Mediterranean Mavericks: Greeks

Her room was at the far end of the landing. Her luggage had been placed inside.

‘Clothes,’ Evanthia said, pointing at an internal door. Alessandra opened the door to find a dressing room.

‘I do?’ Evanthia asked, picking one of the suitcases up.

‘I can do it,’ Alessandra answered with a smile. ‘Thank you for the offer.’

Evanthia started talking, gesturing wildly.

Not having the faintest idea what the housekeeper was saying or what her gestures meant, Alessandra smiled and nodded politely. Eventually Evanthia bustled off after making gestures Alessandra thought might have indicated food.

As soon as she was alone in her room she set about unpacking, hanging her clothes in the empty dressing room.

A dressing room that would only ever contain feminine clothes.

Silly little Alessandra, she thought, folding into drawers the new underwear she’d brought expecting her husband to remove them.

She could wear bloomers and he would neither know nor care.

At some point in the preceding weeks she’d allowed herself to believe their marriage could be like a small nursery garden that, with some care and attention, might—just might—bloom into something substantial. Something real.

She’d even allowed herself to believe that Christian could be someone in whom she could trust, not only with her baby but with her.

Christian had taken all those little seedlings and ripped them up, a reminder that he’d never wanted the garden in the first place. He’d put her subtly but firmly in her place.

So why had he made love to her on their wedding night? Out of duty? To consummate it and make it legal?

No. He must have made love to her because she was there and he could. She could have been any woman in that bed.

It was her own lack of sexual experience that had failed to recognise it for what it was.

Did he expect them to sleep together again or was that it?

Her cheeks burned just imagining asking that question. The humiliation of his answer would be too much.

But it hurt so much to know that an experience she’d found so special and fulfilling had been all one-sided. Christian had been going through the motions, his tenderness part of those motions.

He probably had sex with all his lovers in the same way. Why did she think she was so special that Casanova Markos would want to share a bed with her more than once? She’d shared two nights with him; she should feel special. She’d had a one hundred per cent higher success rate than his other women.

She rubbed her itchy eyes and chided herself. Christian wasn’t doing anything they hadn’t previously agreed. She had to accept things as they were, not as she now wished they could be.

Their marriage would be like the green land surrounding the villa. Flat and one-dimensional and not a single different colour in sight.

Alessandra hovered the photo over the place on screen until she was happy with the position then clicked to release it. She stared for an age, trying to think of a witty caption to go with it. Inspiration struck. She typed it in, clicking the save button at the exact moment Christian stepped into the hidden library.

She’d heard movements, had assumed it was members of the household staff.

She hadn’t for a minute thought it was her husband actually returning home at what would be regarded by a normal person as a decent time.

How she wished her pulses didn’t race at the mere sight of him.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, leaning against the oak desk she’d appropriated for her purpose.

‘A wedding montage.’ She made sure to keep her tone neutral. ‘I’m making what is basically an electronic magazine with pictures of all the people who were there to share our happy day.’ How she stopped her tongue curdling over ‘happy day’ she didn’t know. ‘When it’s done I’ll email it to all of them as a keepsake.’ She would also print and frame a copy and hang it beside her bed where it could be a daily reminder that her life with Christian was a sham, a marriage for appearances.

It felt good to have something to occupy her. Since their wedding three weeks ago, they’d travelled to Milan together for a few days so she could do her prearranged shoot and meet her obstetrician, flown on to Hong Kong where they’d stayed in his penthouse apartment—in separate rooms—for a week then travelled to London for a day’s shoot. They’d been back in Athens ever since.

Having no work to occupy her here, she’d spent a day sightseeing, undetected by any paparazzi. Far from being able to enthuse about all the ancient relics at the Acropolis, she’d felt lonely surrounded by couples and groups of people all chattering happily together.

Christian’s home was so remote and her grasp of the Greek language so weak that the chances of making any friendships were almost impossible. At least his apartment in Hong Kong was central, allowing her plenty of freedom to explore and occupy herself.

Being in Athens reminded her too strongly of being back at Villa Mondelli, when her grandfather had always been too busy working to take any notice of her. Rocco had been of the same mould. She’d learned as a child that moping about didn’t change anything. Keeping busy was the solution to curbing isolation. As a child she would bury her head in books, draw pictures and practise her gymnastics. She’d needed something, a project here in Athens, to keep the isolation at bay and it had been while going through the photos she’d taken on their wedding day, trying hard to look at them objectively and not through maudlin eyes, that inspiration had struck.

‘May I look?’

‘It isn’t finished yet—I’m about two-thirds done, but help yourself.’ She pushed her chair back to give him access to her laptop. She didn’t push back far enough, catching that gorgeous oaky scent that made her mouth water.

