“This is a marriage of convenience, yes?”

“Marriages of convenience don’t produce children. I need children.” Before she could speak he continued. “I’ll do my best to ensure you’re satisfied. I want you to be happy. It’s important we’re both fulfilled. Sex is a natural part of life. It should be natural between us.”

Blood surged to her face, heating her cheeks, creating a frisson of warmth through her limbs. “We hardly know each other, Mr. Pateras.”

“Which is why I won’t force myself on you. I’m content to wait until some of the newness wears off and we’ve grown more…comfortable with each other before becoming intimate.”

in

Harlequin Presents®

Looking for sophisticated stories that sizzle?

Wanting a read that has a little extra spice?

Choose Passion™—sexy stories, hot romance!

This month, enjoy

Jane Porter’s gripping, sensual novel

Christos’s Promise

And look out for another

Passion™ title in December: The Husband Test by Helen Bianchin #2218

Available wherever Harlequin books are sold.

Christos’s Promise
Jane Porter

For my husband, Joe. You are my miracle.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’D rather remain locked here in the convent than marry me?”

Disbelief echoed in Christos Pateras’s voice. How could this girl—woman, actually, although she didn’t look a bit like the twenty-five her father claimed she was—prefer living in the spartan convent over marrying him?

He was no barbarian. Compared to the Greek men she’d been raised with, he was downright civilized.

“You had my answer earlier,” Alysia Lemos retorted coolly. “You needn’t have wasted your time coming here.”

He turned his back on the anxious nun hovering in the background, intentionally making it harder for her to hear. The abbess might have insisted on providing Alysia with a chaperone, but that didn’t mean the sister needed to be privy to the conversation.

“You told your father no,” Christos answered, his tone mild, deceptively so. “You didn’t tell me no.” He rarely raised his voice. He didn’t need to. His size and authority generally were persuasive enough.

But Alysia Lemos’s fine dark eyebrows only arched higher. “Some women might find such persistence flattering. I don’t.”

“So, your answer is…?”

Alysia’s incredulous laughter contrasted sharply with the dark blaze in her eyes. “I know you’re an American, but surely you can’t be this much of an idiot!”

Her cutting dismissal might have crushed a man of lesser ego, but he wasn’t just any man, and Miss Lemos wasn’t just any woman. He needed her. He wasn’t going to leave Oinoussai without her. “You dislike Americans?”

“Not all.”

“Good. That should help ease the transition when we move to New York.”

Her eyes met his, the dark irises all the more arresting against her sudden pallor. “I’m not moving. And I’d never agree to an arranged marriage.”

He dismissed this along with her other protestations. “In case you’re worried, I consider myself Greek. My parents were born here, on Oinoussai. They still call this home.”

“Oh, happy people, they.”

He almost smiled. No wonder her father, Darius, was feeling desperate. She was not an eager bride-to-be. “I don’t know if they’ll be happy with you for a daughter-in-law, but they’ll adjust.”

Bands of color burned along the curve of her cheek. “I’m sure your mother dotes on you.”

“Endlessly. But then, most Greek mothers live for their sons.”

“While daughters are disposable.”

He gave no indication that he’d heard the hurt in her voice, the small wobble in her breath as she spat the bitter words. “Not mine. My daughters will be cherished.”

At thirty-seven, he needed a wife, and Darius Lemos needed a husband for his wayward daughter. This was no love match, but a match made in a bank in Switzerland. “I’m an only child, the last of the Pateras in my branch of the family. I’ve promised my parents a grandchild before my thirty-ninth birthday, and I shall deliver.”

“No, you hope I’ll deliver!”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I stand corrected.”

Alysia’s hands balled. She longed to smack his smirk right off his gorgeous, arrogant face. She’d never met a man more sure of himself than he. Except for her father, that is.

She swallowed convulsively, her stomach heaving, as she struggled to understand why her father had reached across the Atlantic for a husband for her. Her father despised the new rich. Her father must be feeling desperate. Well, so was she. He was practically auctioning her off to the highest bidder, his sole heir up for grabs.

Hot tears rushed to her eyes but she held them back. Her mother would never have let her father do this.

“There are worse bridegrooms, Miss Lemos.”

She felt the irony but couldn’t even smile. “A husband is a husband, and I don’t want one.”

“Most women want to be married. It’s the desire of every Greek woman.”

