At The Greek Boss's Bidding. Jane Porter
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“Your pillows,” she said, her voice as starchy as the white blouse tucked into cream slacks. Her only bit of ornamentation was the slender gold belt at her waist.
She’d thought she’d given him ample warning that she was about to lean over and adjust his pillows, but as she reached across him he suddenly reached up toward her and his hand became entangled in her hair.
She quickly stepped back, flustered. She’d heard all about Kristian’s playboy antics, knew his reputation was that of a lady’s man, but she was dumbfounded that he’d still try to pull that on her. “Without being able to see, you didn’t realize I was there,” she said coolly, wanting to avoid all allegations of improper conduct. “In the future I will ask you to move before I adjust your pillows or covers.”
“It was just your hair,” he said mildly. “It brushed my face. I was merely moving it out of the way.”
“I’ll make sure to wear it pulled back tomorrow.”
“Your hair is very long.”
She didn’t want to get into the personal arena. She already felt exceedingly uncomfortable being back in Greece, and so isolated here on Taygetos, at a former monastery. Kristian Koumantaros couldn’t have found a more remote place to live if he’d tried.
“I would have thought your hair was all short and frizzy,” he continued, “or up tight in a bun. You sound like a woman who’d wear her hair scraped back and tightly pinned up.”
He was still trying to goad her, still trying to get a reaction. “I do like buns, yes. They’re professional.”
“And you’re so very professional,” he mocked.
She stiffened, her face paling. An icy lump hit her stomach.
Her former husband, another Greek playboy, had put her through two years of hell before they were finally legally separated, and it had taken her nearly five years to recover. One Greek playboy had already broken her heart. She refused to let another break her spirit.
Elizabeth squared her shoulders, lifted her head. “Since there’s nothing else, Mr. Koumantaros, I’ll say goodnight.” And before he could speak she’d exited the room and firmly shut the door behind her.
But Elizabeth’s control snapped the moment she reached the hall. Swiftly, she put a hand out to brace herself against the wall.
She couldn’t do this.
Couldn’t stay here, live like this, be tormented like this.
She despised spoiled, pampered Greeks—particularly wealthy tycoons with far too much time on their hands.
After her divorce she’d vowed she’d never return to Greece, but here she was. Not just in Greece, but trapped on a mountain peak in a medieval monastery with Kristian Koumantaros, a man so rich, so powerful, he made Arab sheikhs look poor.
Elizabeth exhaled hard, breathing out in a desperate, painful rush.
She couldn’t let tomorrow be a repeat of today, either. She was losing control of Koumantaros and the situation already.
This couldn’t continue. Her patient didn’t respect her, wasn’t even listening to her, and he felt entirely too comfortable mocking her.
Elizabeth gave her head a slight dazed shake. How was this happening? She was supposed to be in charge.
Tomorrow, she told herself fiercely, returning to the bedroom the housekeeper had given her. Tomorrow she’d prove to him she was the one in charge, the one running the show.
She could do this. She had to.
The day had been warm, and although it was now night, her bedroom retained the heat. Like the other tower rooms, its plaster ceiling was high, at least ten or eleven feet, and decorated with elaborate painted friezes.
She crossed to open her windows and allow the evening breeze in. Her three arched windows overlooked the gardens, now bathed in moonlight, and then the mountain valley beyond.
It was beautiful here, uncommonly beautiful, with the ancient monastery tucked among rocks, cliffs and chestnut trees. But also incredibly dangerous. Kristian Koumantaros was a man used to dominating his world. She needed him to work with her, cooperate with her, or he could destroy her business and reputation completely.
At the antique marble bureau, Elizabeth twisted her long hair and then reached for one of her hair combs to fasten the knot on top of her head.
As she slid the comb in, she glanced up into the ornate silver filigree mirror over the bureau. Glimpsing her reflection—fair, light eyes, an oval face with a surprisingly strong chin—she grimaced. Back when she’d done more with herself, back when she’d had a luxurious lifestyle, she’d been a paler blonde, more like champagne, softer, prettier. But she’d given up the expensive highlights along with the New York and London stylists. She didn’t own a single couture item anymore, nor any high-end real estate. The lifestyle she’d once known—taken for granted, assumed to be as much a part of her birthright as her name—was gone.
Over.
Forgotten.
But, turning back suddenly to the mirror, she saw the flicker in her eyes and knew she hadn’t forgotten.
Medicine—nursing—offered her an escape, provided structure, a regimented routine and a satisfying amount of control. While medicine in and of itself wasn’t safe, medicine coupled with business administration became something far more predictable. Far more manageable. Which was exactly what she prayed Kristian would be tomorrow.
The next morning Elizabeth woke early, ready to get to work, but even at seven the monastery-turned-villa was still dark except for a few lights in the kitchen.
Heartened that the villa was coming to life, Elizabeth dressed in a pale blue shirt and matching blue tailored skirt—her idea of a nursing uniform—before heading to find breakfast, which seemed to surprise the cook, throwing her into a state of anxiety and confusion.
Elizabeth managed to convince her that all she really needed was a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. The cook obliged with both, and over Greek coffee—undrinkable—and a tiropita, or cheese pie, Elizabeth visited with Pano.
She learned that Kristian usually slept in and then had coffee in his bed, before making his way to the library where he spent each day.
“What does he do all day?” she asked, breaking the pie into smaller bites. Pano hesitated, and then finally shrugged.
“He does nothing?” Elizabeth guessed.
Pano shifted his shoulders. “It is difficult for him.”
“I understand in the beginning he did the physical therapy. But then something happened?”
“It was the eye surgery—the attempt to repair the retinas.” Pano sighed heavily, and the same girl who’d served Elizabeth lunch yesterday came forward with fresh hot coffee. “He’d had some sight until then—not much, but enough that he could see light and shadows, shapes—but something went wrong in the repeated surgeries and he is now as you see him. Blind.”
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