did not belong in the convent’s simple brown smock any more than he belonged in priestly robes. And God knew he did not belong in priestly robes.
Christos felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her, but not enough to walk away from the playing table. No, he never walked away from the playing table, not that he played cards. He gambled in other ways. Daring, breathtaking power plays in the Greek shipping-industry which so far had resulted in staggering financial gain. He’d been wildly successful by anyone’s standards.
“Your home, Alysia, will be with me. I’ve picked you. You are part of my plan. And once I put a plan into action, I don’t give up. I never quit.”
“Those admirable traits would be better applied elsewhere.”
“There is no elsewhere. There is no other option. You, our marriage, is the future,” he said softly, as a warm breeze blew through the courtyard, loosening a tendril of hair from her demure bun. She didn’t attempt to smooth it and the golden-brown tendril floated light as a feather.
He liked the play of sunlight across her shoulders and face. The sun turned her hair to gold and copper. Flecks of aquamarine shimmered in her eyes.
“I know who you are, Mr. Pateras. I’m not ignorant of your success.” Her eyebrows arched. “Shall I tell you what I know?”
“Please. I enjoy my success story.”
“A full-blooded Greek, you were born and raised in a middle-class New York suburb. You attended public school, before being accepted to one of the prestigious American Ivy League colleges.”
“Yale,” he supplied.
“Which is quite good,” she agreed. “But why not Harvard? Harvard is supposed to be the best.”
“Harvard is for old money.”
“That’s right. Your father left Oinoussai broke and in disgrace.”
“Not disgraced. Just poor. Hopeful that there would a better life elsewhere.”
“Your father worked in the shipyards.”
“He was a welder,” Christos answered evenly, hiding the depth of his emotions. He was fiercely loyal to his parents, but particularly to his father. His father’s piety, unwavering morals and devotion to family had sustained them during times of great financial hardship. And there had been hardship, tremendous hardship, not to mention ostracism in the close-knit Greek-American community.
Quickly, before she could probe further, he turned the spotlight on her. “And your father, Alysia, inherited his millions. You’ve never lacked for anything. You have no idea what ‘poor’ means.”
“But you aren’t poor anymore, Mr. Pateras. You now own as many ships as Britain’s entire merchant fleet. Despite your humble origins, it shouldn’t be difficult to find a bride a…trifle…more eager to accept your proposal.”
“I can’t find another Darius Lemos.”
“So in reality you’re marrying my father.”
She was smart. He smiled faintly, again amused by the contradiction between her serene exterior and fiery interior. He found himself suddenly wondering what she’d be like in bed. Passionate as hell, probably.
He watched the shimmering golden-brown tendril dance across her cheek, caress her ear, and Christos felt a sudden urge to follow the tendril with his tongue, drawing the same tantalizing path from her cheekbone to her jaw, from her jaw to the hollow beneath her earlobe.
His body tightened, desire stirring. He’d enjoy being married to a woman like this. Procreation would be a pleasure.
Alysia leaned back on the bench, her brown shift outlining her small breasts, her dark lashes lowering to conceal her expression. “How well do you know my father?”
“Well enough to know what he is.”
She allowed herself a small smile, and Christos noticed the flash of dimple to the left of her full mouth. He’d taste that, too, after the wedding.
“My father must be quite pleased to have you in his back pocket. I can quite picture him, rubbing his hands together, chuckling gleefully.” Her head cocked, her lashes lifted, revealing the dark sapphire irises. “He did rub his hands after you made your deal, didn’t he?”
Her tone, her voice, her eyes. He wanted her.
Abruptly he leaned forward, captured the coil of hair at her nape in his hand. Her eyes widened as his fingers tightened in her hair seconds before he covered her mouth with his.
Alysia inhaled as his lips touched hers, and he traced the soft outline of her lips with his tongue. He didn’t miss her gasp, or the sudden softness in her mouth.
His own body hardened, blood surging. From the distance he heard a cough. The nun! Wouldn’t do to get thrown out of here just yet.
Slowly he released her. “You taste beautiful.”
Alysia paled and dragged the back of her hand across her soft mouth, as if to rub away the imprint of his lips. “Try that again and I shall send for the abbess!”
He placed his foot on the bench, on the outside of her thigh. He felt the tremor in her body. “And say what, sweet Alysia? That your husband kissed you?”
“We are not married! We’re not even engaged.”
“But soon shall be.” He gazed at her exposed collarbone and the rise of fabric at her breasts. “Do you like wagers?”
She visibly shuddered. “No. I never gamble.”
“That’s admirable. But I like bets, and I like these odds. You see, Alysia, I know more about you than you think.”
He caught her incredulous expression, and felt a stab of satisfaction. “You won an academic scholarship at seventeen to an art school in Paris. You lived in a garret with a dozen other want-to-be artists, a rather bohemian lifestyle with small children running underfoot. When money ran out, you, like the others, did odd jobs. One summer you worked as a housekeeper. You did a stint in a bakery. Your longest job was as a nanny for a designer and his family.”
“They were respectable jobs,” she said faintly, blood draining from her face.
“Very respectable, but quite a change from life with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“Is there a point to this?”
His smile faded and he leaned forward, trapping her between his knee and chest. “You’ve spent eight years of your life trying to escape your father.”
Her lips parted but no sound came out.
He watched her closely, reading every flicker in her eyes. “For a while, you were free. You painted, you traveled, you enjoyed an interesting circle of friends. But then you became ill, and your obliging father placed you in a hospital in Bern. Since then, he’s owned you, body and soul.”
“Body, maybe, but not my soul. Never my soul!”
Again
