hardball. He was already figuring out his next move, no regrets whatsoever. Plainly he lacked the forgiving gene. That was becoming obvious even to him and he was not a man given to self-examination. But the lust driving him was on another plane altogether. One kiss … hell, what was he, a teenager to have got so hot and bothered?
And why did it disturb him that right this very minute she might be lying in a bed with Sam Morton, ensuring his continuing devotion in the easiest and most basic way a woman could? Why should that matter to him? Why, in fact, did that mental vision make him seethe? It should turn him off, douse the fire she roused … disgust him. But all Cristo could think about just then, indeed the only blindingly blue stretch of sky in his immediate future, was the prospect of that weekend. A weekend of the most perfect fantasy. Of course, it went without saying that fantasy would inevitably turn out to be dross, he pondered cynically. And then it would be over and he would be cured of this inconvenient, incomprehensible craving for her cheating little carcass for all time. Done and dusted. He savoured that ideal prospect, increasingly keen to reach that moment of equilibrium.
Erin picked up the phone, her blood solidifying like ice in her veins. Caving in hurt; it was something she didn’t do any more. Show weakness and people often fell on you like vultures. She was not the woman she had been three years earlier. But while she might be tougher, it was useless because Cristo had put her in the no-win corner, giving her no choice other than to try and protect those that she loved by whatever means were within her power.
‘Yes, Miss Turner,’ some faceless PA trilled at the end of the line. ‘Mr Donakis mentioned that you would be calling. I’ll put you through.’
His sheer certainty that she would surrender struck another blow to her already battered pride while she thought painfully of all the other times she had tried to speak to Cristo two and a half years earlier and had run into an endless brick wall of refusals. Of course, a call from an ex would not have been welcome to a newly engaged male but the potential offer of sex, it seemed, occupied a whole other plane of acceptability.
‘Erin,’ Cristo drawled smoothly. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Will the weekend of the fifth suit?’ Her voice was breathless with strain and something very like anguish was rising inside her, for she had lost control of the situation. In the back of her mind something was shrieking that she just could not be doing this, could not possibly be contemplating such a sleazy arrangement, but her brain was mercifully in control as she pictured her children and her mother and once again acknowledged what was most important.
‘That’s two weeks away,’ Cristo growled.
‘And it’s the soonest I can manage,’ Erin said as coolly as if it were a business appointment she was setting up.
‘Agreed. Someone will be in touch about the arrangements. Have a current passport available.’
‘Why? Where on earth are you planning to go?’ she gasped.
‘Somewhere discreet. I’ll see you on the fifth,’ he murmured, the guarded quality in his tone letting her know that he was not alone.
Dry-mouthed, she replaced the phone, pure hatred strong and immovable as a concrete block forming inside her. What had she ever done to him that he should seek her out and threaten to destroy her life? So, he thought she was a thief. Get over it, she wanted to shriek at him. When they had been together she had refused to accept expensive gifts and clothes from him—did that telling fact count for nothing? In every way possible she had tried to make their relationship one of equals and her mind slid back into the past …
Surprisingly, he had banished her reluctance to enter a relationship with him with the use of romantic gestures. He had sent her flowers, occasional witty texts to keep her up to date with his life and on Valentine’s Day he had sent her the most exquisite card and invited her out to dinner again. As there had not been a glimmer of him showing any interest in any other female during that period, Erin didn’t know a woman alive who would have not succumbed to so persuasive an onslaught from a very handsome male. So, she had finally gone out with him, just the two of them, thoroughly enjoyed herself and that was how it had begun: date after date but just kissing, nothing more because she wouldn’t agree to anything more. And, no fan of the celibate life, Cristo had protested, persisting with his need for an explanation until she finally admitted that he would be her first lover. Disconcerted by that admission, he had surprised her by agreeing to wait until she felt that the moment was right and she had loved him all the more for not putting pressure on her.
And in the end she had slept with him because she couldn’t say no to her own craving any longer and the experience, the connection she had felt with him from the outset of true intimacy, had been unutterably wonderful. Four months into their affair, probably tiring of the number of times she was not available through work or the extra hours she put in as a personal trainer to a few select clients, he had offered her the job of manager at the Mobila spa in his flagship London hotel. She had thought long and hard before she accepted but as she was already working as a deputy manager she had believed that the position was well within her capabilities. She had been more afraid that working for Cristo might change their relationship but it had not occurred to her that her new colleagues might resent her inescapably personal ties to their employer.
At the time she had been taking the contraceptive pill but, in spite of trying several different brands, she had suffered mood changes that made her feel like a stranger inside her own skin. Ultimately, Cristo had suggested that he take care of precautions and soon after had come that disturbing little chat about the friend’s girlfriend, who had had a termination, that same possibility obviously having awakened Cristo’s concern on his own account. After six months she had virtually lived in Cristo’s apartment when he was there and he had begun asking her to join him on his travels. She had pointed out that she couldn’t just walk out on her job and expect her staff to take her seriously. He had understood that but he hadn’t liked it and around the same time he had started to question the amount of time she spent with Tom while he was abroad. Tom Harcourt was the closest thing Erin had ever had to a brother. They had met on the same university course and had stayed close friends when Tom also found work in London. There had never been a sexual spark between Erin and Tom but they got on like a house on fire, something Cristo had witnessed on several occasions and had evidently resented or found suspicious. Eight months into their relationship Cristo and Erin had had a huge, horrible row about Tom and Erin had stormed home in a temper.
‘How would you like it if I had a female friend that close?’ Cristo had demanded.
And in truth she wouldn’t have liked it at all, but she loved Tom like a brother and refused to give him up.
‘You’re too possessive for me,’ she had told Cristo, inflaming him as he furiously denied the charge.
‘You’re a very beautiful woman—Tom has to be aware of that. Truly platonic relationships don’t exist,’ Cristo had insisted. ‘One party or the other always feels something more.’
‘Either you trust me or you don’t,’ Erin had reasoned, stripping the dispute back to the bare bones while resisting the dangerous temptation to inform him that he had a shockingly jealous streak.
‘Cristo is in love with you,’ her more experienced flatmate, Elaine, had pronounced with amusement. ‘I didn’t think it would happen but in my opinion men only get that possessive when they’re keen.’
And that heartening forecast was why Erin had extended an olive branch to Cristo after a two-week silence while they both smouldered after that argument. In any case, by that stage Tom was already taking a back seat in her life because he had met the woman, Melissa, whom he would eventually marry. She had
