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You’ve only got yourself to blame. He’d warned you.
Yes, he had. But she’d thought he’d settle for shouting at her. She hadn’t thought he’d actually lay hands on her and throw her in the water.
A shiver ran through her at the memory of those strong, scarred hands holding her, and the heat of his skin as she’d lain briefly against his chest. He’d been so hard too; it had been like lying on sun-warmed rock.
Then had come the cold shock of the water—cold in comparison to him, at least—and the sudden surge of anger that had accompanied it. At him for not listening to her and not caring about his father, and then having the temerity to toss her into the ocean with no care for her clothes or her person. He could at least have explained his issues. He didn’t have to resort to childish games.
Still, it was ridiculous to be quite so angry at him. She did have a quick temper, it was true, but she’d spent years keeping it in check. She shouldn’t have lost it over an unexpected dunking, splashing him like a little kid. She should have been calmer, more controlled, not let him get to her.
Shivering as she pushed down her skirt and kicked it off, she glanced once again towards the house, debating whether or not to take off her wet underwear as well. But while he might be comfortable walking around naked, she wasn’t, so she decided to keep it on.
She turned the shower on and stepped under the water. It was lukewarm and in other circumstances she would have enjoyed the cool feel of the water over her hot skin, but she was still too angry to enjoy it.
Keeping the shower short, she rinsed off the sea water then picked up the white fluffy towel that sat on a rock nearby and dried herself. Half the pins had come out of her bun so she took the rest out and squeezed the water from her hair, before wrapping the towel firmly around herself and making her way back along the shell path to the house.
Most of one wall of the house consisted of huge louvred doors that stood open onto a large wooden deck, so she went in a little hesitantly, finding herself in a cool room with a high ceiling of exposed beams and a few skylights. A couple of low couches and squishy, comfortable-looking chairs were scattered about, a big, brightly coloured rug covering the polished wood of the floor. A low coffee table carved out of dark wood stood near the couches, the surface cluttered with books and magazines.
There were shelves against the walls, full of books and shells and pieces of driftwood, and sea glass, as well as a few small hand-carved wooden sculptures. It felt low-key and casual and very comfortable with the sunlight dappling the floor and the warm, salty breeze coming in from the ocean.
A peaceful place. She could see why he liked it.
Until you invaded it.
Well, she wasn’t going to apologise for that. His father was dying and wanted him home, and he hadn’t even bothered to have a proper conversation with her. And she wasn’t leaving until he had.
The living area was empty so she went through another doorway and into a large, airy hallway. There were a couple of other doorways that led off it, down the glass-walled corridors she’d seen from the outside. She peered cautiously down them but didn’t see anyone, so she walked along a bit until the hallway opened up on one side to reveal a kitchen and dining area separated by a long wooden bench top.
Atticus was standing at the bench preparing what looked like a marinade for the fish that he’d put in a metal bowl.
So. Not only had he caught his own fish, he was now preparing it and would no doubt cook it too.
It shouldn’t have surprised her—despite the money he’d earned from the private army he’d once owned, he was famous for his simple living, eschewing the usual trappings of wealth. He had no cars or planes. No houses in every country. He kept no personal staff. He attended no parties or galas or nightclubs or, indeed, any social occasions. He gave no interviews these days and sought no attention, which of course made everyone even more curious about him.
Yet despite all of that, she was still surprised. In her head he’d become this mythic being, not a man doing something as mundane as preparing a marinade with casual efficiency and who was, at last, mercifully wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He looked far too good in them, as attractive in simple cotton as he was in nothing but his own skin.
He didn’t look up. ‘I’ll deal with your wet things. The second hallway on the left leads to a guest bedroom and I’ve put some fresh clothes on the bed for you. The storm will be here in less than an hour and it’s slow moving so you won’t be going anywhere tonight. I’ll run you back to Port Antonio tomorrow.’
Elena opened her mouth to thank him, but he went on before she could speak, ‘Also, I will not be entering into any discussion about my father or returning to Greece, and if you bring the subject up, you’ll find yourself having it on your own.’ Finally he glanced up, a brief glittering flash of obsidian. ‘I hope you like fish. Because that’s what’s for dinner.’
There was an instant where she couldn’t have said whether she liked fish or not, because that brief moment of eye contact had short-circuited her brain. She swallowed, trying to pull herself together. She had no idea what was happening to her, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. Her experience of men was exceedingly limited, it was true, and that had been deliberate. Caring for Aristeidis since he’d got sick and helping him with Kalathes Shipping was far more important to her than sex and, anyway, she hadn’t met anyone she’d been interested in.
Until now.
Elena ignored the thought. Atticus might be far more attractive than he had any right to be, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to get distracted, not when Aristeidis was relying on her to bring him home.
‘What do you mean you won’t be entering into any discussion?’ she asked. ‘Your father is dying, Atticus.’
‘Yes. You’ve told me so three times already.’
‘But...doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
He didn’t look up from his marinade. ‘What did I say about this conversation?’
Elena wanted to tell him what he could do with his arrogant pronouncements and almost did so, but there was no doubting the warning in his voice, so she bit down on the hot words she wanted to say. Again, she had to control her temper. If she pushed, he’d remove himself from the conversation and that wouldn’t be in Aristeidis’s best interest or hers. No, she had to play along for now. She’d figure out a way to get through to him, and at least, from what he’d said about the storm, she had a whole night to try to convince him.
Maybe she could even find out exactly why, even after all the time that had passed, he was still so angry with his father, and why returning to Greece was so out of the question.
‘Fine,’ she said, quelling her impatience. ‘Yes, I like fish.’ She was tempted to add that she’d often had it on Kalifos, but decided that would be too pointed. ‘Thank you for cooking for me.’