“I’m not most women.”

He laughed almost unkindly. “So say you, but I’ve learned one woman is not so different from another. You all have agendas—”

“And you don’t?”

“Mine isn’t hidden. I want children. I need children.” He scrutinized her as though she were horseflesh. “You’re young. You’d be an excellent mother.”

She winced. “I don’t want to be a mother.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “We can marry today. Here. It’ll just be us. Your father is unavailable, I’m afraid.”

“What a shame.”

His mouth quirked faintly, revealing surprise, even intrigue. “You speak like a sailor.”

“The closest I’ve come to my father’s business.”

“You’re interested in business?”

“I’m interested in my competition.” The industry her father loved above all else. Nothing came between him and his ships. Nothing had ever been allowed to interfere with the great Lemos fortune. Not her mother. Certainly not herself.

“I think the business would bore you,” he said after a moment, jamming his hands into trouser pockets. “It’s talks. Contracts. Number crunching. Tedious stuff.”

“For my small brain?”

His eyes glimmered, her mocking tone had made him smile. “You shouldn’t listen to everything your father says,” he cheerfully drawled. “Only the good things about me.”

She could easily have slapped his cheeky face. She knew exactly why Christos Pateras was marrying her. He wanted her dowry. Her dowry and her father’s shipping interests. When Darius passed away, Christos would inherit Lemos’s empire. “You’re overly confident.”

“So say my critics.”

“You have many?”

“Legions.”

She offered him her profile, grinding her teeth together. This was a joke to him and he toyed with her like a cat with a mouse. She struggled to contain her temper, her smooth jaw tightening. “You’re mad if you think I’ll marry you.”

“Your father has already consented to the marriage. The dowry has changed hands—”

“Change it back!”

“Can’t do that. I need you too much.”

She turned her head, her brilliant gaze catching his. “Despite what you both think, I am neither mindless, nor spineless. Since you appear to have difficulty with your hearing, let me say it again. I will not marry you, Mr. Pateras. I will never marry you, Mr. Pateras. I’d rather grow old and gray in this convent than take your name, Mr. Pateras.”

Christos rocked back on his heels and fought his desire to smile. Her father said she was difficult but he hadn’t mentioned his daughter’s intelligence, or spirit. There was a difference between difficult and spirited. Difficult was unpleasant. Spirited was something a man quite enjoyed. Like a spirited horse, a spirited chase, a spirited game of tennis. But nothing was more appealing than a spirited woman. “Oh, I think I quite like you,” he murmured softly.

“The feeling isn’t mutual.”

His lips curved, and he watched as she threw her head back, dark eyes challenging him.

With the sunlight washing her face, he suddenly realized her eyes weren’t brown at all, but blue. A mysterious, dark blue. Like the sky at night. Like the Aegean Sea before a storm. Honey wheat hair and Aegean eyes. She looked remarkably like the pictures he’d seen of her half-English, half-Greek mother, a woman considered to be one of the great beauties of her time.

“Hopefully you’ll grow to tolerate me. It’d make conjugal life…bearable.”

A pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat. But her eyes splintered anger, passion, denial. She was going to fight him, tooth and nail. “I’d sooner let you put a bit in my mouth and saddle on my back.”

“Now that could be tempting.”

Her cheeks darkened to a dusky pink, her gorgeous coloring a result of the Greek-English heritage. Blue eyes, sun-streaked hair, a hint of gold in her complexion. He felt desire, and possession. She was his. She just didn’t know it yet.

Alysia fled to a distant corner of the walled garden, arms crossed over her chest, breasts rising and falling with her quick, shallow breathing.

He followed more slowly, not wanting to push her too hard. At least not yet. Furtively he touched the breast pocket of his coat, feeling the crisp edges of the morning’s newspaper. She wouldn’t like the press clipping. He was the first to admit it was a power play, and underhanded, but Christos wasn’t about to lose this deal.

He’d made a promise to his parents that he’d bring fortune to his beleaguered branch of the family, and every decision he’d made since then had been in the pursuit of that goal. Since he’d made that promise, the family fortunes had grown into a different league. Very different.

She must have felt him approach. “Have you no ethics?” Her low-pitched voice vibrated with emotion. “How can you marry a woman against her will?”

“It wouldn’t be against your will. You have a choice.”

“You disgust me!”

“Then go back inside. Call the nun over. She’s dying to be part of the conversation.”

