was just that easy.
He was too hard to face with that lethal expression. How did he manage to look so action-star handsome with his white shirt plastered to his muscled shoulders, his coat and tie gone, his hair flattened to his head? It was like staring into the sun.
Viveka looked out to where motorboats had circled to see where the woman in the wedding gown had fallen into the water.
Was that her boat? She wanted to wave, but kept a firm grip on the yacht as she used her free hand to pick at the buttons on her back. She eyed the distance to the red-and-gold boat. She couldn’t swim that far in this wretched dress, but if she managed to shed it...?
Mikolas stood and, without asking, bent down to grasp her by the upper arms, pulling her up and out of the water, grunting loud enough that it was insulting. He swore after landing her on her feet beside him. His chest heaved while he glared at her limp, stained gown.
Viveka swayed on her feet, trying to keep her balance as the yacht rocked beneath them. She was still wearing the ridiculously high heels, was still in shock, but for a few seconds she could only stare at Mikolas.
He had saved her life.
No one had gone out of their way to help her like that since her mother was alive. She’d been a pariah to Grigor and a burden on her aunt, mostly fending for herself since her mother’s death.
She swallowed, trying to assimilate a deep and disturbing gratitude. She had grown a thick shell that protected her from disregard, but she didn’t know how to deal with kindness. She was moved.
Grigor’s voice above her snapped her back to her situation. She had to get away. She yanked at her bodice, tearing open the delicate buttons on her spine and trying to push the clinging fabric down her hips.
She wore only a white lace bra and underpants beneath, but that was basically a bikini. Good enough to swim out to her getaway craft.
To her surprise, Mikolas helped her, rending the gown as if he cursed its existence, leaving it puddled around her feet and sliding into the water. He didn’t give her a chance to dive past him, however. He set wide hands on her waist and hefted her upward where bruising hands took hold of her arms—
Grigor.
“Nooo!” she screamed.
* * *
That ridiculous woman nearly kicked him in the face as he hefted her off the diving platform to the main deck of the yacht. Grigor was above, taking hold of her to bring her up. What did she think? That he was throwing her back into the sea?
“Noooo!” she cried and struggled, but Grigor pulled her all the way onto the deck where he stood.
She must be crazy, behaving like this.
Mikolas came up the ladder with the impetus of a man taking charge. He hated surprises. He controlled what happened to himself. No one else.
At least Grigor hadn’t set this up. He’d been tricked as well, or he wouldn’t be so furious.
Mikolas was putting that together as he came up to see Grigor shaking the nearly naked woman like a terrier with a rat. Then he slapped her across the face hard enough to send her to her knees.
No stranger to violence, Mikolas still took it like a punch to the throat. It appalled him on a level so deep he reacted on blind instinct, grabbing Grigor’s arm and shoving him backward even as the woman threw up her arm as though to block a kick.
Stupid reaction, he thought distantly. It was a one-way ticket to a broken forearm.
But now was not the moment for a tutorial on street fighting.
Grigor found his balance and trained his homicidal gaze on Mikolas.
Mikolas centered his balance with readiness, but in his periphery saw the woman stagger toward the rail. Oh, hell, no. She was not going to ruin his day, then slip away like a siren into the deep.
He turned from Grigor’s bitter “You should have let her drown” and provoked a cry of “Put me down!” from the woman as he caught her up against his chest.
She was considerably lighter without the gown, but still a handful of squirming damp skin and slippery muscle as he carried her off the small yacht.
On the pier, people parted and swiveled like gaggles of geese, some dressed in wedding regalia, others obviously tourists and sailors, all babbling in different languages as they took in the commotion.
It was a hundred meters to his own boat and he felt every step, thanks to the pedal of the woman’s sharp, silver heels.
“Calm yourself. I’ve had it with this sideshow. You’re going to tell me where my bride has gone and why.”
VIVEKA WAS SHAKING right down to her bones. Grigor had hit her, right there in front of the whole world. Well, the way the yacht had been positioned, only Mikolas had probably seen him, but in the back of her mind she was thinking that this was the time to call the police. With all these witnesses, they couldn’t ignore her complaint. Not this time.
Actually, they probably could. Her report of assault and her request for a proper investigation into her mother’s death had never been heeded. The officers on this island paid rent to Grigor and didn’t like to impact their personal lives by carrying out their sworn duties. She had learned that bitter lesson years ago.
And this brute wouldn’t let her go to do anything!
He was really strong. He carried her in arms that were so hard with steely muscle it almost hurt to be held by them. She could tell it wasn’t worth wasting her energy trying to escape. And he wore a mask of such controlled fury he intimidated her.
She instinctively drew in on herself, stomach churning with reaction while her brain screamed at her to swim out to her hired boat.
“Let me go,” she insisted in a more level tone.
Mikolas only bit out orders for ice and bandages to a uniformed man as he carried her up a narrow gangplank, boarding a huge yacht of aerodynamic layers and spaceship-like rigging. The walls were white, the decks teak, the sheer size and luxury of the vessel making it more like a cruise liner than a personal craft.
Greek mafia, she thought, and wriggled harder, signaling that she sincerely wanted him to put her down. Now.
Mikolas strode into what had to be the master cabin. She caught only a glimpse of its grand decor before he carried her all the way into a luxurious en suite and started the shower.
“Warm up,” he ordered and pointed to the black satin robe on the back of the door. “Then we’ll bandage your hand and ice your face while you explain yourself.”
He left.
She snorted. Not likely.
Folding her arms against icy shivers, she eyed the small porthole that looked into the expanse of open water beyond the marina. She might fit through it, but even as the thought formed,
