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No, he thought. Please. He didn’t want to think about it. Let him enjoy this just a little longer. Just an hour. A few more minutes.
“Theo.” He felt her small hand reach up to cup his rough, unshaven chin. “What is it? What won’t you tell me?”
For a moment, he closed his eyes, holding his breath. Her touch lured him—tempted him unbearably. All he wanted to do was pull her close, to kiss her, to feel her naked body against his own, to plunge into her, to lose his mind in the sweet madness between them.
And yet he forced himself to turn away. “It doesn’t matter—”
But Emmie held onto his shoulders. Their eyes locked.
Lifting her head, she hesitated for the space of a breath. Then she kissed him. A brief brush of her lips against his.
Then she drew back, her violet eyes luminous in the Greek sun.
With an intake of breath, he pulled her into his arms, on the soft blanket and kissed her hungrily.
Their lips met like fire, and she clung to him—he clung to her—it was everything he’d waited for and more...
Pulling away with a gasp, he kissed down her neck, his hands roaming over her warm, bare skin—her breasts, her belly, her hips. He reached for the tie of her bikini top at the nape of her neck. His fingers fumbled with the effort, as if he were an untried boy—
Nearby, his phone rang. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the sound. But it kept ringing and ringing until finally, with a curse, he snatched it off the blanket, half-intending to toss it into the sea.
Then he saw the number of the person calling. It was like a splash of cold water in his face. Glancing at Emmie, he stood up unsteadily, putting the phone to his ear, walking away from the blanket beneath the olive tree. He spoke quietly into the phone, in Greek, praying his voice sounded calm, praying his wife wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t care, wouldn’t ask questions.
Speaking quickly, he finished the call as soon as possible. But when he turned back, Emmie was sitting up, staring at him, her face pale beneath her freckles.
“Who’s Sofia?” she demanded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THREEEMOTIONSWENTthrough Emmie at the phone call, in a chain reaction.
The first was anger. She hated the person calling, whoever it might be. And she was none too pleased at her husband for answering his phone, either.
Then anger was washed away by relief as she realized what she’d nearly let happen: a total collapse of her willpower. Theo had been caressing her hair, both of them still wet from splashing in the surf, his dark eyes smiling down at her, beneath the bluffs and shade of the olive tree. She’d kissed him almost without thinking.
If not for the interruption of the phone call, they might have made love right then and there on the beach, beneath the eyes of any random shepherd passing by on the bluffs above. Really, she should be grateful to the unknown caller for preventing that disaster.
But as her husband paced the beach with his phone, speaking low in Greek, Emmie didn’t feel exactly grateful. Her gaze slid over the tanned muscles of his bare back, the hard curve of his backside in the swim trunks, down his powerful thighs and calves, laced with dark hair as she watched him walk back and forth with his bare feet on the white sand.
Her husband’s tone was increasingly tense, as if he were trying to convince the caller of something. Then she heard him clearly say a name amid all his impenetrable Greek. A woman’s name. Sofia.
And Emmie felt a brand-new emotion. The strongest of all.
Fear.
Theo hadn’t walked away with his phone to be polite, she realized; he didn’t want her to know what he was talking about.
Or to whom.
“Who’s Sofia?” she’d blurted out as he’d turned to face her. And his expression turned dark.
“You were listening? To my private phone call?”
“I—I didn’t mean to,” she stammered. Her cheeks went hot. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
“Couldn’t help but intrude? Even though I walked away from you and spoke in a language I know you don’t understand? You still make these accusations!”
“Accusations?” she gasped. What accusations?