Alysia glanced over her shoulder, spotted the nun and pressed her lips together. “You’re enjoying this.”

“It’s my wedding day. What’s not to enjoy?”

She took another step away, sinking onto a polished marble bench. He walked around the bench to face her. “Alysia, your father has sworn to leave you here until we exchange vows. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“No. You are not the first man I’ve refused, and dare I say, nor the last. I’ve been here nearly a year, and the sisters have been wonderful. Quite frankly, I’ve begun to think of the convent as home.”

The convent as home? He didn’t believe her, not for a minute. Despite her refined beauty—the high, fine cheekbones, the elegant curve of her brow—her eyes, those indigo-blue eyes, smoldered with secrets.

She did not belong in the convent’s simple brown smock any more than he belonged in priestly robes. And God knew he did not belong in priestly robes.

Christos felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her, but not enough to walk away from the playing table. No, he never walked away from the playing table, not that he played cards. He gambled in other ways. Daring, breathtaking power plays in the Greek shipping-industry which so far had resulted in staggering financial gain. He’d been wildly successful by anyone’s standards.

“Your home, Alysia, will be with me. I’ve picked you. You are part of my plan. And once I put a plan into action, I don’t give up. I never quit.”

“Those admirable traits would be better applied elsewhere.”

“There is no elsewhere. There is no other option. You, our marriage, is the future,” he said softly, as a warm breeze blew through the courtyard, loosening a tendril of hair from her demure bun. She didn’t attempt to smooth it and the golden-brown tendril floated light as a feather.

He liked the play of sunlight across her shoulders and face. The sun turned her hair to gold and copper. Flecks of aquamarine shimmered in her eyes.

“I know who you are, Mr. Pateras. I’m not ignorant of your success.” Her eyebrows arched. “Shall I tell you what I know?”

“Please. I enjoy my success story.”

“A full-blooded Greek, you were born and raised in a middle-class New York suburb. You attended public school, before being accepted to one of the prestigious American Ivy League colleges.”

“Yale,” he supplied.

“Which is quite good,” she agreed. “But why not Harvard? Harvard is supposed to be the best.”

“Harvard is for old money.”

“That’s right. Your father left Oinoussai broke and in disgrace.”

“Not disgraced. Just poor. Hopeful that there would a better life elsewhere.”

“Your father worked in the shipyards.”

“He was a welder,” Christos answered evenly, hiding the depth of his emotions. He was fiercely loyal to his parents, but particularly to his father. His father’s piety, unwavering morals and devotion to family had sustained them during times of great financial hardship. And there had been hardship, tremendous hardship, not to mention ostracism in the close-knit Greek-American community.

Quickly, before she could probe further, he turned the spotlight on her. “And your father, Alysia, inherited his millions. You’ve never lacked for anything. You have no idea what ‘poor’ means.”

“But you aren’t poor anymore, Mr. Pateras. You now own as many ships as Britain’s entire merchant fleet. Despite your humble origins, it shouldn’t be difficult to find a bride a…trifle…more eager to accept your proposal.”

“I can’t find another Darius Lemos.”

“So in reality you’re marrying my father.”

She was smart. He smiled faintly, again amused by the contradiction between her serene exterior and fiery interior. He found himself suddenly wondering what she’d be like in bed. Passionate as hell, probably.

He watched the shimmering golden-brown tendril dance across her cheek, caress her ear, and Christos felt a sudden urge to follow the tendril with his tongue, drawing the same tantalizing path from her cheekbone to her jaw, from her jaw to the hollow beneath her earlobe.

His body tightened, desire stirring. He’d enjoy being married to a woman like this. Procreation would be a pleasure.

Alysia leaned back on the bench, her brown shift outlining her small breasts, her dark lashes lowering to conceal her expression. “How well do you know my father?”

“Well enough to know what he is.”

She allowed herself a small smile, and Christos noticed the flash of dimple to the left of her full mouth. He’d taste that, too, after the wedding.

“My father must be quite pleased to have you in his back pocket. I can quite picture him, rubbing his hands together, chuckling gleefully.” Her head cocked, her lashes lifted, revealing the dark sapphire irises. “He did rub his hands after you made your deal, didn’t he?”

Her tone, her voice, her eyes. He wanted her.

