The Greek Tycoon's Defiant Bride

Clad in white linen trousers and a fitted white waistcoat top, Maribel emerged again. Her eyes were a very bright blue against her pallor. Across the depth of the room Leonidas slung her a charged look. The atmosphere was electric with aggressive undertones. He tossed a newspaper down like a statement on the tumbled bed. ‘Looking at those pictures is only going to annoy you and give you the wrong impression.’

The tip of her tongue snaked out to moisten her full pink lower lip. ‘But I’ll always wonder if I don’t look at them now.’

‘It’s a question of trust,’ he breathed tautly. ‘Who do you believe?’

At that, Maribel lifted her chin. ‘I would have believed you if you’d told me about this before I heard about it on television.’

‘Was that how you would have preferred our wedding day to begin? With a load of tabloid sleaze aimed at selling a few more papers?’

Discomfiture made Maribel redden and shake her head. ‘But when were you going to tell me?’

‘I foresaw this scenario, glikia mou. I have to admit that I wasn’t in a hurry.’ Golden eyes semi-screened by lush black lashes to gleaming blades challenged her.

‘So…er…what are you asking me to believe? That you were kidnapped and forced aboard your friend’s yacht where you were subjected to the unwelcome attentions of loose women?’

‘Sergio happens to be very into partying right now…he’s a friend, a good one. It was a stag do. So, it wasn’t to my taste!’ Leonidas proclaimed in a raw undertone, lean, strong face set into hard, angular lines of hostility. ‘Theos mou…that ring on my finger doesn’t mean that you own me or that you can tell me what I can and can’t do!’

‘So if I decide to go partying on a yacht with a bunch of half-naked men, that’ll be fine with you. You won’t ask any awkward questions afterwards. You will fully respect my right to do as I wish. I’m glad we’ve got that established,’ Maribel retorted crisply.

Leonidas froze. Scorching golden eyes locked with hers on a powerful wave of anger. It was like sailing too close to the sun, but she stood her ground. The silence somehow managed to howl around her, laced as it was with intimidating vibrations. Finally, Leonidas spoke. ‘That would not be acceptable to me.’

Maribel was not at all surprised by that news. ‘And why would that be?’

‘You’re my wife!’ Leonidas grated.

‘So you do as you like and I do as you like, too?’

Leonidas refused to take that bait. He surveyed her with dark glittering intensity as if daring her to disagree.

Maribel wondered how they had contrived to roam so far from the main issue and blamed herself for backing away in fear of asking what was undoubtedly the only important question. ‘Did you sleep with anyone on that yacht?’

His black brows pleated, the forceful angle of his hard jawline diminishing. ‘Of course not.’

Maribel didn’t say anything. She was studying the beautiful rug beneath his feet. She felt sick with tension and terror, and dizzy with relief. With a rather jerky nod of acknowledgement she swooped on the paper and went out through the open doors onto the terrace. She was ashamed of how shaken up she was and the reality that her eyes were wet with tears.

Leonidas, who had not been prepared for her to walk out, raked his black hair back off his brow, dissatisfaction seething through him. If he went after her there would be another scene. He had a lifetime of experience at avoiding messy confrontations. All his early memories were of the constant hysterical scenes his late mother had staged with everyone in her life. It was sensible to give Maribel time to calm down. So why, he asked himself in bewilderment, did he want to go after her? Why did the very knowledge that she was alone and unhappy bother him so much? A few minutes later he strode outdoors, only to discover that she was no longer within view.

Maribel made her way through the extensive gardens, plotting a path below the mature trees that shaded her from the sun. The newspaper still felt like a burning brand under her arm. When she reached the beach, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on a rock. The photos weren’t quite the shock she had expected. It might have been a party in his honour, but Leonidas looked downright bored. There was one shot of him, lean, bronzed features cold and set, a beautiful skimpily dressed blonde giggling beside him. Maribel knew those facial expressions of his; she knew them so well. She knew he didn’t like strangers getting too close and, in much the same way, he disliked women who flung themselves at him. Drunken familiarity really repulsed him. He was a Pallis, an aristocrat born and bred, and he was both fastidious and intolerant of lower standards.