Christos's Promise. Jane Porter
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up, her gaze settled on the high, whitewashed wall. All convent windows faced inward, overlooking the herb garden and potted citrus trees. None of the windows faced out, no glimpse of the ocean, no picture of the world left behind…
But she hadn’t left it behind. Her father had ripped it from her just weeks after her mother’s death. There had been no mourning for him. Just business, just money and deals and ships.
A lump filled her throat. For a moment her chest felt raw, tight. “If we are going to do it,” she said after a long painful silence, “let’s not waste time.”
They were married in the briefest of ceremonies in the convent chapel. Rings, exchange of vows, a passionless kiss.
In the back of the limousine, Alysia clenched her hand on her lap, doing her best to ignore the heavy diamond-and-emerald ring weighting her finger. Christos had already told her it wasn’t a family heirloom, three carat diamonds had never been part of his family fortune. No, the ring had been purchased recently, just for her. But she wouldn’t wear it long. By this time tomorrow she’d have it off her finger, left behind on a dresser or bathroom counter, she promised herself.
A strange calm filled her. For the first time in years she felt as if she were in control again, acting instead of reacting, making decisions for herself instead of feeling helpless.
With a swift glance at her new husband, she noted Christos Pateras’s profile, his strong brow creased, a furrow between his dark eyes. He wore his black hair combed straight back, and yet the cowlick at the temple softened the severity of his hard, proud features.
He’d be surprised—no, furious—when he discovered her gone. He didn’t expect her to deceive him. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind. Just like a Greek man to assume everything would go according to his plan.
He sat close to her, too close, and she inched across the seat only to have his hard thigh settle against hers again.
She became fixated on the heat passing from his thigh to hers, panic stirring at the unwelcome intimacy. She wasn’t ready to be touched by him. Wasn’t ready to be touched by anyone.
She scooted closer to the door, pressing herself into the corner, willing herself to shrink in size.
“You’re acting like a virgin,” he drawled, casting a sardonic look in her direction.
She felt like a virgin. Years and years without being touched, not even a kiss, and now this, to sit thigh to thigh with a stranger, a tall, muscular, imposing stranger who wanted her to bear his children.
Stomach heaving, Alysia pressed trembling fingers against her lips. What had she done? How could she have married him? If she didn’t escape him, surely she’d die. Despite her mother’s wisdom, despite the gentle counsel of the sisters, Alysia didn’t want family. No children, no babies. Ever.
She couldn’t ever give Christos Pateras a chance. She wouldn’t let him make a move. No opportunities for seduction. First chance she could, she’d leave.
“Relax,” Christos uttered flatly. “I’m not going to attack you.”
She opened her eyes, glanced at him beneath lowered lashes. He looked grim, distant. Gone was the laughter, the fine creases fanning from his eyes.
The luxury sedan bounced down the narrow mountain road, the street unpaved, lurching across a deep pothole. Despite the seat belt, Alysia practically spilled into Christos’s lap. Quickly she righted herself, drawing sharply away. Christos’s mouth pressed tighter.
The silence stretched, tension thick. Squirming inwardly, aware that she’d helped create the hostility, Alysia searched for something to say. “You like Oinoussai?”
“It’s small.”
“Like America.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in faint amusement. “Yes, like America.” The amusement faded from his eyes, his features hardening again.
She felt his dark gaze settle on her face, studying her as dispassionately as one studied a work of art hanging on a museum wall. “Have you ever been to the States before?” he asked.
“No.” She’d always wanted to go, was curious about New York and San Francisco, but she hadn’t had time, nor the opportunity. Thanks to her father, she’d been too busy enjoying the special pleasures of the sanatorium and the convent.
“I have a meeting in Cephalonia, which we’ll sail to from here. And then I thought we could conclude our honeymoon someplace else, someplace you might find interesting before returning to my home on the East Coast.”
Honeymoon. She tensed at the very suggestion. He’d said he wouldn’t force himself on her, said he’d be content to wait. Honeymooning conjured up lovemaking and intimacy and…
She shuddered. This was a mistake. She’d made a mistake. He had to turn the car around, take her back to the convent now.
“We’re not going back to the convent,” he said, still watching her, dark eyes hooded.
Her head snapped up. She stared at him, shocked that he knew what she’d been thinking.
“My dear Mrs. Pateras, you’re not difficult to read. You wear your emotions on your face, they’re all there, right for me to see.”
He tapped her hands, knotted in her lap. “Try to relax a little, Alysia. I’m not demanding sexual favors tonight. I’m not demanding anything from you just yet. You need time. I need time. Let’s try to make this work, learn a little about each other first.”
Angered by his rational tone, finding nothing rational in being coerced into marriage, she lifted her head, temper blazing. “You want to learn about me? Fine. I’ll tell you about me. I hate Greece and I hate Greek men. I hate being treated like a second-class citizen simply because I’m a woman. I hate how money empowers the rich, creating another caste system. I hate business and the ships you treasure. I hate the alliance my father has formed with you because my father detests America and American money—” she drew a breath, shaking from head to toe.
One of his black eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Finished?” he drawled.
“No. I’m not finished. I haven’t even started.” But her outburst had leveled her, and she leaned heavily against the leather upholstery, exhausted, and suddenly silent.
She wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to fighting, to speaking her mind. Her father had never allowed her to say anything at all. Her father never even looked at her.
“What else is bothering you?” Christos persisted, his attention centered on her and nothing but her.
She shook her head, unable to speak another word.
“Perhaps we should leave our philosophic differences for a later date. Those big issues can be overwhelming, hmm?” He smiled wryly, his expression suddenly human. “Why don’t we start with the small things, the daily routines that give us comfort. For example, breakfast. Coffee. How do you take yours? Milk and sugar?”
She shook her head, eyes dry, gritty, throat thick. “Black,” she whispered.
“No sugar?”
She shook her head again. “And yours? Black?”
“I like a touch of milk in mine.” He spoke without rancor, the tone friendly, disarmingly friendly. “Are you an early riser?”
“A night owl.”
“Me, too.”
“Lovely,” she answered bitingly. “We should be perfect together.”
His expression remained blank, yet a hint of warmth lurked in his dark eyes. “A promising beginning, yes, but I do think a week or two alone should help rub some of the edges off, take the newness away. And with that in mind, I’ve cleared my calendar and after this meeting on Cephalonia, will have the next couple weeks free.”
“How