Abruptly he leaned forward, captured the coil of hair at her nape in his hand. Her eyes widened as his fingers tightened in her hair seconds before he covered her mouth with his.

Alysia inhaled as his lips touched hers, and he traced the soft outline of her lips with his tongue. He didn’t miss her gasp, or the sudden softness in her mouth.

His own body hardened, blood surging. From the distance he heard a cough. The nun! Wouldn’t do to get thrown out of here just yet.

Slowly he released her. “You taste beautiful.”

Alysia paled and dragged the back of her hand across her soft mouth, as if to rub away the imprint of his lips. “Try that again and I shall send for the abbess!”

He placed his foot on the bench, on the outside of her thigh. He felt the tremor in her body. “And say what, sweet Alysia? That your husband kissed you?”

“We are not married! We’re not even engaged.”

“But soon shall be.” He gazed at her exposed collarbone and the rise of fabric at her breasts. “Do you like wagers?”

She visibly shuddered. “No. I never gamble.”

“That’s admirable. But I like bets, and I like these odds. You see, Alysia, I know more about you than you think.”

He caught her incredulous expression, and felt a stab of satisfaction. “You won an academic scholarship at seventeen to an art school in Paris. You lived in a garret with a dozen other want-to-be artists, a rather bohemian lifestyle with small children running underfoot. When money ran out, you, like the others, did odd jobs. One summer you worked as a housekeeper. You did a stint in a bakery. Your longest job was as a nanny for a designer and his family.”

“They were respectable jobs,” she said faintly, blood draining from her face.

“Very respectable, but quite a change from life with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

“Is there a point to this?”

His smile faded and he leaned forward, trapping her between his knee and chest. “You’ve spent eight years of your life trying to escape your father.”

Her lips parted but no sound came out.

He watched her closely, reading every flicker in her eyes. “For a while, you were free. You painted, you traveled, you enjoyed an interesting circle of friends. But then you became ill, and your obliging father placed you in a hospital in Bern. Since then, he’s owned you, body and soul.”

“Body, maybe, but not my soul. Never my soul!”

Again the fire, the spirited defiance. He felt a kinship with her that he felt with few women. He softened his tone, appealing to her intellect. “Think about it, Alysia. In Greece you’re powerless. Your father is the head of the household, the absolute authority. He has the right to choose your husband. He has the right to leave you locked up here. He has the right to make your life miserable.”

“I’m no prisoner here.”

“Then why don’t you leave?

She held her breath, exquisitely attentive, her eyes enormous, her lips compressed.

“Now, if I were your husband,” he concluded after the briefest hesitation, “you could leave. Today. Right away. You’d finally be free.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, studying him with the same intentness with which she listened. After a moment she exhaled. “Greek wives are never free!”

“No, maybe not the way you think of it. But I’d permit you to travel, to pursue hobbies that interested you, to make friends of your own choosing.” He shrugged. “You could even paint again.”

“I don’t paint anymore.”

“But you could. I’ve heard you were quite good.”

She suddenly laughed, her voice pitched low, her body nearly trembling with tension. She wrapped her arms across her chest, a makeshift cape, a protective embrace. “You must want my father’s ships very much!”

Christos felt a wave of bittersweet emotion, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He saw himself exactly as he was. Driven, calculating, proudly self-serving. And this woman, this lovely refined young woman, knew she mattered only in business terms. Her worth was her name. Her value lay in her dowry. For a split second he hated the system and he hated himself and then he ruthlessly pushed his objection aside.

He would have her.

Alysia slipped from beneath his arm, taking several steps away. She walked to the edge of the herb garden and knelt at the flowering lavender. “Ships,” she whispered, breaking off a purple stalk. “I hate them.”

She carried the tuft of lavender to her nose, smelling it.

“And I love them,” he answered, thinking she should have been a painting.

The bend of her neck, the creamy nape, the shimmering coil of hair the color of wild honey, the sun’s golden caress.

He wanted this woman. Deal or no.

She crumpled the lavender stalk in her fist. “Mr. Pateras, has it crossed your mind to ask why a man as wealthy as my father must give away his fortune in order to get his daughter off his hands?”

The sunlight shone warm and gold on her head. The breeze loosened yet another shimmering tendril.

“I’m damaged goods, Mr. Pateras. My father couldn’t give me away to a local Greek suitor, even if he tried.”

