She shuddered as recollections of her husband and best friend’s tangled limbs flailed enthusiastically into her mind, like two octopuses happily scarpering along the depths of the ocean. The hostess appeared and the man lifted his gaze to her face. “Macallan, two cubes of ice.”
“Right away, Mr Konstanides.” The attendant’s eyes dropped to Saphire. “And for you, madam?”
Saphire had decided to quit while she was most definitely not ahead, but at the attendant’s query she said, a little groggily, “I’ll have the same. No ice.”
“She will also have two ice cubes.”
“No, she won’t.”
His smile showed true amusement. “Scotch is meant to be enjoyed with ice. It will show a richer flavor.”
She blinked and then pursed her lips. “No ice.”
Her companion raised a brow but wisely said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight in the chair, so that he was a little closer to her. He smelled good. Something unrecognizable spiraled through Saphire’s gut and it quickly gave rise to reluctant curiosity. He was so different to Jordan; Jordan, a high-flying lawyer and the son of a distinguished politician and a supermodel, was handsome, polite, wealthy, and oh so very civilized, in a sort of uptight way.
This man was … she frowned. He was all those things too. Certainly the former. Gorgeous, virile, obviously wealthy if his suit, watch and the fact he was in the same first class cabin as she was, could be any guide. But there was a sort of feral animalism to him; something uncontained and restless that was at odds with his urbane demeanor.
“Where do I know that name?” She pondered, her brain a little too fogged by champagne and grief to sort through the information she had stored at her fingertips.
“Which name?” He prompted. His voice was like honey and caramel, thick and rich with a satisfying spice in the crispness of his vowels.
“Konstanides.”
“Perhaps you’re thinking of the airline,” he prompted with an air of unconcern that was almost definitely assumed.
“Yes!” She jabbed a finger at his broad chest and smiled proudly. “You have the same name as this …” she waved her hand around the cabin, “As this plane person. People.”
His smile was sardonic; it sent a shiver trembling down her spine. “Fancy that.”
“The people who own the plane, I mean.”
“Not just this plane; presumably they own the airline too.”
She nodded. “Yes.” Again she jabbed at his chest. “That’s strange.”
He hid a laugh. “Indeed.”
She lifted the scotch to her lips. She hadn’t drunk the liquor in a long time but she had a small taste now and didn’t hate it. She was numb, of course. Ordinarily it would have sent her retching to the bathroom. She had another mouthful.
Her companion’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You drink like someone wanting to forget.”
“Do I?” Saphire was shocked. Was it so obvious? Or was this man just unfathomably astute? She took another sip hoping to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Maybe I just drink like someone who wants to get drunk.”
“In my experience, it’s the same thing.”
“Do you have a lot of experience with drunk women on planes, then?” She asked, blinking her eyes innocently. They were a startling shade of blue; they reminded him of the Aegean Sea on a bright summer’s day. The effect, in her pretty face with bright red lips and dark brown hair, was stunning. Literally, he had found it difficult to wrench his eyes off her.
“No.” He did his best to avoid talking to strangers, particularly beautiful, obviously troubled, hiccoughing, sobbing, champagne-sledging women such as this. And yet here he was, staring at her as though she held the secret to eternal life.
“Who are you?”
She dropped her gaze to the drink and ran her finger over the rim distractingly. “No one.”
Her reticence infuriated him. He told himself to sit back against the seat and ignore her, but how could he? She was the one drinking like a soldier but the intoxication was wrapping right around him. He cradled his scotch without bringing it to his lips. “No one, huh?”
“Why do you care?” She snapped, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a shaky breath. It smelled of scotch. Her eyelashes were the longest he’d ever seen. He wondered, briefly, if they were fake, but immediately discounted the notion. There was nothing fake about this woman. From her inky hair and pearly complexion to those full, cherry-red lips and perfect breasts that were pushed up to reveal a heaving cleavage, she was all-woman and all-real.
His eyes were drawn to the creamy color of her décolletage and lower still to the round orbs that would be more than a handful, even for him. Her nipples were peaking against the fabric. He wanted to touch them. To touch her.
The certainty arrested his thoughts like a blade.
What the hell had gotten into him?
His eyes flashed to her face and he caught her, startled and aware, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. She’d seen his lazy inspection and she’d understood. Attraction was a flame that burst between them. Desire unfurled in his gut.
“What?” She whispered, though she knew. She knew what he was thinking. She knew what he wanted. And the knowledge was a lightning bolt of much-needed confidence to her bruised ego. This man, this gorgeous, handsome stranger, was attracted to her.
Stuff her idiot husband, who made calm, sensible love to her every few weeks. This man was wild and untamed, she could tell just by looking at him, and he wanted her!
Without alcohol, she probably wouldn’t have realized, and she certainly never would have acted on the feeling. But now, rejected by the two people she was closest to on earth, pushed out by her best friend and her husband, she sought the flattery and attention of a man she knew nothing about.
His validation had become, instantly, desperately, essential to her being.
