lit her features. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Cover yourself up and get out!’
‘But I love you. And you love me.’
‘Like a sister!’ he blurted, the lie coming with the knowledge that a clean break might be cruel, but it was the only way. ‘Don’t you understand? I love you like a sister. Nothing more.’
Her beautiful face crumpled, sudden moisture transforming her eyes to liquid, her cheeks sheeting with tears. ‘But you said—’
‘It doesn’t matter what I said! Don’t you understand? I can never love you any other way. Now get out and get back to your room before anyone sees you.’
‘But Yannis—’
‘Go!’
CHAPTER ONE
The Island of Montvelatte—thirteen years later
HE WAS close, she could feel it.
It wasn’t just the prickle at the base of her neck and the catch in her throat that had Marietta Lombardi on full alert. It was the way the air seemed suddenly thinner, tighter, as if the myriad candles in the Castello’s enormous dining room had consumed every last drop of oxygen from the atmosphere, leaving a vacuum that ached to be filled.
And then across the room the ancient timber doors swung open, and even the air in her lungs was sucked out.
Yannis Markides, the man she’d vowed never to see again, was finally here in Montvelatte. Dressed entirely in black, he filled the wide entrance like a dark cloud, his eyes purposefully scanning the throng assembled for the wedding rehearsal dinner while an adrenaline-fuelled wave crashed over her, pinning her to the chair and threatening to free thirteen-year-old memories that had been buried in the deepest recesses of her mind.
Apparently not deeply enough.
Yet even a flood of unwanted memories was no match for seeing him in person. The Yannis of her unbidden and unwanted dreams couldn’t hold a candle to this man, who looked more like a warrior about to go into battle than an old family friend. Had he always been so tall? Had he always been able to fill a space with his mere presence? And, in spite of the war-like stance, had he always looked so damned good?
She swallowed down on a sudden lump in her throat. She didn’t need him to look good. Didn’t want him to. She should go now. Slip out in the confusion of waiters serving a multitude of meals before he saw her, before she had to face him again and relive the humiliation of their last encounter.
And then her brother jumped to his feet beside her, calling across the room, and Marietta knew she’d left it too late. The obsidian eyes she’d been hoping to avoid found their mark as they zeroed in on Rafe, his mouth turning into a smile until those same eyes fell on her, lingering so coldly that she shivered, any semblance of a smile frozen clear away, before they snapped back to Rafe so cleanly and decisively as if even looking at her had been a mistake.
Released from his cold-as-a-grave gaze, Marietta felt as if she’d taken a blow to the gut. She’d known Yannis Markides was not the type of man who would forgive and forget, but it was clear he also had no problems holding a grudge. And from the expression on his face as he’d practically seared her with his gaze, he was as unenthusiastic about seeing her as she was about seeing him.
Fine. The sooner this wedding was over, the sooner they could both go back to never seeing each other again, and the happier they’d both be.
So she was here, just as he’d been warned. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides in time with the thump of his heart, a deep-seated anger turning his vision to red. He’d always believed in the principle that to be forewarned was to be forearmed. The adage had stood him in good stead over the years in both his professional and his private life, and yet now, coming face to face with the woman who’d done more to destroy his family’s financial security than any number of corporate sharks he’d had to deal with in his time, the old adage wasn’t holding up to scrutiny. Because it wasn’t until now that realised the depths of his resentment. It was as if seeing her had rekindled every last spark of anger and bitterness, reigniting old wounds and sending the flames high.
He didn’t want to be here, even if it was his best friend’s wedding—not if it meant seeing her again, and certainly not if it meant being thrust back into those dark days.
He dragged in a lungful of air heavy with the combined scents of garlic, rosemary and spit-roasted game and sensed something else in the mix—duty. For he had no choice but to be here. One thing he’d learned over the years was that life didn’t necessarily serve up what you wanted. He was here, and somehow he was expected to be her opposite number on the bridal party, to be her partner throughout the festivities, even to take her in his arms and dance with her. No amount of forewarning was going to prepare him for that.
He should have brought a woman. He could have had his pick of any number, even after terminating his brief liaison with Susannah, and he cursed the decision that had seen him arrive alone—although he was still sympathetic with the logic of it. Taking a woman to a wedding was fraught with danger. It put ideas in women’s heads, ideas that had no place in his relationships.
‘Yannis!’ She heard her brother’s greeting over the chamber music and hubbub of conversation from the assembled guests as the pair met, shaking hands and pulling each other into a man hug before slapping each other on the back. She watched, unable to move, compelled to watch, waiting for the inevitable moment when Rafe would pull Yannis over to introduce him to his bride-tobe, and for the moment when she would have to look him in the eye and greet him and pretend that what had happened thirteen years ago had never taken place.
‘So that’s Yannis Markides,’ Sienna said, leaning across Rafe’s empty chair between them, her head still angled towards the reunion between the two men. ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? Almost as good-looking as Rafe.’
Better.
The rogue thought came unbidden and unwelcome, but as much as she tried to clamp down on it, the truth would not be denied. Having inherited the best of their father’s genes, her brother was beyond handsome, and in his dress uniform of maroon jacket and ceremonial sash, even more so. But Yannis, with his unique mix of his Montvelattian mother and Greek-Cypriot father, was something else again. It was as if he’d been blessed with the best genes the Mediterranean had to offer, a combination of dark hair, bottomless eyes and chiselled features. As a twenty-one-year-old, he’d been the best-looking man she’d ever seen. Thirteen years on, as a man in his prime, he was utterly arresting.
‘I guess so,’ she replied at last as she reached for her glass, looking for something tactile and solid and real to cling onto, telling herself he was only a man, a mere mortal like everyone else.
And then she looked up again.
Under the ballroom lighting, his black hair gleamed thick and healthy, his strong features complemented by the play of light and shadow as he moved, with even the angles and planes of his face speaking of nobility.
Mortal? Then why did he have to look so much like a god? Was it any wonder she’d once imagined herself in love with him? What girl wouldn’t be naïve enough to let herself imagine, to think that maybe there was something more to it when this man was your brother’s best friend and you saw him practically every day of your life, and when he treated you as if you were