More damaged than he’d ever know, Alysia acknowledged bleakly, clutching the broken lavender stalk in her palm. Unwillingly memories of the Swiss sanatorium came to mind. She’d spent nearly fourteen months there, all of her twenty-first year, before her mother came, rescuing her and 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 young woman and then just let her slip away. He’d be prepared. He’d be alert.

She’d have to be very, very careful.

Alarm and eagerness tangled her emotions. She could do this, she could escape him, it was a matter of being just as smart as him.

Her heart began to pound faster and she felt heat creep beneath her skin. Excitement grew but she dampened her enthusiasm, not wanting to overplay her hand or reveal her true intentions.

She frowned, feigning surprise and shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s front page news.”

“There’s no wedding. How can there be a story?”

“Read it for yourself.”

She obliged, skimming the front page story where her father had been quoted as saying he couldn’t confirm or deny reports of the secret wedding, only that he knew that Greek-American shipping tycoon, Christos Pateras, had visited Oinoussai in the past several days and had visited his daughter at the convent. Other sources confirmed that Pateras had been seen in town, while another source mentioned the convent as the secret wedding location.

Her father’s work, no doubt. The puppet and the puppeteer. Incredible. But this time, she was the puppeteer. She was in control.

She crumpled the paper for show. “You and my father make a spectacular team.”

“Your father’s idea, not mine.”

“No one will believe this drivel.”

“Everyone believes it. Media has descended on the harbor. They’re expecting to see the blushing bride and groom board the yacht later this afternoon.”

He looked so damn smug, as if he’d thrown a net around her, trapping her in his scheme. Sorry, she silently apologized, but I win this one. Hands down.

She was going to marry him. And then she’d leave him. He could pick up the pieces. The fall-out with her father wouldn’t be her problem. If Christos Pateras wanted to make deals with her father, then fine, let him experience her father’s wrath firsthand.

Guilt briefly assailed her. Then she ignored the voice of conscience, reminding herself that Christos and her father were the same kind of man. Selfish. Unthinking. Lacking compassion.

Not once during her mother’s horrible last year did her father slow his schedule, put off a meeting, change his travel plans. He never once attended her radiation treatments. Never held her hand during the chemo. Never checked on her at night when she lay huddled with pain and fear.

Her father acted as if nothing bad had happened, ignoring the terminal diagnosis as though it were a spate of bad weather and simply charged ahead with his plans for new ships, new routes, new alliances.

Damn her father, and damn Christos Pateras.

Alysia knew of no fate worse than that of being a Greek tycoon’s wife.

But she hid all this, focusing instead on her goal. Independence. Peace. A life far from the wealthy Greek shipping families. Maybe back to Geneva. Maybe a little house south of London.

“When would we marry?” she asked, her pulse leaping in anticipation.

“Today. We’d marry here, in the chapel, and then sail this afternoon.”

“And just what are your expectations?”

His dark gaze studied her, his expression blank, giving away nothing. “As my wife, you’ll travel with me. When I entertain, you shall perform the duties of the hostess. And for my family functions, we’ll appear together, behaving like a real couple.”

“Versus a business liaison?”

“Precisely.”

“For your parents sake?”

“Right, again.”

He didn’t want to disappoint his parents. She could almost admire him for that. Almost.

But fortunately, she needn’t worry about his family, or his expectations. She wouldn’t be around long enough to fulfill any such duties. If they married today, this afternoon, she was just hours from freedom, hours from starting a new life for herself far from Greece and the influential Lemos name.

“Anything else?” she demanded coldly, conscious that she could never let Christos Pateras know her intentions. Christos might dress fashionably, move with athletic ease and speak eloquently, but underneath the gorgeous veneer he was the same man as her father. And her father, ruthless, critical, unyielding crushed those close to him, destroying family as indiscriminately as he destroyed friends. No one was safe. No one was exempt.

“I expect us to have a normal relationship.” He, too, had become detached, businesslike.

It struck her they’d moved to the negotiation stage. The deal would take place. It was just a matter of formalizing the details. He knew it. She knew it. A bitter taste filled her mouth, but she wouldn’t back down now. “Define normal, if you would.”

“I expect you to be faithful. Loyal. Honest.”

She felt something shift inside of her, another whisper of conscience, but she dismissed it with a small sneer. Men had controlled her all her life. For once she’d take care of herself. “That’s it?”

“Should there be more?”