“Do you want to sleep with me?” The question surprised them both, but him more. Saphire knew, as she breathed the words out huskily, that she was seeking a path that might remove some of the pain her husband had inflicted. Surely if she slept with someone else, as he had Anita, she would begin to feel better.
Two wrongs sometimes made a right, didn’t they?
“Yes.” He didn’t bother denying it. Thaddeus had never been precious about sex. His predilections were well known. Consensual, adventurous, beautiful and commitment-phobic were his only requirements. And sober, which ruled this particularly stunning creature out. For the moment, at least.
She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “Why?”
His laugh sent shivers dancing down her spine. “Why not?”
A frown puckered her lips. He felt his arousal jerk in response. Those lips were too perfectly formed to frown. They had far better applications and he was reasonably desperate to begin putting them to use.
“Is that what people do?” She asked after a beat. Her eyes scanned his. But alcohol was making it hard for her to focus. “Do people just fall into bed with each other because there’s no reason not to?”
There was more to her story. His first appraisal, that she was drinking to forget something, seared in his mind. “Some do,” he shrugged. Her chest was heaving as she breathed and the pain as his groin stretched against his pants was intense. He lifted a finger to her throat and traced a line from the delicately fluttering pulse point to the neckline of her dress. She shivered but didn’t pull away or rebuke him, so he let his finger drop lower, to the nipple that was hard against the flimsy fabric.
He squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger, and rolled it lightly. She made a soft moaning sound that did little to stem the intense throb of his desire. “I have a healthy appetite. When I see a woman I want, I do not hesitate to say so.”
“And you want me.” It was a statement of wonder and doubt. The lust coursing through her veins was obviously mutual. Only she knew her own cravings had little to do with this man – as gorgeous as he was – an
d everything to do with a life-or-death obligation to remove her husband from her body.
Jordan was the only man she’d ever slept with and that fact infuriated her now. They had been each other’s first and only lovers. Or so she had stupidly believed.
He dipped his head in concession.
“When?” She reached down and captured his hand in hers; her eyes locked to his as she lifted his finger to her lips and sucked on the end of it. Her mouth was warm and soft. It was his turn to feel the inside of his stomach roll with the promise of what she was offering.
“As soon as this damned plane lands,” he growled, though mentally he factored in how long it would take for the alcohol to leave her system and for her to sleep off the largest hangover in history.
“Not good enough,” she complained petulantly. “There must be somewhere …”
He laughed softly. Her need was an aphrodisiac. He appreciated her sexual appetite; it matched his, which was rare.
He knew instinctively that, until she was safely in his home, he ran the risk of losing her. And he couldn’t let that happen. So he lifted his scotch to his lips and sipped it.
With the alcohol swirling in his mouth, he bent his dark head forward and took possession of her lips.
Despite the tenor of their conversation, it had caught her off guard. She gasped; her lips opened and he trickled the alcohol into her mouth. His tongue lashed against hers and the kiss was so intense that droplets of the amber liquid ran out of the sides of her mouth down her neck.
Saphire didn’t notice. His kiss was heroin and cocaine and its effect was instantaneous. Fire moved through her body, flaring in her womanhood. She was slick with need and burning up suddenly. She was going to do this. She was going to sleep with this man and then she was going to hang it over her idiot husband’s head.
“I have a perfectly good bed in Greece,” he promised seductively. “And you will be joining me in it soon enough.”
By the time the plane had landed, Saphire was almost catatonic with arousal. He linked fingers with hers and guided her off the flight; they were the first to leave. Saphire still felt completely fuzzy around the edges, so she was pleased for his strong arm for support.
Customs passed in a blur. Somehow she managed to behave as though she were the sensible twenty six year old woman most people believed her to be. But her body knew differently.
“Do you have a bag?”
She shook her head. She’d had no time to pack one. “I was going to pick up what I needed here.”
He nodded. A man appeared with a suitcase and Mr Konstanides nodded at him. God, Saphire didn’t even know his first name! She was going to sleep with this man – she was aching to sleep with him, in fact – and she knew nothing about him.
“What should I call you?” She asked, as they powered through the airport with an air of sensual urgency.
“I don’t much care,” he said honestly. He bundled her into a waiting black car. To her surprise, he took the position beside her, and the man who’d joined them seated himself at the wheel.
She wanted Mr Konstanides with the strength of a thousand suns and yet the scotch had enervated her. She felt her eyes getting heavier and heavier as the car cut through Athens. By the time they reached the marina, she had fallen asleep. Her head was heavy against his shoulder.
“Where are we?” She mumbled, as he lifted her from the vehicle and held her against his broad chest.
“Almost there.”
The words, short and clipped, reassured her. She sighed and let her eyes drift closed again.
His speedboat made short work of the journey to l’isola ouranos. He watched her the whole time.
In his experience, the women who hit the liquor bottles hard and decided to try their luck with one of the wealthiest eligible bachelors in Europe were all a certain type. Beautiful like Saphire Arana – he had seen her name when she’d flashed it unsteadily at the passport control – but without her vulnerability. It was that softness and sweetness that spoke to him. It was her obvious innocence that set his blood raging in his body.
