Irresistible Greeks: Unsuitable and Unforgettable. Jane Porter
by inch, day by day. Breath by breath.
Some days were more successful than others.
“Charming,” she said, turning and heading toward the staircase.
“Jessica.” Stavros caught her arm and turned her to face him, his dark eye intense. “I’m sorry. That came out … It was a bad joke.”
She shrugged and tried to pull away from him. Away from his touch. His heat. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. I’ll think about what we talked about today and I’ll get back to you, okay?”
He released his hold on her, her skin still burning where his flesh had touched hers. Scorched hers. How long had it been since someone had touched her? And by touch, she didn’t mean handshakes. Didn’t mean brushes of fingers, or even a proprietary male hand on her back as she was guided into a building.
Really touched her. Personal. Caring, almost.
It had been so long. Even longer since she’d felt a real connection with someone. That was actually worse than not being touched. Being touched, being skin-to-skin with someone, and knowing that there was no connection at all.
This wasn’t like that. She didn’t want to crave it. She’d let go of those desires and had done her very best to replace them with new ones. He was ruining it.
Reflexively, she brushed her fingers over the spot where his had rested. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Stavros, I’m fine,” she said, finding it easier to use his first name now. Here in the villa and not in the palace. “I’m not vying for the position of wife to the future king of Kyonos, remember? I’m helping you find her. And I will. Promise.”
“Have dinner with me,” he said.
“Where?”
“Here, at the villa.”
The thought of it made her stomach feel all fluttery. It made her palms sweaty, too. She was seriously out of practice when it came to dealing with men. Except she wasn’t, not really, she just never got asked to have dinner with them in a way that went beyond business.
And you think this is more than business?
No. Of course it wasn’t. She was here, in the villa, and he was being hospitable to someone who was working to find him a wife. And she was not that wife.
She didn’t want to be anyway. Not even tempted.
The only reason she’d forgotten, for a moment, that his invitation wasn’t meant to be an intimate one, was because he’d touched her arm. It had caused a momentary short circuit but she was back now.
“That would be lovely. We can discuss some women who might have more advanced conversation skills …”
“Leave your computer in your room.”
“B-but …”
“Come on, Jessica, I think we can have a conversation without your piece of technical equipment between us.”
Did he? Because she didn’t think so. She wasn’t sure what she would do with her hands. Or what she would look at when she started to melt into those dark chocolate eyes of his and she needed a reprieve.
“Of course. I don’t have a problem with that. None at all.”
“Good. See you in a couple of hours. That will give you enough time to unpack and freshen up?”
She frowned and touched her hair. Freshen up? Did she need it?
“Not everything I say is a commentary on you. Or me finding you lacking in some way,” he said, his tone sardonic.
“Pfft. Of course not,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “And not everything I do is connected to something you say making me feel like I’m lacking in some way.”
One dark eyebrow arched upward. “Touché.”
“Oh … which way to my room?”
“Pick any room you want. Top of the stairs and turn left. I’m to the right.”
Then she would be picking the room at the very, very far end of the hall. Left as left could be. “Great. Thanks. See you down here at seven?”
He cocked his head to the side, that charming, easy grin curving his lips. “Sounds good to me. I’ll have your bags sent up soon.”
“All right. See you at dinner.”
She turned and started up the stairs, the marble clicking beneath her heels.
She wasn’t going to change her dress before dinner. Because that would mean she was treating it like it was special. Like a date.
No. She definitely wasn’t changing her dress.
* * *
She’d changed her dress. That was the first thing he noticed when Jessica descended the stairs and stepped into the living area.
She’d traded in the cheery, yellow, low-cut halter-top dress for a slinky, red, low-cut dress, belted at her tiny waist. The skirt hugged her rounded hips and fell just to her knee, showing those shapely, sexy calves that he was starting to fixate on.
Not as much as he was fixated on the creamy swells of her breasts. But close.
“Hello,” she said. Her posture was stiff, her elegant neck stretched up as tall and tight as possible. Her cherry-painted lips were thinned. Which was a waste in his mind. If a woman was going to wear red lipstick she should pout a little. Especially this woman.
But it wasn’t the sexual feelings she stirred in him that disturbed him. It was the way she’d looked at him earlier … sad, hurt. And how he’d wanted to drop everything, the wall he put between himself and everyone he interacted with, to comfort her.
That feeling, that desire for a true connection, was foreign to him. And if not entirely foreign, connected to the distant past. Back when he’d believed he had a different future ahead of him. Back before he’d realized the importance of erasing any feeling that could root itself inside of him too deeply.
That might control him. Weaken him. As emotion had weakened his father.
“Good evening,” he said, inclining his head. “Have you started settling in?”
“Yes. It’s lovely here.” The corners of her lips turned up slightly. “Very … balmy.”
The small talk was too crisp. Too bland. And Jessica Carter was neither of those things. What she was, was prickly as a porcupine and likely making inane talk to irritate him. It shouldn’t. With women he was all about connecting on a surface level. With people in general. Why did he want more from her?
Why did she make him want more for himself?
Talking to that woman with the mouse laugh … it had been grating. Insufferable. Just the thought of being shackled to her for the rest of his life … It had seemed personal in a way it hadn’t before. Whether that was due to Jessica or the wedding being more of a reality, he didn’t know.
“Tell me about your dress,” he said, because he knew it would catch her off guard. It would also redirect his thoughts to her delicious figure, and that was acceptable. The rest, the feeling, was not.
She blinked rapidly a few times. “My dress?”
He started to walk toward the terrace, where dinner was waiting for them. “Yes, your dress. What’s the story behind it? A woman who makes clothing her hobby surely has a story for each item.”
“Yes. Well, but I didn’t think you would be interested.” She was walking behind him, trying to keep pace in her spiky black heels.
He hadn’t thought he would be interested, either. Strangely, he was. “I live to surprise.” He paused at the