He was testing her, too. He knew there should be more, would be more. They hadn’t even discussed the physical aspect of the marriage and it loomed there between them, heavy, forbidding.

“This is a marriage of convenience, yes?” She cast a glance at him before looking too quickly away, but she caught the predatory gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t nervous. He seemed to enjoy this.

“Marriages of convenience don’t produce children. I need children.”

Before she could speak, he continued.

“I’ll do my best, Miss Lemos, to ensure you’re satisfied. I want you to be happy. It’s important we’re both fulfilled. Sex is a natural part of life. It should be natural between us.”

Fingers of fear stroked her spine, stirring the fine hairs on her nape, even as blood surged to her face, heating her cheeks, creating a frisson of warmth through her limbs. “We hardly know each other, Mr. Pateras.”

“Which is why I won’t force myself on you. I’m content to wait until some of the newness wears off and we’ve grown more…comfortable with each other before becoming intimate.”

Another surge of heat rushed to her cheeks. His voice had deepened, turning so husky as to hum within her, warm and intimate. For a split second she imagined his body against hers, his mouth against her skin.

The very thought of making love with him made her inhale sharply. Every nerve in her body seemed to be alert, aware of this man and his potent masculinity.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Alysia tried to deny the tingle in her breasts, and the longing to be real again. It’d been forever since she’d felt like a woman.

She wouldn’t look at him. “You’re willing to commit to a loveless marriage?”

“I’m committing to you.”

Oh, to have someone want her, to care for her…

She drew a ragged breath, hope and pain twisting in her heart, seduced by his promise and the warmth in his voice. What would it feel like to be loved by this man?

She drew herself up short. He’d never said anything about love, or wanting her. He wasn’t even committing to her. He was committing to the Lemos house, committing to her father, but not to her. How could she allow herself to daydream? Hadn’t she learned her lesson by now?

This is how Jeremy had broken through her reserve. This is how she’d offered up her heart. Well, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it again. Experience had to count for something.

Hardening her emotions, she reminded herself that Christos Pateras did not matter. His promises did not matter. The only thing that mattered was escaping the convent and her father’s manipulations. It was what her mother would want for her. It was what her mother had wanted for herself.

Glancing 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 accommodating.”

“I try.”

Her exhaustion fed her fear. She felt a fresh wave of panic hit. What if she couldn’t break away? What if he stayed too close, paid too much attention, to allow her to leave? She’d be trapped in this relationship, forced into marriage. The possibility made her almost ill, and a lump lodged in her throat, sealing it closed.

She couldn’t afford to wait. She had to escape, and soon. Before boarding the yacht. Before appearing in public together.

He must have sensed her panic because he suddenly lifted her hand, examined the ring on her finger, before kissing the inside of her wrist. “You don’t have to hate me.”

A tremor coursed through her at the touch of his lips, her blood leaping in her veins. She tried to disengage but his mouth caressed her wrist in another sensitive spot.

“Please don’t,” she said, pulling at her wrist, attempting to free herself from his clasp.

“You smell like lavender and sunshine.”

Anger hardened her voice. “Mr. Pateras, let me go.”

He released her arm and she buried her hand in her lap. Her inner wrist burned, the skin scorched, her pulse pounding.

She hadn’t realized she’d become so sensitive.

Alysia forcibly turned her attention back to the rocky landscape, watching the rough road as they snaked down the hill, kicking up dust and loose gravel. They were nearing the outskirts of town.

An unwanted thought suddenly crossed her mind. “Will I see my father in town?”

“No. He flew out this morning for a meeting in Athens.”

Relief washed over her. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with him right now.

“You don’t care for him much, do you?” Christos asked, checking his watch and then glancing out the window again.

“No.”

“He seems like a decent man.”

“If you like maniacally controlling men.”

His eyebrows lowered, his brow creasing. “He’s tried to do what’s best for you.”

A lead weight dropped in her stomach. Christos Pateras didn’t know the half of it! Her father had never done what’s best for her. It’d always been about him.

She could forgive her father many things, but she’d never forgive him for neglecting her mother in the final weeks of her life. As her mother lay dying in that marble mausoleum of a house, Darius never once reached out to her; no acknowledgment of her pain, no interest in bringing closure, no awareness of her needs.

He should have been there for her. He owed that much to her. How could he not have cared?

