter. He was just some guy. It was just for a laugh.’
But her eyes told him differently.
He cupped her neck in one hand and drew her head to his shoulder. For a moment she stayed stiff but the strumming of his fingers on her skin soon soothed away her resistance. ‘But it was no good. At least, not for you.’
She gave what he suspected was meant to be a laugh, but came out more like a hiccup. ‘It was awful. It hurt and it was over in no time but I thought…’
He drew her closer into a hug. What kind of man was so uncaring of an innocent? ‘You thought what?’
She shrugged and tried to lift her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was flat and lifeless but her body was warm and pliant against his, as if she’d forgotten to be afraid. His fingers stroked her neck, tracing the bones of her spine up into her hair and then down again.
Her scent surrounded him, the smell of her hair, the remnants of her fragrance and the warm scent of her earlier arousal. She had come apart in his arms. His and nobody else’s and the knowledge made him hard. She was almost a virgin and she needed to know it could be better. He kissed her hair and breathed deep.