Modern Romance August 2018 Books 1-4 Collection. Tara Pammi
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though she could have happily thrown herself onto the bed and tried to blot out what was coming next, she freshened up in the lavish bathroom, helping herself from a selection of costly bath products which had obviously been acquired for the new bride. Pulling the wilting flowers from her hair, she raked a brush through her hair, gradually removing the tangles until it fell in a thick and vibrant curtain all the way down to her waist. She eyed the spindly wedding shoes doubtfully and decided against putting them back on. With a final tug at her short dress, she went back downstairs with Manalena, where Xan was waiting for her in the dining room.
And Tamsyn could do nothing about the overwhelming rush of desire which pulsed over her. It seemed incongruous to see the Greek tycoon standing there, still in his sailing clothes, his cobalt eyes darkening with unmistakable appreciation as he surveyed her. Her heart began to thunder as she realised that this powerful man was now her husband.
And she needed to keep it together. Not let desire weaken her. To remember that this was nothing but an elaborate ruse. A business transaction, that was all.
‘You don’t look much like a bridegroom,’ she commented lightly, in a vain attempt to defuse the sudden tension which seemed to have accompanied her into the room.
His gaze raked over her, lingering on the filmy white dress and focussing last on her bare feet whose toenails were painted a shimmering iridescent silver. ‘Whereas you look exactly like a bride, agape mou,’ he said unevenly. ‘If a somewhat unconventional one.’
‘Wasn’t that the whole idea?’ she questioned acidly.
Xan couldn’t quite bring himself to answer, because he wasn’t sure where his head had been when he’d asked Tamsyn Wilson to marry him. Had he thought she would be easily manipulated? That her humble status and the knowledge he was paying her a great deal of money, would give him the upper hand? Yes, he had. Guilty on all counts.
Pulling out a chair for her, he felt the silkiness of her loose curls brushing tantalisingly against his hand and his groin hardened. He hadn’t believed her when she’d told him there was to be no sex, but her distant behaviour since they’d made their deal, had convinced him that she’d meant every word she said. He’d tried convincing himself that he wouldn’t find it too much of a problem—and that three months enforced celibacy was easily doable. What he had failed to take into account was just how entrancing he would continue to find her, or that her stubbornness would act as an aching kind of aphrodisiac. His mouth hardened. He should have picked a bride from the type of woman with which he was familiar. The type who would jump when he snapped his fingers. Who would do whatever he asked of them, and do it with gratitude and pleasure. Not some feisty woman who seemed determined to oppose him every step of the way.
He poured two glasses of vintage champagne and handed her one, his throat drying with lust as their eyes met over the rims of the fine crystal. Suddenly he wished he’d told Manalena that they would eat something light on the balcony of his bedroom, so that he could have had Tamsyn all to himself. To test just how strong her resolve was. Too late, he thought grimly, knowing how much trouble his cook would have gone to.
But his expression betrayed none of his disquiet as he raised his glass to hers. ‘So. What shall we drink to, Tamsyn?’ he questioned.
For a moment she looked uncertain—like a small creature who’d strayed too far from her natural habitat. She stared down at the fizzing wine before lifting her gaze and chinking her crystal glass against his.
‘To money, of course,’ she said defiantly. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Money and land.’
And all that flippancy was back—the defiant tilt of her chin just daring him to challenge her, when ironically—all it made him want to do was kiss her.
IT WAS THE longest meal she’d ever endured but Tamsyn was determined to spin out her wedding breakfast as long as she could. Because eating and drinking would delay the inevitable—and she was terrified of accompanying Xan upstairs, to that vast bed scattered with pink rose petals. Terrified that she would give into the demands of her traitorous body and fall hungrily into his arms. Because that was the last thing she needed.
Dutifully she picked at course after delicious course, trying to give every impression of enjoying the food which had been so carefully prepared by Rhea, the cook. The Greek salad topped with fragrant basil, still warm from the herb garden. The fish with delicious sauce, followed by giovetsi—a dish of lamb baked in a clay pot, served with green beans stewed with tomatoes. Rhea’s final flourish was a traditional wedding dessert called diples, a sweet fried concoction covered in a great deal of honey and crushed walnuts. The honey kept sticking to the roof of her mouth and she really didn’t need another morsel, but Tamsyn was determined to eat it.
And each course had an accompanying wine—fine wines in different colours. Tamsyn rarely drank but today she sipped a little, so that by the time the sweet wine was served with dessert, she felt better than she had in days. It was as if a tight knot at the base of her stomach had slowly begun to unfurl, allowing her to relax at last.
Staring across the table at Xan, she tried not be affected by his rugged masculine beauty, but that was easier said than done. His skin gleamed like gold in the sunlight and the close-fitting jeans and T-shirt gave him a deceptively laid-back air. At times she was in danger of forgetting that he was a billionaire control freak who was calling all the shots, because right now he looked like some rippling-fleshed fisherman who’d just wandered up to the house for a bit of lunch.
‘So,’ she said, finally admitting defeat and putting her dessert spoon down. ‘Here we are. Mr and Mrs Constantinides. How weird is that?’
A glint of amusement entered the cobalt eyes. ‘Pretty weird,’ he admitted.
‘Have you issued your statement to the press yet? Is that what the phone call was all about?’
‘I have no intention of speaking to the press today, Tamsyn. I will respond to questions if and when necessary. I was speaking to my father.’ There was a pause. ‘And Sofia.’
Tamsyn felt her heart lurch. ‘And?’
‘Sofia took it better than I expected. She seemed more resigned than upset. Which is a good thing.’
‘Like I said,’ Tamsyn observed. ‘She’s probably secretly pleased not to have to spend a lifetime with you.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart,’ he said drily.
She wanted to tell him not to tease her like that, just like she wanted to tell him not to look at her with that sexy glint of amusement in his eyes. Mainly because she liked it. She liked it way too much. It made her want to do what she had vowed she wasn’t going to do—mainly to rush upstairs and get up close and personal with him. She cleared her throat. ‘And your father?’
For the first time, his face showed a flicker of darkness. ‘My father took the news less well. He was angry, which didn’t surprise me, but his concerns were focussed more on his island inheritance than on the people involved. No change there.’ His laugh was tinged with bitterness. ‘He seems to think that Sofia’s father might refuse to sell me the island now that I’ve jilted his daughter. I think it will depend on Sofia’s reaction, but better that than breaking her heart,’ he added harshly.
‘And if he’s right? If Sofia’s father won’t sell?’
‘Oh, if Sofia is okay, he’ll sell—don’t you worry about that.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because Tamsyn, everyone has their price’ He gave a cynical smile. ‘Even you.’
It was a timely reminder of her new husband’s cold-heartedness but Tamsyn forced herself not to react, instead fixing him with a look of interest. ‘Is your father coming to the wedding party?’
‘He