A lump formed in her throat, and narrowing her eyes, Alysia concentrated very hard on the rocky landscape beyond her closed window.

“I wish I’d had the pleasure of knowing your mother.”

The lead weight seemed to swell in size, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Gritty tears burned at the back of her eyes. “She was beautiful.”

“I’ve seen photographs. She once modeled, didn’t she?”

“It was a charity event. My mother was dedicated to her causes. I think if my father had let her, she would have done more.” Her voice sounded thick with emotion.

“You must miss her.”

Dreadfully, she thought, struggling to maintain her control. She was finding it almost impossible to juggle so many contradictory emotions at one time. The whole last year had been like this, too. The loss of her mother on top of the others…

It was too much. She sometimes didn’t know where to go for strength and had to fight very hard to reach inside herself for the courage to continue.

“Your mother liked Greece?” Christos persisted.

“She tolerated it,” Alysia answered huskily, patting her shift pocket for a tissue. Her eyes were watering, her nose burned, she felt like an absolute mess. And to top it all off Christos was looking at her with such concern that she felt as though she were covered in cracks, threatening to break in two.

“Too oppressive?” he mused.

“Too hot.” She smiled for the first time all afternoon. Mother had hated the heat; she positively wilted in it. “Mum pined for the English grays and cool greens the way some pined for lost love.”

Christos laughed softly, his expression surprisingly gentle. But his gentleness would be her undoing. Alysia stiffened her spine, reminding herself that she couldn’t trust his smile, or his warmth. He wasn’t just any man; he was a man handpicked by her father and tainted.

Christos Pateras married her for money.

He was as bad, if not worse, than her father.

Flatly, no emotion left, she asked about her things. “Will I have any of my books or photos sent to me? And my wardrobe? What’s happened to that?”

“Everything’s already been transferred to the yacht. Your entire bedroom was boxed up and put in the ship’s storage.”

Shock rivaled indignation. “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I had your father’s support.”

“Obviously. But what I want to know is how? And why?” Her father had never liked Americans, and detested foreign money. “Why did he go to you? What made you so special?”

“I had what he needed. Money. Lots of it.”

“And what did he give you in exchange?”

Christos’s dark eyes gleamed at her, a faint smile playing his lips. “You.”

“Aren’t you lucky.”

He shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Anyway, your father is happy. He won’t bother you anymore.” He turned a smoldering gaze on her. “I won’t let him.”

She heard the promise in his voice, and a hint of menace, too. For a moment Christos Pateras sounded like a street-boxer, an inner city thug, but then he smiled, a casual, relaxed smile, and she felt herself melt, her chilly insides warming, her fear dissipating ever so slightly. Truthfully she’d welcome a buffer between her and her father. He’d made her life nearly unbearable. She needed to get away.

Elegant whitewashed villas came into view, along with the sparkling harbor waters. The late-afternoon sun illuminated the bay. “There’s my yacht,” Christos said, leaning forward to point out a breathtaking ship of luxurious proportions.

She leaned forward, too, her breath catching in her throat. The yacht might prove to be just as confining as the convent and it crossed her mind that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

No, she’d be fine. She’d figured a way out. She simply needed time.

Numerous fishing boats dotted the harbor, as did several yachts, but one moored ship dwarfed all others. The glossy white, sleek design only hinted at the elegant state rooms inside. The yacht would have cost him dearly.

She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought out loud until he chuckled softly, a twisted smile at his lips. “She was expensive, but not half as much as you.”

Indignation heated her skin, hot color sweeping through her cheeks. “You didn’t buy me, Mr. Pateras, you bought my father!”

But he was right about one thing, Alysia thought darkly as the limousine pulled up to the harbor. The media were out, and out in force. Reporters and photographers crawled all over town, jostling each other to take better position.

They surged forward when the car stopped and she sucked in a panicked breath. All those cameras poised…all the microphones turned on…

“It’ll be over in a minute,” Christos said, turning to her.

She felt his inspection, his dark eyes examining her face, her dress, her hair. He startled her by reaching up to pluck pins from her hair. The heavy honey mass tumbled down and he combed his fingers through it with unnerving familiarity.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

Just the touch of his fingers against her brow sent shivers racing through her. Repulsion, she told herself, even as the tight core of her warmed, softened. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him.

But when he tucked one long silky strand behind her ear, his hand caressing the ear, then the tender spot below, her belly ached and her limbs felt terrifyingly weak.