She closed her eyes in a futile attempt to curb the longing sweeping through her at his proximity.

In three weeks he hadn’t once attempted to seduce her, not even with his eyes, as he had done so many times before they’d made their vows.

One night had been enough for him to bore of her sexually. Okay; two nights. But they’d been months apart.

If only she could get her body to believe it was bored of him too.

Time would curb it, she told herself. Eventually his lack of interest would creep through her like a pollutant and she would be able to stop tossing and turning throughout the night, wishing he would come to her.

After three weeks of no physical attention she accepted that wasn’t going to happen.

It had done nothing to cure her longing.

‘This is incredible,’ Christian said, clicking his way through the pages she’d created. ‘The glossy magazines would pay you a fortune to get hold of your memory stick.’

‘I’m sure they would,’ she agreed drily.

Silently she congratulated herself on another coherent conversation with him.

It would have been easy to slip into self-pity after his rejection.

She would not do that. She would not infect her baby with negativity.

In fairness, he hadn’t lied to her. On the contrary, their marriage was shaping up to be exactly how they’d devised when they’d first agreed to it.

She only wished she’d known how heartsick it would make her.

Pushing her chair farther back, she got to her feet. ‘Are we still going out tonight?’ She refused to make assumptions. He might have only popped home for a fleeting visit between appointments.

Christian worked ridiculous hours. Even in Milan, where they’d stayed so she could work, he’d holed himself up in the spare room of her apartment, which he’d turned into a bedroom-cum-office, working until the early hours and joining her for an evening meal before disappearing again.

‘Yes. We don’t need to leave until eight. There’s plenty of time.’

They were going to a party at the British Embassy, their first official function as man and wife.

She looked at her watch. ‘I suppose two hours is adequate time to get ready for a night out.’

‘You suppose?’ he echoed with a droll tone.

Christian put his cufflinks on then slipped into his tuxedo jacket and straightened his black bowtie. He would do.

He headed downstairs and poured himself a small shot of bourbon.

It had been a hard few weeks and now he was looking forward to an evening out. Yes, it would be a networking evening, but with Alessandra by his side it would be bearable.

It was strange to think of himself merely enjoying a woman’s company for company’s sake but with Alessandra he did. Until their impromptu date, all his dealings with women had been for two reasons: business, at which he refused to blur the lines between personal and professional; and pleasure, the women he dated with the sole intention of bedding them. He’d enjoyed the time spent with them but it had been a means to an end, the end being in bed naked.

Alessandra was the first woman he’d gone on a date with whom he’d had no intention of bedding. He’d found her wildly attractive but she’d been so off-limits he’d curbed that side of his thought process with her. After a few glasses of champagne had loosened them both up, he’d found himself wildly fascinated by her, the mind beneath the beautiful face, not just the body beneath the dress she’d worn.

For the first time, he looked back on his behaviour before he’d met Alessandra with a sense of shame.

How many women had he bedded in his thirty-two years?

He couldn’t even hazard a guess.

He’d hopped from bed to bed without a second thought.

For the first time, he considered he’d been running, not hopping. Running as fast as he could.

Alessandra was the only woman whose bed he’d run from without immediately hopping into another.

From their first night together until she’d approached him at Rocco and Olivia’s wedding, there had been no one else. There still hadn’t been.

He hadn’t promised fidelity to her. So long as he was discreet, he could bed whomever he chose.

The problem, as he was learning, was that just because he could act like a kid in a sweetshop, his taste at that moment was for only one particular sweet. That sweet went by the name of Alessandra.

He didn’t believe he’d ever worked as hard as he had these past three weeks. He’d always been a hard, diligent worker but since his university days he’d always ensured there was time for fun.

The only fun he wanted now came in a slender package with a mane of glossy chestnut hair. There were times, especially late at night, when he heard movement from her room, when he would fight to remind himself why he couldn’t allow their relationship to be anything but platonic.

In his eyes, she was a princess.

He was a gutter rat.

He wasn’t good enough for her.

He would only bring her misery.

Better to keep things platonic for both their sakes and for the sake of their unborn baby.

It was harder than he’d ever imagined.

He straightened as Alessandra descended the stairs, the jewellery she wore around her wrist clanging against the railing she lightly gripped.

She never failed to take his breath away.

Tonight she wore a floor-length turquoise silk gown with only one long sleeve, gold and diamond beading around the neck line that slashed under her bare arm. The material layered like descending waves down to her feet, displaying her slender curves but hiding the slight burgeoning of her waistline. Tonight her neck was bare, the only complementary jewellery a chunky Egyptian bracelet and a pair of gold teardrop earrings. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant knot, her eyes dramatically darkened, her lips conversely painted a nude colour.

The Egyptian bracelet only accentuated the idea of an Egyptian queen having sprung to life.

