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.”
A lead weight dropped in her stomach. Christos Pateras didn’t know the half of it! Her father had never done what’s best for her. It’d always been about him.
She could forgive her father many things, but she’d never forgive him for neglecting her mother in the final weeks of her life. As her mother lay dying in that marble mausoleum of a house, Darius never once reached out to her; no acknowledgment of her pain, no interest in bringing closure, no awareness of her needs.
He should have been there for her. He owed that much to her. How could he not have cared?
A lump formed in her throat, and narrowing her eyes, Alysia concentrated very hard on the rocky landscape beyond her closed window.
“I wish I’d had the pleasure of knowing your mother.”
The lead weight seemed to swell in size, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Gritty tears burned at the back of her eyes. “She was beautiful.”
“I’ve seen photographs. She once modeled, didn’t she?”
“It was a charity event. My mother was dedicated to her causes. I think if my father had let her, she would have done more.” Her voice sounded thick with emotion.
“You must miss her.”
Dreadfully, she thought, struggling to maintain her control. She was finding it almost impossible to juggle so many contradictory emotions at one time. The whole last year had been like this, too. The loss of her mother on top of the others…
It was too much. She sometimes didn’t know where to go for strength and had to fight very hard to reach inside herself for the courage to continue.
“Your mother liked Greece?” Christos persisted.
“She tolerated it,” Alysia answered huskily, patting her shift pocket for a tissue. Her eyes were watering, her nose burned, she felt like an absolute mess. And to top it all off Christos was looking at her with such concern that she felt as though she were covered in cracks, threatening to break in two.
“Too oppressive?” he mused.
“Too hot.” She smiled for the first time all afternoon. Mother had hated the heat; she positively wilted in it. “Mum pined for the English grays and cool greens the way some pined for lost love.”
Christos laughed softly, his expression surprisingly gentle. But his gentleness would be her undoing. Alysia stiffened her spine, reminding herself that she couldn’t trust his smile, or his warmth. He wasn’t just any man; he was a man handpicked by her father and tainted.
Christos Pateras married her for money.
He was as bad, if not worse, than her father.
Flatly, no emotion left, she asked about her things. “Will I have any of my books or photos sent to me? And my wardrobe? What’s happened to that?”
“Everything’s already been transferred to the yacht. Your entire bedroom was boxed up and put in the ship’s storage.”
Shock rivaled indignation. “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I had your father’s support.”
“Obviously. But what I want to know is how? And why?” Her father had never liked Americans, and detested foreign money. “Why did he go to you? What made you so special?”
“I had what he needed. Money. Lots of it.”
“And what did he give you in exchange?”
Christos’s dark eyes gleamed at her, a faint smile playing his lips. “You.”
“Aren’t you lucky.”
He shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Anyway, your father is happy. He won’t bother you anymore.” He turned a smoldering gaze on her. “I won’t let him.”
She heard the promise in his voice, and a hint of menace, too. For a moment Christos Pateras sounded like a street-boxer, an inner city thug, but then he smiled, a casual, relaxed smile, and she felt herself melt, her chilly insides warming, her fear dissipating ever so slightly. Truthfully she’d welcome a buffer between her and her father. He’d made her life nearly unbearable. She needed to get away.
Elegant whitewashed villas came into view, along with the sparkling harbor waters. The late-afternoon sun illuminated the bay. “There’s my yacht,” Christos said, leaning forward to point out a breathtaking ship of luxurious proportions.
She leaned forward, too, her breath catching in her throat. The yacht might prove to be just as confining as the convent and it crossed her mind that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.
No, she’d be fine. She’d figured a way out. She simply needed time.
Numerous fishing boats dotted the harbor, as did several yachts, but one moored ship dwarfed all others. The glossy white, sleek design only hinted at the elegant state rooms inside. The yacht would have cost him dearly.
She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought out loud until he chuckled softly, a twisted smile at his lips. “She was expensive, but not half as much as you.”
Indignation heated her skin, hot color sweeping through her cheeks. “You didn’t buy me, Mr. Pateras, you bought my father!”
But he was right about one thing, Alysia thought darkly as the limousine pulled up to the harbor. The media were out, and out in force. Reporters and photographers crawled all over town, jostling each other to take better position.
They surged forward when the car stopped and she sucked in a panicked breath. All those cameras poised…all the microphones turned on…
“It’ll be over in a minute,” Christos said, turning to her.
She felt his inspection, his dark eyes examining her face, her dress, her hair. He startled her by reaching up to pluck pins from her hair. The heavy honey mass tumbled down and he combed his fingers through it with unnerving familiarity.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
Just the touch of his fingers against her brow sent shivers racing through her. Repulsion, she told herself, even as the tight core of her warmed, softened. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him.
But when he tucked one long silky strand behind her ear, his hand caressing the ear, then the tender spot below, her belly ached and her limbs felt terrifyingly weak.
No one had touched her so gently in years.
Her need shocked her. She felt like a woman starved for food and warmth. Helplessly she gazed at him, hating herself for responding