My Sexy Greek Summer. Marie Donovan
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“Oh, wow.” Emma’s brown eyes widened. “Married. I just can’t imagine it. Where did you live?”
“We had a condo in Chicago.” Her brother had lived there for a brief time and then put it on the market for her when he moved out and got married. That alone had brought her a significant dollar amount. “When my marriage ended, I got a pretty good financial settlement, enough to send me back to school and allow for occasional trips.”
“Your ex, do you see him anymore?”
“No, never.” Cara heaved a sigh despite herself.
Emma must have picked up on her melancholy mood, because Cara found herself enveloped in a bear hug. “Thanks for telling me, Cara. I won’t worry about you moneywise anymore.”
Cara realized her lip was trembling. Aside from a couple people sworn to secrecy, she hadn’t told anyone that her supposedly fairy-tale marriage was straight out of the legends of the Greek Furies. “Believe me, money is not a problem.” She forced her expression into a determinedly cheerful one.
“Let’s list what you do need. Fabulous summer in Greece—check. Hot bikinis and great beach to wear them on—check. Sexy Greek boy toy to give the beach and bikinis a workout—nope, you need to add him to your list.”
“Back to the men again.” But Cara giggled, encouraging Emma to continue.
“Back to the men, front to the men, sideways to the men—any way you like to the men. Now go get dressed. Like that weaving of Artemis above the couch, we’re man-hunting tonight.”
3
“THIS ONE.” CARA STOPPED in front of a taverna around the corner from the main drag.
Emma looked at the unprepossessing building. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You wanted authentic Greek island culture, this is it. No neon signs, no two-for-one drink specials or limbo contests.” She hooked her arm through Emma’s and drew her inside.
Once the cloud of cigarette smoke around her face disappeared, Cara saw several small tables and booths set around a dance floor. Piped-in Greek pop music came over the speakers. Cara pointed out a hand-lettered sign. “Looks like the live music starts in a half hour. Let’s get a drink and grab a table before they fill up.”
“Great.” Now that they had a plan, Emma made her way to the bar and ordered a white wine for herself and red for Cara. Cara waved to her from the corner booth she’d claimed.
“Now what?” Emma asked after a few sips.
Cara shrugged. “Toss your hair, cast a few meaningful looks around the room. I suppose you could lick your lips seductively, but that might be a bit obvious.” Just as she had licked her lips for Vespa-Boy.
“Not that. Besides, I think my outfit takes care of the obvious part.” Cara had to agree. Emma wore a low-cut white halter top with a matching miniskirt and backless white shoes with a kitten heel. “Not to belabor the point, Cara, but maybe you should go to another of these boutiques for a more fun dress.”
“You think this dress isn’t fun?” Cara put on a hurt look, but burst into laughter at Emma’s worried face. “Okay, okay, maybe this isn’t the fanciest dress ever.” That was an understatement. Her dress was a sleeveless black tunic with no discernible waistline, and she wore the same plain sandals she’d worn to the beach.
“There have to be some clothing boutiques around here. You need something that doesn’t come from the sackcloth-and-ashes store. It’s not like you’re one of these Greek widows.” Emma checked around the taverna and sipped her wine.
Cara blinked a couple times and looked down at her dress. Sew some sleeves on it, and she would look like an elderly widow. Many of them wore black for the rest of their lives after their husbands died. Athena did most of the time, and Athena’s mother had worn nothing but black, if Cara remembered correctly. But they were decades older than she was—Athena in her seventies and her mother had pushed one hundred.
Although Cara felt ancient sometimes, she was only twenty-eight. Too young to dress in widow’s clothing. “Emma?”
“Hmmm?” Her friend pulled her attention away from where the band was setting up.
“Do I wear a lot of black?”
“Aside from that dress and your one-piece swimsuit?”
Cara’d forgotten about her old-lady suit, but that was proving Emma’s point. “I mean in general. Like back home in Michigan.”
Emma furrowed her brow. “Come to think of it, you do. It’s nice black clothing, like your cashmere turtleneck you loaned me and that really warm, long, wool skirt, but yeah, lots of your wardrobe is black.”
“I had no idea.” Cara mentally sorted through her closet at home. Aside from some warm-weather T-shirts and shorts, she did have a ton of black clothes.
“You look great in black, Cara,” her friend reassured her. “It’s a very cosmopolitan look, almost European.”
Oh, boy. She’d been dressing in widow’s weeds, to coin a British phrase from one of her literature classes. Mourning her marriage? Atoning for its painful ending? She knew Con wouldn’t have wasted any time on regrets or recriminations, especially since he had considered everything to be all her fault.
Suddenly, her shapeless clothing offended her. Why should Con have any more say in what she wore? “Emma, this dress sucks.”
Emma choked on her wine, sputtering a couple drops on her sleek white outfit. Cara passed her a cocktail napkin. “Oh my gosh, Cara,” she said after regaining her ability to talk. “You shouldn’t startle me like that. Good thing I’m not drinking red wine.”
“But you agree.”
“Well…not in so many words, but yes, it could do with a good bonfire.”
Cara laughed. “How about my old black one-piece swimsuit?”
“That, too. But it has so much padding and synthetic stretch fabric I think we might get arrested for air pollution if we did try to burn it.” Emma drummed her fingers on the table. “How about we throw it all away and start fresh? Not to be indelicate, but your lingerie could use some spiffing up, as well.”
“It’s a plan.” She’d stop in the swimsuit boutique tomorrow and ask that clerk Niki about the best places to shop. She drained her wineglass and set it down. “You want another glass of wine, Emma?”
“That would be great.”
Cara’s trip to and from the bar took a bit longer than before. The place was starting to fill up with mostly locals as far as she could tell. Cara knew she stood out as an obvious foreigner, but no one paid her much attention aside from a few stares from the men. They’d need X-ray vision tonight to guess what her body looked like.
Cara turned the corner and stopped. Their cozy booth had just become a bit cozier. Emma was sitting between two Greek guys, her blond hair in stark contrast with their black. Unsure if her friend had invited them to sit or if they needed running off, Cara approached cautiously.
Emma spotted her. “There you are! Come meet Nick.” She gestured to the man practically sitting in her lap, a guy with short black hair and dark brown eyes. “And this is his friend…” She was having trouble with the second guy’s name, so he supplied it.
“Yannis.” He turned to look at Cara. Despite his lack of sunglasses, the poor lighting and the fact that he wasn’t straddling a scooter in tight jeans, Cara recognized him right away. Vespa-Boy. And he had the bluest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Wow. Good thing he’d kept his sunglasses on while they argued that afternoon, or else she might have licked more than just her lips.
“Yannis! I knew it was something like that. What is that in English?” Emma giggled. Cara reluctantly set