and he to his. He felt no desire for more.
Good sex was all he asked for, and a woman who knew not to make a nuisance of herself.
Let alone think she could steal a fortune from him with impunity.
Like the woman in his arms now.
He smoothed the hair back from her face a moment. Her eyes were open, but looking blankly ahead of her. He found himself wondering what she was thinking. What went on in her head?
He frowned. He never cared what went on in a woman’s head. It was of no interest to him.
Was any other person of any interest to him? he found himself thinking.
His father had died of a heart attack seven years ago, and his mother had moved to Melbourne to be with relatives. But he’d never been close to either of his parents. He’d seen little of his father while he was growing up, because his father, like his grandfather, had devoted his life to making the Makarios fortune. His mother had played her part by being a society hostess, assiduously cultivating anyone and everyone who could be useful to Makarios Corp. Which meant that her son had been handed over to nannies and teachers.
Possibly the closest person to him was Markos, with whom he’d shared some of his schooling, but now, as adults, they met up only sporadically. Both led the highly peripatetic lives of the very rich, each running their own separate portions of the vast Makarios corporation which inevitably took them in different physical directions much of the time.
He had an extensive staff, of course, ranging from key executives to a team of personal assistants. And he had friends. Of course he had friends. Every man in his position had friends. Usually far too damn many.
But were any of them close to him?
Was he interested in any of them other than for what use they were to Makarios Corp? None sprang to mind.
Impatiently, he put the thoughts from him. His life was good—very good. Makarios Corp was riding high, he was riding high. He was in the prime of life, fit and healthy, and he knew without false modesty that he’d been blessed with a physical appearance that would be enviable even in a poor man. Combine that with his riches and he was a man other men envied and women wanted.
Anna Delane didn’t…
The words stole into his head before he could stop them.
Anna Delane didn’t want you—she threw you from her bedroom. Screeched her head off at you. Rejected you royally!
Deliberately he made himself stroke her arm, slowly, possessively. She wasn’t rejecting him now—but the choice had been between him or jail…no wonder she hadn’t rejected him! he thought bitterly.
Leo’s jaw tightened.
Anna Delane would not have gone on rejecting him. He’d have seen to that. If he hadn’t caught her red-handed with the Levantsky bracelet he’d still have pursued her. Whatever hypocritical reason she’d had for rejecting him that evening, he’d have got her in the end. Women didn’t hold out on him. His usual problem was quite the opposite—fending them off. No, he’d have got Anna Delane in his bed. Thief or no.
It was a pity she was a thief…
Again, the words stole into his brain before he could stop them. They annoyed him. Obviously he’d have preferred her not to be a thief—after all, she’d come far too damn close to walking off with the Levantsky bracelet!—but that was the only reason for his preference. It would have made no other difference. The end result would have been the same. Her in his bed, a few weeks together, and then he’d tire of her.
His hand moved slowly up her arm again, enjoying her soft, silken skin.
He felt his body begin to stir.
No chance of tiring of her yet.
He shifted his weight onto his elbow, and cupped her chin, turning her head towards him. His mouth lowered to hers.
It felt good. Arousing.
Yes, definitely no chance of tiring of her yet.
Carefully, Anna smoothed total sunblock over her legs. Even though she spent as much time as she could in the shade, and put sunblock on religiously, she still seemed to be browning. She frowned. It was a damned nuisance. Her white skin was one of her selling points, and she guarded it assiduously. OK, so she could have stayed indoors every day, but she couldn’t bear to. It was bad enough just getting through the days, without being denied the run of the gardens and the beach. Or the pool.
Thank God for the pool. Swimming up and down occupied hours of her time, and a swimsuit was something she never travelled without. Although she had enough evening outfits—brought for her time at the Schloss—daywear suitable for the Caribbean climate was more of a problem. By dint of washing her exercise outfit daily, and wearing the jade-green silk trouser suit during the day, she was just managing to cope. She could also, during the day, wander round with just a towel wrapped round her like a sarong. That was because—and she thanked all the gods there were—Leo Makarios was never around in the daytime.
Maybe he sleeps in his earth-filled coffin in daytime? she thought acidly.
The reality, she knew, was more prosaic. He took himself off on the water. He seemed, thankfully, to have a whole range of ways of enjoying himself out at sea. Sometimes she saw him on a windsurf board, racing across the bay in a crosswind; sometimes—according to her cautious enquires of the house staff—he went to the Atlantic coast for stronger winds and wave-sailing and kite-surfing. Often he disappeared off in a variety of sailing craft. He seemed to have a whole collection in a boathouse further along the beach. She saw him skimming along in a one-handed dinghy, or on windier days taking a catamaran out, spinnaker billowing. He went off diving, too, some days, and she watched the staff lug oxygen tanks on board the inflatable dive boat, then him heading out to the reefs.
Whatever took him out to sea, she was just grateful.
It gave her precious respite time—without which, she knew, she would have cracked.
How many days had passed since she’d been brought here? She was losing count. It was coming up to two weeks, it must be. Or was it longer? She had tried not to count, tried not to think. The moon was changing, at its peak now, sailing serene and high far above the ocean, mocking her with its romantic beauty.
But then the whole place mocked her.
It could have been a paradise on earth. Instead it was her prison. Her place of torment.
A place where Leo Makarios tormented her to the utmost of his malign powers.
Night after night she burnt like a flame in his arms as he wrung from her the response he would not let her rest without.
The response she could not let herself rest without.
He had become a poison for her. A poison that had got into her bloodstream and which she was now utterly, completely dependent on.
And the poison was desire.
Abject, helpless desire.
It mortified her, humiliated her, lacerated her.
