Wedding Night Reunion In Greece. Annie West
woman. Obstinate, angry and brimming with attitude. Sexier than he’d realised.
Lust exploded low in his body, a dark, tight hunger so powerful it actually equalled his fury.
‘I married you, Emma. Not your cousin. I gave you my name and my promise.’ How could she not understand what those things meant to him? ‘That’s far more important than any fleeting attraction.’
But Emma refused to be convinced. She shook her head, wet hair slipping over her shoulders. Trails of sea water ran down from it to the miniscule triangles of her bikini top. Christo followed those wet tracks to the proud points of her nipples. Another wave of lust hit him and his flesh tightened across his bones as he fought the impulse to reach out and claim her.
‘You’re mine.’ The words emerged as a roughened growl.
She stiffened, her chin jerking higher. ‘Not for long. I’m filing for divorce.’
Like hell she would!
He’d carefully chosen Emma after considering all the options. Every reason he’d had for making her his wife still stood.
He needed her to make a real home instead of the bachelor flat he’d lived in for years. He needed her to be a mother to Anthea, providing a stable, caring environment for the little girl who was a stranger to him and with whom he had no hope of building a rapport.
Besides, Emma was his, and what Christo possessed he kept. It was in his nature.
Then there was today’s revelation. That he wanted his wife with a hunger more powerful than he’d thought possible. That just standing here, fully dressed while she wore nothing but a bright bikini and a frown, brought him closer to the edge of his control than he’d been in years.
He intended to have her.
On his terms.
‘File away, wife.’
He saw her flinch at the word and vowed that one day soon she’d purr at the sound of his voice. The thought of his runaway wife, eager for his touch, offering her delicious body for his pleasure, made the blood sing in his veins.
‘But, before you do, I’d advise you to investigate the consequences. Divorce isn’t an option.’
EMMA GROUND HER TEETH.
She was tired of men trying to rule her life. At least Papou had acted from love, not self-interest, wanting to see her ‘safe’ with a ‘good’ man before he died. Christo Karides had no such excuse. Her battered heart dipped on the thought but she refused to crumble as the familiar hurt intensified.
Instead she watched the tall figure of her husband turn and saunter back along the beach without a glance in her direction.
He should have looked out of place, ridiculously overdressed, wearing a tailored dark business suit on a sandy beach. Instead, as she watched his easy stride, the latent strength in those broad shoulders and long legs, a thrill of appreciation coursed through her.
What a terrible thing desire was.
Her love, still fresh and new, had been battered away, swamped by pain and outrage. Yet standing in the sunlight, shivering not with cold but with a heat that she tried to label fury, Emma realised in horror that things weren’t so simple.
She despised Christo Karides.
She loathed the cold-hearted way he’d set out to use her.
She vowed never to trust a word he said.
Yet as she watched him disappear around the end of the beach honesty forced her to admit she still desired him. That hadn’t disappeared with her trust and her foolish dreams.
In Melbourne she’d thought the slow pace of his wooing sweet, proof he was considerate to her grief. At the same time she’d hungered for more than gentle caresses.
Now that hunger coalesced with the white-hot ire in her belly, producing an overwhelming mix of emotion and carnal need. She wanted to hurt him for the hurt he’d inflicted on her, yet at the same time she wanted...
Emma gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe slowly.
She did not want Christo. She refused to allow herself to want him.
What she wanted, what she needed, was to free herself of him and this appalling marriage. She had plans, didn’t she? An exciting scheme that would require all her energy and skill and which promised the reward of self-sufficiency in this place she loved.
Who did he think he was to decree divorce wasn’t an option?
He might be the expert negotiator, the consummate sleazy liar who thought her easy pickings, but he was about to discover Emma Piper couldn’t be steamrollered into compliance!
* * *
Forty-five minutes later Emma made her way from her bedroom to the salon with its expansive views of the sea.
Instead of hurrying to shower and dress, she’d taken her time, after having checked with Dora that Christo was, in fact, still on the premises. With that knowledge she’d locked her door and set about deciding what to wear.
Ideally she’d have worn a tailored suit, severe and businesslike. But Steph had persuaded her to splash out on new clothes for her honeymoon, reminding her that Papou would have wanted her to enjoy herself.
There was nothing businesslike in her wardrobe here. In the end, Emma gave up worrying about what impression her clothes might give Christo. She’d dress for herself.
The swish of her lightweight sea-green skirt around her bare legs reminded her of the holiday she was supposed to be enjoying. That she intended to enjoy as soon as he’d left. Her flat sandals were beach-comfortable rather than dressy and she wore a simple top that was an old favourite.
But she pulled her hair up into a tight knot at the back of her head and put on make-up, feeling that armour was necessary for the upcoming confrontation.
Ignoring the way the door knob slipped in her clammy palm, Emma opened the door and walked in.
To her surprise, Christo wasn’t on his phone, absorbed in business, or pacing the vast room in obvious impatience.
Instead he stood at one end of the room, perusing the family photos her grandmother had collected. Generations of photos, mainly taken here on the Corfu estate to where Papou had brought his Australian bride before they’d decided to live full-time in her home country.
Christo swung around. His pinioning stare brought all the feelings she tried to suppress roaring into life.
After a moment Emma gathered herself. She had nothing to answer for.
She opened her mouth to ask if he needed another drink, then shut it again, annoyed that innate politeness made her even consider making the offer. Instead she crossed to a comfortable chair and sat.
‘We need to talk.’ Good. She sounded calm yet cool.
Silently one black eyebrow rose with arrogant query. The effect might have made her squirm if she hadn’t been prepared.
‘Or, if you prefer, I’m happy to finalise this via our lawyers.’
To Emma’s chagrin that didn’t dent his composure in the least. He strolled the length of the room, stopping to tower over her long enough to make her wonder if she’d made a mistake, taking a seat. Then, just before she shot to her feet, he settled into a chair, not opposite her but slightly to one side.
Emma silently cursed his game-playing and shuffled round to face him. Her skirt rode up at one side and she tugged it down, wishing she’d worn jeans instead.
Annoyingly, Christo looked utterly unruffled.