Savas shrugged. “So, fine. Call your father, then. He can pay for a hotel room.”
“No!”
None of the family knew where she was—and Martha was determined to keep it that way. The last thing she wanted was to announce her humiliation to her parents and siblings.
“Suit yourself. But you’d better come up with an idea, sweetheart, because I don’t want you here.”
“But—”
“No.” He was adamant. “I’ve had it. No women. I’m sick to death of them.”
Martha blinked. “So you…prefer men?” Pity, actually, because from a “populating the earth” perspective, Theo Savas had gorgeous genes, definitely worth passing on.
“I do not prefer men!” Theo snapped, then scowled furiously and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m just sick to death of being badgered, of women turning up at all hours.”
Martha gave him another once-over and lied with dripping scorn, “Well, you’re not that gorgeous.”
He grimaced. “Never said I was. It was that damn magazine—all that drivel about ‘world’s sexiest this and world’s sexiest that!’”
Martha laughed in disbelief. “Oh? And you’re what? World’s sexiest pirate? Curmudgeon?” That she could believe.
“Sailor,” he muttered, making her brows arch in surprise. He shrugged irritably. “It’s crap. All of it. But tell that to all those stupid females who read it and think they’re the woman of your dreams!”
Martha grinned at his hunted look.
“So I damned sure don’t want some silly gooey-eyed teenager hanging around,” he said, effectively wiping the grin off her face.
“Gooey-eyed teenager?” Martha was outraged. “I’m twenty-four!”
“Wow.” Theo was clearly underwhelmed. “Like I said, a baby.”
Martha bristled, sick and tired of being dismissed as young. Everyone in her family, except Lukas, was always telling her she was too young, that she needed someone to look out for her.
“Trust me, Methuselah, I wouldn’t look at you if you were the last man on earth. Make that the second last,” she muttered grimly under her breath.
Theo obviously heard her. His brow lifted. His mouth quirked. “Ah, like that is it?”
Martha scowled. “Like what?”
“You’re running away from a man.”
“I am not running away from anyone!” she retorted hotly. “I just…needed a break. A vacation. I finished a job and I wanted a little R&R.” It was the truth, just not all of it. “Look,” she said wearily, “as much as I would love to stand here and chat with you, I’m really bushed. I don’t sleep well on planes and I’ve been up for over thirty-six hours. I need some sleep.”
And without waiting for his approval—in fact, half expecting him to grab her by the arm and haul her downstairs—Martha turned her back on him and headed for her bed, falling into its welcome softness and breathing deeply in relief.
Behind her there was silence.
And more silence.
And then finally Theo said, “Okay. You can sleep it off. Take a nap. I’m going out for a sail. But I’ll be back tonight, kiddo,” he warned. “And when I get here, you’d better be gone.”
Theo muttered as he left the house. He muttered all the way down the hill and in the dinghy as he rowed out to his sailboat. He’d just begun to breathe easier in the last few days, relieved that no one on Santorini seemed to know about that damned article. Women still flirted with him, which was fine. But these at least hadn’t been peering in his windows and rubbing up against him in bars.
He’d started to think he’d get his life back.
And now this!
He was overreacting, of course, and he knew it. But it had been a shock to hear the door open and discover his fortress had been breached.
“Damn woman,” Theo muttered irritably now as he hoisted the mainsail, then cast off the mooring line.
Damned attractive woman with her wind-blown tangle of hair and her flushed face and her wide brown eyes. His hormones had registered that, even as his brain had resisted.
He wasn’t interested, and she wasn’t his type! Martha Antonides was too young. Too prickly. Too opinionated. Too wholesome. Too…irritating.
He liked women—a lot—but he preferred to be the hunter, not the hunted. Since that article had been published he’d begun to feel like a deer on the first day of hunting season. The hordes of women who had dogged his steps for the past six months were not to be believed. He certainly wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand!
He’d been confident the initial frenzy would wear off—a nine-day wonder, he’d assured himself. But he hadn’t counted on low hard news, and wire services hungry for something to spice up their pages.
Especially when a couple of former girlfriends had decided it was in their best interests to gain publicity by kissing and telling.
Of course it would blow over eventually. Who, after all, was really interested in his marriageability—besides his mother? Someone else he’d been avoiding.
When he’d returned to New York long enough to win the sailboat race for his father, Theo had deliberately avoided going out to the family home on Long Island.
He loved his mother, but he didn’t need her input into the mess that was his life. She was always ready to meddle.
“Offer suggestions,” she called it.
In this case he knew exactly what suggestion she’d offer. “Get married, Theo. End of problem.”
But it wouldn’t end the problem, Theo knew. He’d been married once—not that his mother knew it. And it hadn’t ended his problems at all. It had simply created more.
Now, older and wiser, Theo knew that marriage wasn’t his style. Relationships weren’t his metier. He was perfectly happy playing the field—as long as the field wasn’t overcrowded and the women understood the rules.
He was glad he’d made sure Little Miss Jet Lag understood she wasn’t moving in. She might not have known about the article, she might not have come because of it, but he didn’t want her there getting ideas!
He was sorry she’d come all this way for nothing. But there were lots of guest houses on Santorini. So what if the ones available at the last minute weren’t likely to be at quite the level of homey comfort she was used to. Too damn bad. If she didn’t like it, she could go back to wherever she’d come from.
It was her problem, not his.
The ferry from Crete was just coming into the harbor.