An ache formed in his chest, a much different ache to the one coursing through his loins.

That bare, golden arm and shoulder were her only real bits of bodily flesh on display but the effect on him was as dramatic as if she’d walked down the stairs naked.

His mind filled with visions of peeling the dress from her…

He swallowed the imagery away and stepped forward to her, being greeted with a cloud of her sultry perfume in return.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Grazie. You look good yourself.’

Alessandra had always found men wearing dinner jackets attractive—there was something so sophisticated and suave about the look—but Christian made other men’s attempts look like little boys playing dress-up. There was something about the way he filled it that made her pulses skip and her skin tingle.

If they had a proper marriage she would at least have the anticipation of ripping it off him when they got home…

Stop it, she scolded herself. Thoughts like that did nothing for her private mission of gaining immunity against him.

And nor did the darkening of his eyes, that look as if he wanted nothing more than to rip her clothes off too.

A rush of warm heat pooled in the apex of her thighs, so deep and sudden her legs weakened.

It was a look she hadn’t seen in three weeks.

Any immunity she might have managed to attain was ripped away in one fell swoop.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHRISTIAN’S DRIVER PULLED up outside the embassy. No sooner had the engine been turned off than the door was opened for them and they were ushered out of the car amidst a hail of flashbulbs from the waiting paparazzi, who’d been tipped off that they were attending.

As they crossed the threshold of the historic building, Alessandra almost jumped out of her skin to feel Christian place his hand on the small of her back.

It was the first time he’d touched her since their wedding night.

It’s for the paparazzi’s benefit, she told herself.

When he clasped her hand into his much larger one, threading his fingers through hers, the nerves on her skin tingled with warmth, her fingers yearning to squeeze their possession.

Keeping a firm grip of her hand, he steered her around the room, introducing her to various bankers, investors and their partners and spouses.

She found it hard keeping track of names. Every time Christian’s body brushed against hers, her heart would skip and her mind would lose its train of thought.

When a waiter passed carrying a tray of canapés, she pounced, glad of a decent excuse to drop her husband’s hand.

It wasn’t just money and finance people wanted to talk to them about, though; many were keen to discuss the wedding, eager for the intimate details the press had only been able to guess at. They’d released a couple of photos to the media in the hope that having something publishable would help them lose interest.

‘They should give everyone name tags,’ she said after a few hours of small talk and endless canapés. Christian had noticed her springing lightly on her aching legs and, insisting she rest for a few minutes, had borne her off to some empty seats in an alcove.

A smile tugged at his lips. ‘It would make life easier.’

‘How many of these people do you actually know?’

‘Far too many of them.’

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

‘Finance doesn’t always attract the most charismatic of people.’

‘It attracted you.’

‘You think I’m charismatic?’

‘You know you are,’ she said with deliberate dismissal.

‘Is that a compliment?’ he asked, raising a brow in bemusement while his beautiful eyes glittered.

‘Take it however you want.’ She smiled at a passing woman they’d spoken to earlier, the wife of a diplomat. She couldn’t help but notice the woman’s gaze linger a touch too long on Christian.

Did she think he was charismatic?

Christian had more charisma than anyone she’d known. People were drawn to him. Women especially were drawn to him and it wasn’t the sole result of his good looks. She doubted the size of his bank account had much affect either—the magnetism he carried came from him.

‘Then I will take it as a compliment.’

‘Why finance?’ she asked, her interest piqued. ‘Of all the jobs and careers out there, why go that route?’

The bemusement dropped, the warmth in his eyes cooling. For a moment she thought he was going to ignore her innocent question.

Instead, he held her gaze. ‘When I was a small child, every night before she slept my mother would get the few drachmas she had to her name, place them in front of her and count them.’ He spoke slowly and concisely, as if he were thinking carefully about his answer. ‘I think she hoped that if she counted them enough times they would magically double. The only time I was ever able to make her happy was if I found a stray coin and brought it home to her.’

He shook his head, distaste pouring off him. ‘She worked so hard but we were so poor she couldn’t afford to pay for my school books. We had food in our belly from Mikolaj—whatever was left over from the day before—but there was no money for anything—not birthdays, not Christmas, not anything.’

Alessandra swallowed, the familiar ache forming in her belly that always came when she thought of his childhood. She hated imagining what he’d lived through.

His gaze bore into her. ‘I was obsessed with people like you.’

‘Me?’ she queried faintly.

‘I would see men and women like you, people who were clean and wore beautiful clothes, and wonder why we were so different, why the clothes my mother and I wore were falling into rags. Then I realised what the difference was: money. They had it and we didn’t. So that became my obsession. Money. I was determined to learn everything about it: how to earn it, how to make it grow and how to keep it so that my mother and I too could be clean and wear beautiful clothes.’

