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.’
Colliding unwarily with scorching golden eyes, she felt dizzy but the invisible buzz in the air was wickedly exhilarating. Her skin felt prickly, hot, tight. Her breasts felt full, the pointed tips taut and tender. At the heart of her, she felt…She burned with shame when she realised that just being around Cristos Stephanides excited her in a physical way. That had never happened to her before, not even with Rory. Tearing her troubled gaze from Cristos, she became a hive of cooking activity to give her thoughts a safer focus.
‘How much food is there?’ she asked, refusing to look in his direction lest that indecent sexual longing seize hold of her again and he somehow divine how she was reacting to him.
‘Plenty…’
He watched while she made a stir-fry with staggering speed and efficiency. He was as impressed as a guy who had never even boiled a kettle for himself could be.
‘How do you think they transported us here?’ Betsy enquired when she sat down at the table to eat.
‘My bet is that we were smuggled out as cargo from a private airfield and then brought the last stage of the journey by boat. An odd way to travel home,’ Cristos quipped.
‘Home?’
‘This is a Greek island.’
‘You can’t know that for sure.’
Burnished golden eyes sought and challenged hers. ‘I know. I am Greek and the very air here smells of my homeland.’
Betsy said nothing and ate her meal. He was the sort of guy who always set her back up. He was so full of himself, so arrogant. He knew everything. He even knew things he couldn’t possibly know. Rising from the table, she said stiffly, ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘You should make the most of your rest,’ Cristos murmured equably. ‘We’ll be up at dawn. We need to gather enough wood to light a bonfire and keep it burning. If the smoke is noticed hopefully someone will come to investigate.’
It was a good idea but she didn’t say so because she had decided that he was already well aware of how clever he was. She slid into the cool of the bed, let her weary limbs sink into the comfortable mattress. Somewhere between closing her eyes and stretching out she fell asleep.
A dark male drawl that was already becoming familiar wakened Betsy again. She was deliciously warm and relaxed. ‘We should get up…’
Her lashes lifted and she focused with drowsy admiration on the darkly handsome male face above hers. His black lashes were impossibly long and lush, unnecessary enhancements to eyes of lustrous gold. He was breathtakingly good-looking and devastatingly masculine, two traits that even she recognised were rarely found in one package.
‘I want you to know this is a first,’ Cristos informed her steadily. ‘I’ve never slept with a woman before and not had sex.’
For a split second, Betsy lay there just staring up at him and then the implications of that sardonic assurance of his sank in. Eyes bright with accusation, a feverish flush on her cheeks, she hugged the sheet to her and sat up. ‘You shared this bed with me last night?’
CHAPTER THREE
CRISTOS watched with a maddening air of scientific interest as Betsy lurched out of the bed in comical haste. It shook him that she looked so good first thing in the morning. Coppery red hair flying in tousled waves round her oval face and sheathed only in his crumpled shirt, she was very sexy.
‘You don’t need to act as if you’ve never shared a bed with a man before,’ he said very drily.
‘I haven’t!’ Betsy launched back at him. ‘Nor is it something I can treat like a joke.’
Cristos had never felt less like laughing. ‘Are you saying that you’re…gay?’
Betsy froze and then shook her bright head in wonderment. ‘You really don’t know where I’m coming from, do you?’
Relaxing from his worst-case scenario, Cristos reclined back against the pillows. ‘When you said you’d never shared a bed with a guy, you were obviously exaggerating.’
Betsy folded her arms. Furious as she was with him, she was beginning in a funny way to enjoy herself. ‘And how do you make that out?’