r /> The helicopter settled onto its landing pad. Damian slapped the pilot on the shoulder with his thanks and got out, automatically ducking under the whirring blades as he ran to the Jeep, parked where he’d left it two nights ago. It was six in the morning. He was tired, unshaven and he couldn’t recall when he’d showered last. Added to that, he was hungry enough to eat shoe leather.
But all that would wait. Dealing with Ivy was more important. He wanted her off his island, and fast.
Yes, he thought, as the Jeep bounced along the narrow road, she was carrying his child. And yes, she needed watching. He knew that, better than before.
But he didn’t have to be the one doing the watching. She’d said that herself. Of course, he knew now that she hadn’t said it in hopes he’d listen. Just the opposite: she’d wanted to lure him into doing exactly what he’d done.
The funny thing was, it might have been the one true thing to come out of her mouth.
That soft, beautiful, treacherous mouth.
Damn it, what did that have to do with anything? Who gave a damn about her mouth or any other part of her anatomy except her womb?
He’d contact his lawyers. Have them make arrangements to set her up in a place of her own. Have them organize round-the-clock coverage of her and her apartment.
Until his son was born, he would regulate who she saw, what she did, every breath she took. But not in New York City.
Damian smiled coldly as he took the Jeep through a hairpin turn.
He’d keep a watch on her from a much closer vantage point.
Athens.
She would give birth here, in his country, where his peoples’ laws, where his nationality and his considerable leverage, would apply.
She wouldn’t like it—and that, he had to admit, was part of the reason the plan gave him so much pleasure.
He entered the palace through a secret door some ancestor had added in the fifteenth century so he could spy on a cheating wife, or so the story went.
He had no desire to go through the usual polite morning moves—Good morning, sir. Good morning, Esias. Or Elena, or Jasper, or Aeneas, or any of the half dozen others on the household staff.
The only person he wanted to see was Ivy. He’d ring for a cup of coffee. Then he’d have her brought to him so he could tell her what would happen next.
She’d moved into one of the guest suites. Esias had phoned to tell him that within an hour of his reaching his office. It had been well before he’d come to his senses and, for a wild moment, he’d imagined returning to Minos, storming into her suite, tumbling her back on the bed and finishing what had started before he’d had to leave for Athens.
Thank God, he hadn’t.
He didn’t want to carry through on the threat he’d made in New York, either. He didn’t want to own her, only to get rid of her. So what if, despite his newfound sanity, he could still remember the smell of her skin? The sweetness of her mouth? The taste of her nipples?
Damian stopped halfway up the stairs. Stop it, he told himself angrily. There was nothing special about Ivy. Another few days and he’d be with a woman who would not play games, who would not stir him to frustration and madness.
Who wouldn’t sigh the way Ivy did, when he kissed her. Or whisper his name as if it were music. Or fall asleep in his arms, as if he were keeping her safe…
“Damn it, Aristedes,” he said under his breath, and opened the door to his suite…
And saw Ivy, standing with her back to him…
Waiting for him.
His heart turned over, and he knew everything he’d told himself the last two days were lies.
The truth was, he wanted this woman more than he wanted his next breath—and she wanted him, too. Why else would she be here, waiting for his return?
He said her name and she swung to face him. His heart began to race. There was no artifice in her expression. Whatever she told him next would be the truth.
“Damian. You’re here.”
“Yes,” he said softly, “and so are you.”