How could he have gone from wanting, needing and believing her to this hard-faced tyrant, Eloise wondered, within minutes of waking up? A night of passion meant nothing to Marcus, and his complete lack of emotion simply confirmed what she already knew.
But she lived here, Eloise reminded herself firmly. She worked here. He had to be crazy. She couldn’t drop everything and swan off to Greece at his say-so…
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I would be ridiculous if I left you here alone again. On Rykos, when I am not around, my family and friends will take care of you.’ Marcus knew from experience how difficult it was to have a sex life on the tiny island without everyone knowing about it, and he was a man… For Eloise, branded as his woman, it would be impossible. No man would go near her, and that suited him just fine.
‘I do not need taking care of,’ she fumed. Where did he get off ordering her around? Well, she wasn’t putting up with it any more and she was damn well going to tell him so, but before she could open her mouth again he’d left.
She listened to him running the shower in the bathroom, and expelled a shuddering sigh. What was the point of arguing with him? she decided with bitter resentment. After the night they’d spent together, she’d had high hopes Marcus might begin to trust her, might care about her. But he’d made it brutally clear he didn’t. Her mind in turmoil—Greece apart—it had hit her when thinking about babies. Marcus was always meticulous about using protection, but last night he had forgotten…
Half an hour later, she joined him in the kitchen. As she walked towards him, clad in well-washed denim jeans and a baggy grey tee-shirt, she was aware she looked a mess, and didn’t give a damn. She wasn’t going anywhere and that was final.
‘You’re wearing that to travel?’ he asked flatly. ‘Hardly flattering, and jeans are far too hot for August in Greece.’
‘I’m not going to Greece. I have neither the time nor the inclination,’ she told him coldly, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite him at the tiny kitchen table, surprised he had actually prepared coffee, toast and a selection of conserves. He wasn’t totally hopeless in the kitchen, she thought dryly, suddenly feeling hungry. She filled a cup with coffee, took a sip, and reached for a slice of toast, before bravely raising cool green eyes to his. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
Marcus’s gaze narrowed and swept over her tensely held body perched on the chair. She was nowhere near as confident as she tried to appear. ‘Nice try, Eloise,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘But it isn’t a request, it’s an order.’
‘Tough. I have to work, and I have a commitment to Katy.’
‘Need I remind you, we have a deal? Your first commitment is to me and, as for your work, you can design as easily in Greece as in London.’
His deliberate mention of their deal hit her like a cruel blow, and she despised herself for harbouring a lingering shred of hope that he would grow to love her. When was she going to learn? Pride alone made her squeeze back the tears that threatened and, lifting her head, she said, ‘But I don’t want to,’ bravely defying him.
Hooded dark eyes surveyed her. ‘You don’t have a choice.’
‘So this is the end of the truce,’ she snapped back.
Marcus cast her a cynical smile. ‘Yes, if that’s how you want to see it. But why pretend, Eloise? We both know I only have to touch you to make you change your mind.’
Stunned at his arrogance, her appetite deserted her, and the toast dropped from her fingers. Her gaze skated helplessly over him. He was wearing the same clothes he had arrived in last night. He should have looked a mess. But the grey designer suit fitted him like a glove, the jacket straining over broad muscular shoulders; even the blue shirt still looked perfect. How did he do it? Or was it her?
God help her! But she was made humiliatingly aware that he only spoke the truth, and it shamed her to the depths of her soul. She felt so vulnerable. What was he doing to her? A vivid mental image of last night heated her flesh, the images so real, she could almost feel the touch of his hot, hard body against her skin.
The doorbell rang and she leapt to her feet, almost stumbling on her headlong flight through the small hall to open the door. He was insidiously taking over her life; she did not seem to have the strength to deny him, and it terrified her.
Katy walked in. ‘Your paper.’ She dropped the paper in the direction of the hall table, lifting her head and sniffing the air. ‘Is that coffee I smell?’ and she headed for the kitchen.
Eloise closed the door and bent down to pick the paper off the floor. It had fallen open, and her eyes caught a name in the centre page. Rick Pritchard. The blood drained from her face, her hand shook and, closing her eyes, she paused for a moment. Then with slow deliberation she rose and folded the paper and placed it on the table.
The name was a timely reminder. It was way past time she got herself back under control. She had allowed Marcus to break through the shield she kept over her emotions, the only person to do so in four years. She must rebuild her defence against him. But how easy that was going to be with Marcus calling all the shots? A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her and, straightening her shoulders, she took a few long steadying breaths, practising the exercises she had been taught. She could hear Katy’s voice and the deep rich tones of Marcus’s and then laughter.
If there were any repercussions from the unprotected sex of last night, Eloise knew she would have to leave Marcus. Which meant she would have to sell the house and break up the partnership. The sound of Katy’s laughter would be a thing of the past, as would their friendship, and all because of Marcus Kouvaris. But at this particular point in time she did not care. She had more important things to worry about, like staying alive… Suddenly Greece seemed a very desirable location.
By the time Eloise entered the kitchen, Marcus had talked Katy into believing it was a marvellous idea for Eloise to go to Greece. Eloise put up a token argument, not wanting Marcus to realise she had changed her mind—not because of him or Katy, but because Eloise wanted to be anywhere but England…
A dark skinned maid escorted her up a palatial marble staircase and along a wide corridor, and into a bedroom. ‘The master’s,’ she said with a giggle.
Eloise looked at the girl blankly. ‘Thank you, that will be all,’ she murmured, surprisingly not in the least embarrassed, and watched as the young maid backed out of the door and shut it behind her.
Her beautiful face impassive she glanced around. Large, it was sumptuously elegant with a huge bed on a raised dais as the main feature. She strolled across the mosaic floor and pushed open a door to a sybaritic bathroom, in black and gold, with a large circular spa bath, double shower, and marble and mirrored walls. It fitted the man, she thought idly, and re-entered the bedroom and crossed to the window that took the place of one wall. She slid it open and stepped out onto a long balcony. The air was hot and heavily scented after the coolness of the bedroom, and the view so spectacular she caught her breath.
A paved patio with a dolphin-shaped swimming pool as its centre led to a garden that was a riot of colour in the early evening sun, and gently sloped down to a low wall, and a sandy beach and the clear blue sea beyond. She glanced to one side and saw an orchard, a mass of orange and lemon trees, and in the distance she could see the small cluster of luxury villas. None so luxurious as this, she was sure, and one the scene of the drama five years ago that had led to the tragedy her life had become now, she thought bitterly. She looked in the opposite direction and her heart missed a beat. She recognised the cliff and the precarious path down to the hidden bay.
Abruptly, she turned back to the bedroom. Marcus had brought her to his home on Rykos… A house, he had told her on the flight across, he had designed and had built in the last couple of years. What he had not told her was it was in close proximity to the cliff and beach where he and Eloise had once shared a picnic.
Eloise had kept the memory of that one perfect day in her heart and head as a kind of talisman. In times of great pain and stress, she used to conjure up the bay in her mind, to blank the horror out. It was ironic that, after reading that hated name, Rick Pritchard, in the paper this morning and, rigid with shock, she needed her talisman view, and there it was before her very eyes—and it did not work any more.