Thaddeus Konstanides was a strong man. He ran eight miles every morning. He’d had a weights room installed next to his office so that he could break up the sedentary obligations of his corporate requirements with a burning workout whenever he sought it.
And he made love often, and with athleticism and strength.
He lifted Saphire as though she weighed no more than a child and stepped smoothly off the luxury craft. It was his private pontoon and his mansion was at the edge of the garden. He strode over the grass quickly.
Saphire stirred a little and had a brief impression of the most beautiful hotel she’d ever seen. Huge, with rustling palm trees in the foreground and a soft golden glow from within. But her eyes felt like they were weighted with cement and again she dipped back into slumber.
Only when they reached his room and he put her down in his bed did she stretch her arms above her head and smile. “Are you going to sleep with me now?” She murmured, and her words were both husky with invitation and slurred by alcohol.
He deserved a God-damned medal, Thaddeus thought with a low growl. How easy it would have been to push the ridiculously frothy dress up around her waist, slip aside her underwear and plunge inside of her.
But he would loathe himself for indulging that weakness. She was in no fit state to have any idea what she was asking for. Instead, he slipped her shoes from her feet and placed them at the foot of the bed.
“Soon,” he promised, running a hand over her dark hair. “Very soon.”
2
The sun was her enemy. It burned through her eyes making her corneas sting. Her mouth was thick with fur and tasted of dirty socks. When she sat up and pushed her hair from her face, her brain gave an unparalleled screech of complaint.
“Ugh,” she moaned, blinking one eye shut as she scanned the room and tried to remember what the hell had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
And then, piece by piece, it began to hammer into her consciousness. Anita and Jordan. Her beautiful best friend and her stunning husband making love in Saphire’s picture-perfect room, destroying her picture-perfect, no-good marriage.
Then what? She’d got a cab to the airport and decided to come to … to come to … Greece! It had been the first flight she could get onto. A first class ticket had been available on a plane bound for Athens that had been leaving almost immediately and she had been desperate to get as far away from her staid life in Notting Hill as possible.
And then?
Mr Konstanides, her brain taunted, and she lifted a hand to her breast to feel the nipple that he’d tormented on the flight. It drifted higher, to her lips. He’d kissed them until she’d thought she might pass out from the strength of sensation.
Mr Konstanides.
She looked down at her body. She was still wearing the black dress. Which meant they hadn’t slept together after all, didn’t it?
His side of the bed was unrumpled. In fact, her shoes and her body were the only signs of life in this incredibly luxurious hotel suite. She stood up gingerly.
No.
They hadn’t slept together.
Saphire could tell that having sex with a man like Mr Konstanides would have been an invasion of all of her senses. It would be life-altering, yet she felt very much as she had yesterday, except for the throbbing headache. And as that was self-inflicted, she refused to allow that to cower her back to bed.
No, her body had only ever known one lover, and he had, she was beginning to suspect, treated her with kid gloves. Why? Had she bored him? Had she given him some silent, unknowing impression that she couldn’t handle being treated like a red-blooded, adult woman?
Flashes of their calm, missionary sex-life made her face pale now. She pushed them aside.
Possibly the sexiest man Saphire had ever met had wanted to sleep with her. And even if she couldn’t go through with it in broad daylight, his interest still meant something.
Hell, she could never go through with it, broad daylight or not. She’d be a huge disappointment to someone like him. He might have thought she was ready to jump into any willing man’s bed, but the truth was, she had no damned idea what to do when she got there.
Enormous windows behind her framed a stunning view of the beach. Saphire squinted past her pain to give it a slow appraisal. Despite the pounding headache, she couldn’t help but marvel at the pristine ocean and crisp white shore. The sand stretched for about the same distance in both directions, forming a sweeping cove. There were pale-cultured rocks at the cliff-face, and spiky green plants bursting from them. There was no sign of other guests, though far, far in the distance she could make out the stately silhouette of an enormous cruise ship.
Where the heck in Athens was she? She tried to remember where they’d gone after the airport but it was mostly a blank. She had a brief impression of a stunning hotel. A boat? No. Surely not. It must have been a fast car. And she remembered being cradled against his broad, strong chest; almost asleep but awake enough to register how capable he was, and how safe she felt.
She lifted her forefingers to her temples and pressed against them, willing her head to stop bleating noisily at her.
“How do you feel?”
She startled and spun around far faster than was wise for someone in her fragile state.
Mr Kostanides was reclined with easy relaxation against the door jamb. He wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of black underpants. Saphire’s heart was pounding hard into her rib cage. He was so much better in the flesh than she’d dared to dream. His cinnamon-coloured tan was all-over. The previous evening his body had been concealed by a corporate shirt and pants. Now? Everything was on display. From the broad shoulders, to the rippling chest and strong, masculine legs. But most importantly, a certain part of his anatomy that she was trying her hardest not to stare at. Yet it was there and her cheeks flushed with a school-girl coyness.