The Greek's Pleasurable Revenge. Andie Brock
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man took a step away, glancing around for back-up. ‘Look, Kalanos, this is my father’s funeral—that’s all I’m saying. It’s a time for respect.’
‘Ah, yes, respect.’ Lukas let the word slide through his teeth like a witch’s curse. ‘I’m so glad you reminded me. That must be why there are so many people here.’ He swept a derisive stare over the sparsely populated graveside. ‘So many people wanting to pay their “respects” to the great man.’
‘It’s a quiet family funeral. That’s all.’ Yiannis avoided his eye. ‘And you are not wanted here, Lukas.’
‘No?’ Lukas ground out his reply. ‘Well, you know what? That’s too bad.’
In point of fact Lukas hadn’t wanted to be there. Not yet. Lukas had been far from ready to bury this evil man. He’d had plans for him. The man who had killed his father as surely as if he had driven a blade through his heart. Whose evil machinations had seen Lukas thrown into prison for a crime he hadn’t committed. Dark, unspeakable plans that would have seen him begging for mercy and, on realising there was none to be had, pleading for the oblivion of death.
Four and a half years. That was how long Lukas had been incarcerated in one of Athens’s toughest jails, with only the dregs of society for company. Plenty of time to go over every detail of his betrayal, and worse—far worse—the betrayal of his father. Years of seething, boiling, melting rage that had solidified inside him until it had become all he was. No longer a man of flesh and blood but hard and cold, hewn from the lava of hatred.
Four and a half years to plot his revenge.
And all for nothing.
Because the object of his hatred, Aristotle Gianopoulous, had died on the very same day that Lukas had been released from prison. Almost as if he had timed it deliberately. Almost as if he had known.
Now Lukas watched the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground as the sonorous voice of the priest bestowing his final blessing filled the air. His cold eyes travelled round the circle of black-clad mourners, moving from one to the next. He let his gaze stay just long enough for his forbidding presence to register, to unsettle them, to shift their focus from the dead man to one who was very much alive. And who wanted them to know it.
Beside him Yiannis Gianopoulous fidgeted nervously, shooting him wary sidelong glances. The son of Aristotle from his second marriage, he was of no interest to Lukas. His brother Christos was here too, scowling at him from the relative safety of the other side of the open grave. There were a couple of old business associates, Aristotle’s ancient lawyer, and one of his lady-friends, quietly dabbing at her eyes as if it was expected of her. Slightly to one side stood Petros and Dorcas, Aristotle’s last remaining faithful employees, who had worked for him for longer than Lukas could remember. More fool them.
An assorted array of damaged and broken individuals, the detritus of Gianopoulous’s life, all brought together under the punishing heat of the midday sun on this beautiful Greek island to bury the man who had doubtless managed to blight all their lives in one way or another. Lukas didn’t give a damn about any of them.
All except for one.
Finally he let his eyes rest upon her. The slightly built young woman standing with her head bowed, clutching a single white lily tightly in her hand. Calista Gianopoulous. Callie. The offspring of Aristotle’s third wife, his youngest child and only daughter. The one good thing Aristotle had produced. Or so Lukas had thought. Until she had betrayed him, too. Playing her part in his downfall in the most treacherous way possible.
Lukas allowed himself a moment to savour her discomfort. He had recognised her immediately, of course, the second he had burst onto this touching scene. Marching through the small graveyard, past the neglected resting place of his own father, he had stormed towards the freshly dug grave, enjoying the palpable wave of alarm that had rippled across the mourners.
And the look of panic that had gripped Calista. He had seen it, even though she was wearing a veil, had witnessed the flash of terror in those green eyes, registered the way her slender body swayed slightly before she had steadied herself and looked down.
Now he watched as she bowed her head still further, pulling at the black lace that covered her glorious red hair as if she could somehow disguise herself, hide from him. But there was no chance of that. No chance at all.
Look at me, Calista.
He found himself willing her to raise her eyes, to meet his searing gaze. He wanted to see her guilt for himself, to witness her shame, to feel it penetrate the solid wall of his contempt.
Or was some small, pathetic part of him still hoping that he’d got it wrong?
But Calista’s eyes were firmly fixed on the grave before her, looking for all the world as if she would jump in with her deceased father if it meant she could get away from him. But, no. She would have no such escape. Aristotle might have died before Lukas could exact his revenge, but Calista was here before him—ready for the taking. It would be revenge of a very different kind, but none the less pleasurable for that.
Lukas stared at her through narrowed eyes. The young woman he thought he’d known. How wrong he had been. Over the years they had built up a friendship, or so he had thought, sharing their summers on the island of Thalassa, a private idyll bought jointly by their two fathers when G&K Shipping had made its first million. A symbol of their success and their enduring friendship.
So much for that.
Lukas, eight years Calista’s senior, thought back to the lonely little kid whose parents had divorced before she’d barely been out of nappies. Her neurotic screwball of a mother had whisked her back to her homeland of England, but sent her alone to Thalassa for the school holidays. Cutting a forlorn figure, Calista had trailed after whichever half-sibling had happened to be in residence at the sumptuous Gianopoulous residence at the time, her fair skin turning pink in the hot Greek sun, freckles dotting her nose.
She had trailed after Lukas too, seeking him out on his family’s side of the island, obstinately settling herself in his boat when he was off one of his fishing trips, or clambering over the rocks to watch him dive into the crystal-clear turquoise waters before pestering him to show her how it was done.
Later she had become Callie the awkward teenager. Motherless by then, she’d been packed off to boarding school, but had still came back to Thalassa for the long summer vacations. Hiding her mop of curly red hair beneath a floppy straw hat and her pretty face behind the fat pages of a blockbuster novel, she’d no longer had any interest in her brothers—nor, seemingly, in Lukas, except for the occasional giveaway glance from those amazing green eyes when she’d thought he wasn’t looking, and blushing to the roots of her hair when he caught her out.
Callie, now Calista, who at eighteen, had somehow metamorphosed into the most stunning young woman. And had tempted him into bed. Although technically they had never actually made it as far as a bed. Caught up in the moment, the sofa in the living room had served them well enough.
Lukas had known it was wrong at the time—of course he had. But she had been just too alluring, too enticing to resist. He had been surprised, flattered—honoured, even—that she had made a play for him, chosen him to take her virginity. But most of all he had been duped.
And now he was going to make her pay.
* * *
Calista felt the ground sway beneath her feet, and the image of the coffin bearing her father blurred through the black lace of her veil.
Oh, please, no.
Not Lukas—not here, not now. But there was no mistaking the figure of the man who was glowering at her from the other side of the grave, or the power of his intensely dark stare as it bored into her. He was broader than she remembered him, and his muscled torso harder, stronger, more imposing, filling the well-cut dark suit like steel poured into a mould of the finest fabric. His sleeves tugged tight against the bulge of his biceps as he stood there with his arms