No one had touched her so gently in years.

Her need shocked her. She felt like a woman starved for food and warmth. Helplessly she gazed at him, hating herself for responding to him. “Are you quite finished?” she whispered breathlessly.

“No, not quite,” he murmured, before his dark head lowered.

She stiffened as his head dropped, drawing back against the leather upholstery. No! No, no, no. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t kiss her, especially not here, not when she felt like this. Everything was too new, too strange, too crazy.

If he felt her resistance, he ignored it, clasping the back of her head, fingers twining in her long hair. She caught the glint in his dark eyes and a hint of rich, sweet spice. Not vanilla, not cinnamon, but some other fragrance so deep, and familiar, that it tantalized her memory.

His mouth took possession of hers and she breathed him in again, reminded of almonds, sweet baby powder, the heady musk of antique roses…

Somehow it all fit, he, this, the kiss. His mouth, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms. Tremor after tremor coursed through her veins, creating an intense craving for more sensation.

Even as his lips parted hers, another electric current shot through her, sparking awareness in every nerve in her body. More, her brain demanded, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue answering the play of his, more, more…

The kiss deepened, and unconsciously she moved against him seeking to prolong the contact, relishing the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the heady sweet spice of his cologne.

As his tongue sought the sensitive hollows in her mouth, the inside of her lip, the curve of cheek, blood pooled in her lower belly, her veins pulsing. This felt, he felt…

Incredible.

Muffled voices penetrated her brain. Voices. People.

Her eyes flew open, reality returning.

Cameras pressed against the limousine windows, dozens of lenses, shutters snapping. “Mr. Pateras, we have company.”

He raised his head, his mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He didn’t even give the throng of reporters a second glance. “Let them watch. After all, this is what they’ve come for.”

Panicked, she tried to bolt from the car, lunging out thinking only of running from the crowd and the cameras and Christos—

A hand clamped at her waist, biting into her skin, holding her still. “Mrs. Pateras—” Christos’s husky voice pierced her panic “—smile for the cameras.”

CHAPTER THREE

LEAVING the noisy media throng behind, Alysia stepped aboard the yacht, late-afternoon sun glinting off the water in the purest form of golden light.

Christos swiftly introduced her to his staff and crew, rattling off the dozen names, even as the yacht gently swayed in the harbor waters.

The emotionally intense afternoon, the numerous introductions, the strangeness of her new surroundings suddenly exhausted her. Or was it the stark realization that until they touched land, she was really and truly caught in this pretend marriage?

She might never get away.

She might be trapped forever.

Her head swimming, she gulped air, panic overriding every other thought. What had she done? What in God’s name had she done?

“I can’t,” she choked, searching for the exit, her gaze jumping from wall to door to patch of blue sky outside. “I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t—”

“You can,” Christos softly countered, stepping closer to her side. “You already did.”

He cut the introductions short and took her by the elbow, steering her through the formal salon to an elegant stateroom decorated in the palest shades of blue. Just beyond the wide French doors, the ocean shimmered a brilliant royal-blue. The effect was calming, indescribably peaceful, and she relaxed slightly.

“Do you need a drink?” he asked, sliding his suit jacket off.

“No.”

“Brandy might help.”

Nothing would help, she thought, not until she got off the yacht. But she couldn’t say that, and she couldn’t allow him to become suspicious.

Christos tossed his jacket across the foot of the bed. “Maybe a long hot bath would feel good. I can’t imagine you were allowed such indulgences in the convent.”

“No, definitely not. Cold showers were de rigueur.”

He began unfastening the top button on his fine dress shirt. “Think you’ll be comfortable here?”

Her gaze took in the massive bed with the bolsters and mountain of pillows. Soft silk drapes hung at the French doors. The same ice-blue silk covered a chaise lounge. Her fingertips caressed the silk chaise, the down-filled cushion giving beneath the weight of her hand. Her room at the convent had been so spartan. “Yes.”

“Good.” He continued unfastening one small button after another, revealing first his throat and then his darkly tanned chest with the crisp curl of hair.

Alysia sucked in a breath, the glimpse of his chest hair so personal she felt as if she’d invaded his privacy. Yet she found herself turning to watch him again, half-fascinated, half-fearful. Christos appeared utterly at ease as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders, the smooth muscular planes of his chest rippling.

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