The Greek's Ultimate Revenge. Julia James
revenge for the pain she was causing his sister.
He let his gaze rest on her, with the eyes of a connoisseur. She really was extraordiny. Some women couldn’t make the transition from bikini to evening gown—but she could. By the pool and on the beach, she had looked sexy and sun-kissed. Now she looked graceful and soft, like a gazelle—her slender neck, her parted lips, the soft swell of her breasts beneath the chiffon of her dress.
As he watched he could see her nipples just graze against the filmy material, each one outlined for him.
All he had to do was reach out his hand, and touch with the tips of his fingers. Close his palm over their sweet ripeness…
Like a sheet of flame, desire sucked at him. Wanting to be sated. Now. Right now.
With visible effort he slammed down on his reaction.
He felt shaken.
Just as on the beach, his reaction had come out of nowhere, like a flashflood, thundering suddenly through his veins. Desire—hot, tearing, urgent. And out of control.
With gritted teeth he dragged back control over his body, his reaction. What the hell was he doing?
He was acting like a man besotted, and with some foxy little piece like Janine Fareham.
Yes, that was what he had to remember! That Janine Fareham used men’s desires for her own ends—to buy gowns like the one she was displaying her body in tonight! He let his anger at her, deep and unrelenting and unforgiving, seep back, filling him like a dark tide. That was the only response he should be having to her. Oh, sexual desire, yes—but at his bidding, not hers. Under his control, not hers.
He relaxed again, back in control of his reaction to her.
He would take Janine Fareham, possess her and enjoy her.
And then get rid of her from his life—and Stephanos’s life.
A line from Shakespeare snaked into his mind—‘I’ll have her, but I’ll not keep her long.’
It would do very well for Janine Fareham.
Janine carefully removed some bones from her fish and took a forkful of the delicious dish. It was weird. She seemed hyper-aware of every movement she made. Aware of everything.
Especially Nikos Kiriakis. In its own disturbing way, dining with him was nerve-racking. She wanted to do nothing more than just sit there and stare at him open-mouthed. But she knew she could not. Must not. Instead she had to make conversation, or rather let him make conversation, and she had to respond as if she had her brain in place, instead of just wanting to gaze and gaze at him. She had to chat away—talking about innocuous subjects, like what there was to see on Skarios, and what kind of villa he was interested in buying, and things like snorkelling and windsurfing.
Not that she wasn’t grateful for the ordinariness of the conversation. She didn’t think she could deal with anything more.
Windsurfing was nice and safe, and since it was something she knew nothing about it meant she didn’t really have to do anything other than prompt with a question and Nikos Kiriakis would do all the talking. So she could sit there, chin on her hand, and indulge herself wondering just what it was about his eyes that were so compelling, watching how his mouth moved when he talked, and how his dark, silky hair shaped his beautiful face…
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