Hostage to Love

She started to stalk past him, but he lunged, caught hold of her shoulders, and pulled her to a stop.

“You’re doing it again. You’re walking away from this conversation just as you walked away from us six months ago.”

She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “Because there’s nothing left to say, Nick. You don’t love me. The only thing to do is to take our separation to the next level and divorce.”

His indifference receded, replaced by fierce, implacable determination. “There won’t be a next level. You’ve put us both through six months of hell. Then stepped it up by putting yourself in the crosshairs of a dangerous psychopath. I say that gives us plenty to talk about. I won’t let you reduce everything to one question and one answer.”

She shook her head. “Funny, it’s all I can think about now. I don’t really want to talk about anything else.”

“Then just listen. I wanted to come after you six month ago. I did,” he insisted when she started to shake her head dismissively. “But I thought you needed time to adjust to being an Andreakos wife. The pictures you saw in the press, I can’t help those. I wasn’t with those women. The photos were posed. A man in my position has responsibilities, and media placement comes with the territory.” He put a firm hand under her chin and propelled her gaze to his. “But, trust me, I always intended to come after you. If for nothing else, for an explanation as to why you were so determined to end our marriage.”

She withstood his touch, very much aware he hadn’t responded to her question about whether he loved her. And call her a coward, but she didn’t want to probe. She’d never wanted to blurt out the question in the first place. Somewhere inside, she was raw from having her long-time suspicion confirmed that Nick didn’t love her. That he never had.

Sure, he’d said plenty of things in Greek during their marriage that she’d told herself meant the same thing as “I love you,” but now that she knew the language a little better, she knew they weren’t the same thing at all. “I care about you” or “you’re my heart” wasn’t the same, in any language.

“If you say so.”

His eyes darkened into a flat gray. “You don’t believe me.” The words were dulled, threaded with shock.

She winced. “Come on. You’ve never let a small thing like distance stand in your way. Six months is a long time to keep away from something you claim you want—you managed to talk me into marrying you within weeks! Are you so surprised that I’m finding it hard to believe you didn’t want this separation to continue?”

Chapter Seven

She didn’t believe him.

Nick whirled away, fists clenched so hard his knuckles protested.

“Where are you going?” Her voice, shaky but defiant, stopped him.

“Do you care?” He looked toward the beach, contemplating a hard run on the packed sand. Or maybe inside, in his gym. Right now he’d give anything to go a few rounds with his punching bag.

“Of course I care! You stopped me from walking away just now, and now you’re doing the same?”

“I think our conversation has reached its natural conclusion. If it hasn’t, it needs to, or we can throw any hope of this truce continuing out the window.”

“You’re upset with me, because I told you my feelings? That I didn’t immediately take your word as gospel?”

“I’m frustrated in more ways than one, but yes, I’m man enough to admit it’s more sexual frustration than anything else right now. And as much as you claim not to, I know you want me just as much. So unless you want this to end with us both horizontal on this terrace, I think it’s a good idea you stay away from me.”

He walked to the terrace steps, away from the need to snatch her back into his arms and make her believe him. He shucked off his shoes at the bottom of the steps and strode barefoot onto the grass. Half a minute later, he’d gained the beach.

The cool crunch of the fine grains of sand momentarily slowed him down. At the water’s edge, he stopped, breathed in deep, his restless gaze taking in the wide, calm expanse of the sea and the large sphere of the moon suspended over it.

She didn’t believe him.

He didn’t know why the knowledge devastated him. Was it because at the back of his mind, he’d expected once he’d told her she’d never strayed from his mind for more than a second, she’d fall into his arms and everything would be fine between them again? He hadn’t let himself think she’d dismiss his words so summarily. Well, more fool him.

He raked both hands through his hair, frustration and arousal biting through him in equal measures. The very fact that the blow Belle had dealt him just now hadn’t cooled his raging hard-on told him he had it bad.

But they couldn’t carry on like this forever. And he sure as hell wasn’t prepared to let her go. She could forget her ridiculous talk of divorce. She hadn’t sought one in the six months since she’d walked out, and he was damned if he’d let her start divorce proceedings now. If she persisted, he’d keep her tied up in court for years. He had the wherewithal to do it. The Andreakos name carried a lot of clout, and if necessary, he would use it to his advantage.

Controlling much?

He gritted his teeth against the mocking inner voice. In this he knew she was right, but they hadn’t lost everything that made their relationship work—he refused to believe that. Her trust in him might be nonexistent, but her uninhibited physical response just now had proven the sexual side of their relationship remained white-hot. She’d all but melted in his arms on the terrace. His body leapt again in remembrance of her hitched cries and seeking hands. She’d been right there with him until the last moment when she’d accused him of using her to scratch an itch. Yes, he had an itch all right—one she’d caused.

Well, it was time to bring things to a head. He smiled grimly at the crude analogy. Tomorrow, he would meet with Richard Francis and find out what the hell he wanted and what he knew about Nawaka and Charles Mwana. If he could shed light on Mwana’s whereabouts, all the better.

Once that was out of the way, he and Belle would revisit tonight’s conversa