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Her heart was thumping, her pulse wild. ‘Let me go,’ she demanded hoarsely.
But he didn’t answer, striding with her in his arms over the glittering white sand, heading towards the deep turquoise of the water.
If she hadn’t been so shocked, she might have been conscious of the heat of his skin and the strength of him, and how she’d never been in the arms of a naked man before. But she was shocked and she had no time to think of those things, because then he was wading into the sea.
Every muscle in her body tightened. Oh, no, he wasn’t going to do what she thought he was going to do... Was he?
‘There,’ he said. ‘You can swim home.’
Then he unceremoniously dumped her into the ocean.
Atticus never let his temper get the better of him. He never let any emotion get the better of him. He’d successfully managed to detach himself from anything resembling feelings for years, firstly by joining the military in an effort to appease his father not long after Dorian’s death, where he’d constantly challenged himself physically, pushing for perfection until he’d reached the peak as an elite sniper. Then once that had been achieved and it was clear that even following in his father’s footsteps wouldn’t heal Aristeidis’s hatred of him, he’d continued his military career, assembling a private army that sold their services to governments who needed help with security concerns, peacekeeping, disaster relief, and protection for its citizens.
That might have been enough for him if he hadn’t found Elena in the rubble of her town, prompting old feelings to re-emerge, and so he’d had to reassess his career yet again. He’d been independently wealthy by then, and had decided to put his military planning skills into starting a charity, and had been so successful that Eleos had become a worldwide phenomenon almost before he knew it.
Success and recognition had followed on its heels, and that should have satisfied him. Yet it hadn’t. He’d been conscious instead of a growing realisation of all the things that he had that Dorian didn’t. Fame. Money. Power. A life he had that Dorian didn’t.
It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, not when he was the reason Dorian was dead, and he soon found he’d lost his taste for the spotlight—not that he’d ever really had it in the first place. Part of him had wanted to give Eleos up, but his name was now inextricably linked with it and he hadn’t wanted to do anything to jeopardise its success. So he’d retreated to his Jamaican island and the simple life he’d found for himself there, running Eleos from his office and putting in the occasional appearance when it was demanded of him, for the good of the charity.
But the fact was, he needed the island and its simplicity, where he needed to exist only in the moment. Where he could concentrate on making sure he stayed as detached as he could from the past.
Then Elena had turned up.
Elena, bringing with her everything he’d thought he’d put behind him. Elena, all dressed in white, reminding him of the small blonde warrior with blood on her face and a knife clutched in her hand. Elena, not a child any longer...
He’d wanted her gone and out of his life, and he’d thought, when she’d walked away just before, that she’d obeyed his command and left him to it. He’d even felt satisfied when he’d heard the roar of the boat’s engine, and had ignored that odd twist of what surely couldn’t have been regret.
So he’d gone and showered off the remains of the fish blood and scales, only for Elena to suddenly reappear, looking at him with big dark eyes and spreading her hands helplessly, telling him the captain of the boat had just left without her.
The last time he’d seen Elena had been on Kalifos, where he’d handed her over to the Kalathes’ housekeeper, Sofia, telling her that Elena was an orphan and that she was going to be living with them from now on.
Elena’s brown eyes had been full of hot anger that day and as he’d handed her over into Sofia’s care, she’d looked at him with complete and utter betrayal. She hadn’t wanted to stay on Kalifos, she’d wanted to stay with him. And that was impossible. He was a soldier, he couldn’t take care of an eight-year-old girl. Especially not a fiery, stubborn, tough eight-year-old who’d argued with him the whole long journey from her ruined country back to Athens and then to Kalifos.
A fiery, stubborn eight-year-old girl whom he suspected was just as fiery and stubborn as a woman, and not at all the helpless maiden she made out. Maybe it was that which had ignited his own anger. Or maybe it was simply because in that ridiculous white suit she was beautiful and the thought of her being in his vicinity and waking up a libido he’d thought long dead was insupportable.
His detachment had already been compromised by her mere presence, and when he’d realised she hadn’t left with the boat and had actually come back, he’d noticed her watching him, a familiar look on her face. He knew that look. It was the look of a woman who liked what she saw and she liked what she saw in him.
The male animal in him didn’t care who she’d once been to him. It didn’t care that she was associated with a past he’d been trying for nearly twenty years to leave behind. All it knew was that she was beautiful and it had been so long since he’d had a woman, and so his temper had frayed and his patience along with it.
He’d had to do something to teach her a lesson in obedience, so he’d shut off the shower and come towards her, ignoring the alarm on her face as he’d swept her into his arms. Then he’d turned in the direction of the sea and continued across the sand.
A mistake, and he’d realised it the moment he’d touched her. She was warm in his arms—hot even—and so soft, and it had been a long time since he’d felt a woman’s curves against him. She’d made a breathless little sound and her scent had been all delicate musk and the crisp bite of apples, so sweet. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d experienced sweetness, or soft heat and honeyed skin.
She’d wriggled against him as he’d waded out into the water, the movement of her body exciting him. He’d wanted to hold her closer, bury his face in her neck and inhale her scent, and abruptly his control had felt tenuous.
So he’d dropped her straight into the water.
It wasn’t deep, only waist height for him, but when she gave a startled cry and went under, there was a second where he felt a brief alarm, wondering if she could swim and whether he’d have to rescue her. But then she found her feet and stood up, water streaming off her.
And his mistake was compounded. Because her clothing was soaked and moulding to her curves, and her white silk blouse had gone completely transparent. He could see the delicate lace of the white bra she wore beneath it, and the soft shell-pink of little nipples gone hard in the cool of the sea.
She didn’t look helpless or wounded now. Now, she looked furious, virtually quivering with rage. She spat a filthy curse at him in Greek and then her palm flashed out and she hit the water, sending up a splash that caught him full in the face.
The male animal in him growled in anger, wanting to close the distance between them and take hold of her. Perhaps dump her back in the water again or maybe something better, such as stripping off her wet clothes so she was as naked as he was, then pressing all that silky skin against him. Take her mouth, taste the salt on her lips.
His detachment, his control, wavered, and there was a moment where he had to fight to keep his grip on it. No, he couldn’t do that. He’d never do that, not with her. Not only was she still that little girl to him, she was also now his adoptive sister and nothing was going to happen between them. If he wanted sex so badly, he’d make a trip into Port Antonio later and find a willing woman there. It didn’t have to be her.
Instead, he wiped the water from his face and turned, wading out of the sea without a word, heading towards the house.
