amazing green eyes when she’d thought he wasn’t looking, and blushing to the roots of her hair when he caught her out.
Callie, now Calista, who at eighteen, had somehow metamorphosed into the most stunning young woman. And had tempted him into bed. Although technically they had never actually made it as far as a bed. Caught up in the moment, the sofa in the living room had served them well enough.
Lukas had known it was wrong at the time—of course he had. But she had been just too alluring, too enticing to resist. He had been surprised, flattered—honoured, even—that she had made a play for him, chosen him to take her virginity. But most of all he had been duped.
And now he was going to make her pay.
* * *
Calista felt the ground sway beneath her feet, and the image of the coffin bearing her father blurred through the black lace of her veil.
Oh, please, no.
Not Lukas—not here, not now. But there was no mistaking the figure of the man who was glowering at her from the other side of the grave, or the power of his intensely dark stare as it bored into her. He was broader than she remembered him, and his muscled torso harder, stronger, more imposing, filling the well-cut dark suit like steel poured into a mould of the finest fabric. His sleeves tugged tight against the bulge of his biceps as he stood there with his arms folded across his chest, his feet firmly planted, clearly indicating that he was going nowhere.
All this Calista registered in a flash of panic before lowering her eyes to the grave.
This couldn’t be happening.
Lukas Kalanos was in prison—everybody knew that. Serving a long sentence for his part in the disgraceful arms smuggling business that had been masterminded by his father, Stavros—her own father’s business partner.
The sheer immorality of the venture had sickened Calista to the core—it still did. The fact that her father’s shipping business had gone bust because of it, and her family had been financially ruined, was only of secondary concern. At the age of twenty-three she had already experienced great wealth and great hardship. And she knew which one she preferred.
Which was why five years ago she had walked away, determined to turn her back on her tainted Greek heritage. Away from the collapse of the multi-billion-dollar family business, from her brothers’ bickering and back-stabbing. From her father’s towering rages and black, alcohol-fuelled depressions.
But most of all she had walked away from Lukas Kalanos—the man whose dark eyes were tearing into her soul right now. The man who had taken her virginity and broken her heart. And who had left her with a very permanent reminder.
At the thought of her little daughter Calista felt her lip start to quiver. Effie was fine—she was safe at home in London, probably running rings around poor Magda, Calista’s trusted friend and fellow student nurse, who was in charge until Calista could hurry back. She didn’t want to spend any more time here than she had to—she was intending to stay a couple of days at most, to sort through her father’s things with her brothers, sign whatever paperwork needed to be signed and then escape from this island for ever.
But suddenly getting away from Thalassa had taken on a new urgency. And getting away from the menacingly dark form of Lukas Kalanos more imperative still.
The burial ceremony was almost over. The priest was inviting them to join him in the last prayer before the mourners tossed flowers and soil onto the top of the coffin, the distinctive sound as they met the polished wood sending a shiver through Calista’s slender frame.
‘Not cold, surely?’ A firm, possessive grip clasped her elbow. ‘Or is this a touching display of grief?’
He spoke in faultless English, although Calista’s Greek would have been more than good enough to understand his meaning. Using his grasp, he turned her so that now she couldn’t escape the full force of him as he loomed over her, glowered down at her. ‘If so, I’m sure I don’t need to point out that it is seriously misplaced.’
‘Lukas, please…’ Calista braced herself to meet his searing gaze, her knees almost giving way at the sight of him.
The tangled dark curls had gone, in favour of a close-cropped style that hardened his handsome features, accentuating the uncompromising sweep of his jawline shadowed with designer stubble, the sharp-angled planes of his cheeks. But the eyes were the same—so dark a brown as to be almost black, breathtaking in their intensity.
‘I am here to bury my father—not listen to your insults.’
‘Oh, believe me, agapi mou, in terms of insults I wouldn’t know where to start. It would take a lifetime and more to even scratch the surface of the depths of my revulsion for that man.’
Calista swallowed hard. Her father had had his faults—she had no doubt about that. A larger-than-life character, both in temperament and girth, he had treated her mother very badly, and had had a series of affairs that had broken her mother’s spirit, albeit already fragile. In turn that had eventually led to her accidental overdose. Calista would never wholly forgive him for that.
But he’d still been her father—the only one she would ever have—and she had always known she would have to return to Thalassa one last time to lay him to rest. And maybe lay some of her demons to rest too.
Little had she known that the biggest demon of all would be present at the graveside, sliding his arm around her waist right now in a blatant show of possessiveness and control.
‘I’ll thank you not to speak of my father in that way.’
She was grateful to feel her hot-headed temper kicking in to rescue her, colouring her cheeks beneath the veil. Pointedly taking a step to the side to dislodge his hand from her elbow, she pushed back her shoulders and had to stifle a gasp as his arm slid around her waist, the ring of muscled steel burning through the thin fabric of her black dress.
‘It is both disrespectful and deeply insulting.’ Her voice shook alarmingly. ‘Quite aside from which, you are hardly in a position to judge anyone.’
‘Me, Calista?’ Dark brows were raised fractionally in feigned surprise. ‘Why would that be?’
‘You know perfectly well why.’
‘Ah, yes. The heinous crime I committed. That’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you—about that or anything else.’
Particularly not anything else.
Cold fingers of dread tiptoed down her spine at the thought of what they might end up discussing. If Lukas were to find out that he had a daughter, heaven only knew how he would react. It was too terrifying an idea to contemplate.
Calista had never intended to keep Effie a secret from her father—at least not at first. She had been over five months pregnant before she had even realised it herself, convinced that stress was responsible for the nausea, her lack of periods, her fatigue. Because no one got pregnant the very first time they had sex, did they?
Certainly the stress she had been suffering would have felled the strongest spirit, even before she’d found out she was expecting Lukas’s child. What with Stavros—her father’s