‘You certainly realised your dreams,’ she said quietly. ‘Did you have to study hard for it or did it come naturally to you?’

She thought back to her own single-sex education and how she had resented the strictness, rebelling by refusing to pay attention or do homework until it had become likely she would fail all her exams. If she’d applied herself a bit more, her grandfather would never have felt the need to employ a private tutor to help her catch up. Javier would never have entered her life. Who knew how different her life would have been if she’d never met him?

Would she have stayed a virgin until the age of twenty-five?

She hadn’t been ready for sex with Javier but with hindsight it was because she’d known, even without being aware of his wife and children, that a sexual affair between them was wrong. The balance of power had been too one-sided, in his favour.

But Javier was her reality. She didn’t know if she would have stayed a virgin until the age of twenty-five if she hadn’t met him because that would have been a different Alessandra, not the Alessandra she was today.

‘I studied every hour I could,’ Christian said, adopting the same quiet tone as she. ‘I must have been ten when I realised education was the only way either I or my mother could escape.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said softly after a long silence had formed between them.

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’ She raised her shoulders, wishing she could articulate the shame churning within her. She recalled the little rant she’d had in Mikolaj’s taverna when she’d put Christian in his place about him not having a monopoly on childhood pain and abandonment.

At least she’d always had clean clothes and fresh food. Materially she’d had everything she could have wished for; the things she’d been denied were to stop her being spoiled and not due to a lack of finances.

After the mess that had been her relationship with Javier, her grandfather had used money—her allowance—as another means to control her. No allowance meant no money; no money meant she stayed prisoner in the villa without the means to bring any more shame to the good Mondelli name.

A prisoner?

What a self-absorbed brat she had been.

Christian’s whole life came into sharp focus. No more potted snapshots of her Adonis, the hard working but poor scholarship student, the small child sharing a mattress in a cramped attic room with his harridan of a mother…

Now the snapshots formed a whole picture. Formed the man before her; everything it must have taken for him to drag himself out of the slum. Two decades of suffering before he’d had the opportunity to shower daily.

What must he think of her, the spoiled little rich kid? She knew she’d never been spoiled but in comparison to Christian she might as well have been Imelda Marcos. So her grandfather had been a workaholic and happy to pass the actual raising of his granddaughter to the female staff of his household? At least she’d never doubted his love. So he’d cut off her allowance? Oh, boo hoo. Her grandfather had been teaching her a lesson. Without it she would never have felt compelled to get herself a job, would never have answered the advertisement to be a photographer’s assistant and taken the first steps on the career she loved.

She’d been self-sufficient ever since.

She might not have had a mother or a father but she’d had her grandfather, strict as he was, and her brother, as protective as he was. Things might be tense at the moment but Rocco would always be there for her.

Christian hadn’t had any of that. Mikolaj had been there as best he could but with a business to run and seven kids of his own to raise it hadn’t been enough. Christian had basically been alone until he’d established the strong friendship group with her brother, Stefan and Zayed. A friendship that had been destroyed because of her.

‘Your mother…’

‘What about her?’ he asked tersely.

‘However crazy she makes you feel, you must love her very much.’

He breathed deeply. ‘I respect what she did for me as a child. She could have abandoned me but she didn’t. I do my duty towards her and will never abandon her. But love? She poisoned any notion I ever had of love.’

As Alessandra digested this, a silver fox of a man came over to join them in the alcove, a German she recalled Christian telling her was head of one of Europe’s major private banks.

‘Have I introduced you to my daughter?’ he asked, indicating a woman of around the same age as Alessandra who was hovering behind him.

‘I don’t believe so,’ Christian answered.

Silver Fox pulled his daughter to him. ‘Kerstin, this is Christian Markos and his wife, Alessandra.’

Kerstin’s eyes gleamed as she leaned in to kiss Christian’s cheeks, lingering to whisper something in his ear. A tall, blonde, impossibly glamorous and beautiful woman, she reminded Alessandra of old Hollywood. Her kisses to Alessandra were quick and perfunctory, the first thing that caused the word bitch to float in Alessandra’s mind.

‘Kerstin graduated a few years ago from your Alma Mater,’ Silver Fox said when the introductions were complete.

‘You studied at Columbia?’ Christian asked with interest.

‘I did,’ she said with a knowing smile.

So she had brains as well as beauty?

‘I seem to recall your father saying something about it, but that was quite a few years ago,’ he mused. ‘Are you planning on following in his footsteps?’

‘Ja—when Papa retires the plan is for me to take over his role.’

‘That’s something I wanted to talk to you about,’ Silver Fox said, addressing Christian. ‘Kerstin and I feel she needs to expand her horizons. We would like you to taking her under your wing for a year or two so she can learn directly from you different aspects of our business.’