Christos's Promise. Jane Porter
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helping her find a small flat in Geneva.
Alysia had liked Geneva. No bad memories there.
And for nearly two years she’d lived quietly, happily, content with her job in a small clothing shop, finding safety in her simple flat. Weekly she rang up her mother in Oinoussai and they chatted about inconsequential matters, the kind of conversation that doesn’t challenge but soothes.
Her mother never discussed the sanatorium with her, nor Paris. Alysia never asked about her father. But they understood each other and knew the other’s pain.
Alysia would never have returned to Greece, or her father’s house, if it hadn’t been for her mother’s cancer.
The mournful toll of bells stirred Alysia, and she tensed, lashes lowering, mouth compressing, finding the bells an intolerable reminder of her mother’s death and funeral.
The bells continued to ring, their tolling like nails scratching down a blackboard, sharp, grating. Oh, how she hated it here! The sisters had done everything they could to comfort her, and befriend her, but Alysia couldn’t bear another day of bells and prayers and silence.
She didn’t want to be reminded of her losses. She wanted to just get on with the living.
Sister Elena, a dour-faced nun with a heart of gold, signaled it was time to return inside.
Alysia felt a swell of panic, desperation making her light-headed. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to leave the garden, or the promise of freedom.
As if sensing her reluctance, Christos extended a hand in her direction. “You don’t have to go in. You could leave with me instead.”
It was almost as if he could feel her weakening, sense her confusion. His tone gentled yet again. “Leave with me today and you’ll have a fresh start, lead a different life. Everything would be exciting and new.”
He was teasing her, toying with her, and she longed for the freedom even as she shrank from the bargain.
She could leave the convent if she went as his wife.
She could escape her father if she bound herself to this stranger.
“You’re not afraid of me?” she asked, turning from Sister Elena’s worried gaze to the darkly handsome American Greek standing just a foot away.
“Should I be?”
“I know my father must have mentioned my…health.” She gritted against the sting of the words, each like a drop of poison on her tongue. Unwilling tears burned at the back of her eyes.
“He mentioned you hadn’t been well a few years ago, but he assured me you’re well now. And you look well. Quite well, if rather too thin, as a matter of fact.”
Her lips curved into a small, cold self-mocking smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Christos Pateras shrugged. “My first seven ships were damaged. I stripped them to the hull, refurbished each from bow to stern. Within a year my ships made me my first million. It’s been ten years. They’re still the workhorses of my fleet.”
She envisioned him stripping her bare and attempting to make something of her. The vivid picture shocked and frightened her. It’d been years and years since she’d been intimate with a man, and this man, was nothing like her teenage lovers.
Hating the flush creeping through her cheeks, she lifted her chin. “I won’t make you any millions.”
“You already have.”
Stung by his ruthless assessment, she tensed, her slender spine stiffening. “You’ll have to give it back. I told you already, I shall never marry.”
“Again, you mean. You’ll never marry again.”
She froze where she stood, at the edge of the herb garden, her gaze fixed on the ancient sun dial.
He knew?
“You were married before, when you were still in your teens. He was English, and six years older than you. I believe you met in Paris. Wasn’t he a painter, too?”
She turned her head slowly, wide-eyed, torn between horror and fascination at the details of her past. How much more did he know? What else had he been told?
“I won’t discuss him, or the marriage, with you,” she answered huskily. Marrying Jeremy had been a tragic mistake.
“Your father said he was after your fortune.”
“And you’re not?”
Lights glinted in his dark eyes. It struck her that this man would not be easily managed.
He circled her and she had to tilt her head back to see his expression. Butterflies flitted in her stomach, heightening her anxiety. He was tall, much taller than most men she’d known, and solid, a broad deep chest and muscular arms that filled the sleeves of his suit jacket.
Her nerves were on edge. She felt distinctly at a disadvantage and searched for something, anything, to give her the upperhand—again. “Good Greek men don’t want to be the second husbands.”
“We’ve already established I’m not your traditional Greek man. I do what I want, and I do it my way.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT STRUCK her then, quite hard, that two could play this game. All she had to do was think like a man.
Christos Pateras wanted her to further his ambitions. He was marrying her to accomplish a goal. This wasn’t about love, or emotions. This was a transaction and nothing more.
Why couldn’t she approach the marriage the same way? He wanted her dowry; she wanted independence. He wanted an alliance with the Lemos family; she wanted to escape her father.
Greece might be part of a man’s world but that didn’t mean she had to play by a man’s rules.
She sized him up again, assessing the odds. Tall, strong, ridiculously imposing, he exuded authority. Could she marry him and then slip away?
No more Alysia Lemos, poor little rich girl, but an ordinary woman with ordinary dreams. Like a small house in the country. A vegetable garden. An orchard of apple trees.
She stole a second glance at Christos’s rugged profile, noting the long, straight nose, line of cheek, strong clean-shaven jaw. He looked less ruthless than determined. Assertive, not aggressive. If she ran away from him, what would he do?
Chase her down? She doubted it. He’d have too much pride. He’d probably wait a bit and then quietly annul the marriage. Men like Christos Pateras wouldn’t want to advertise their failure.
He turned, caught her eye, his dark gaze holding hers. “Everyone thinks you’ve already married me.”
“How can that be?” she scoffed.
Opening his coat, he drew a folded newspaper from the breast pocket and handed it to her.
Not certain what she was supposed to find, she unfolded the paper and pressed the creased pages flat. Then the headlines jumped out at her, practically screaming the news. Secret Wedding For Lemos Heir.
Anger, indignation, shock flashed through her one after the other as the headlines blinded her. How could he do it? How could he pull a stunt like this?
And then just as quickly as her anger flared, inspiration struck. For the first time in months she saw an open door. All she had to do was walk through it.
Marry him, and walk away.
It was all in place. The husband, the marriage, the motivation. She just needed to go along with the plans and then leave.
Perfect. Her heart did a strange tattoo.
Maybe too perfect. Christos Pateras didn’t seize control of the Greek shipping industry by luck. He was smart. No, rumor had it that he was brilliant. A brilliant man wouldn’t marry a