Sara Craven - His Forbidden Bride

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I’m going back to the hotel. I can get a drink there.’

‘I see.’ He was quiet for a meditative moment. ‘Have you been to Greece many times before?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is actually my first visit, but…’

‘But it is wiser to rest in the heat of the day,’ he supplied decisively. ‘And not go walking when there is no necessity.’ He put the bottle down on her towel, and paused. ‘Don’t you like the beach?’

‘It’s perfect,’ Zoe said shortly.

‘Until I came to spoil it for you,’ he added drily. ‘You have a very eloquent face, thespinis.’

‘Yet you seem determined to stay, all the same.’ She observed him spreading his towel on the sand with misgiving.

‘I come every day at this time,’ he said. ‘Whereas you, thespinis, are here only at my invitation.’ He allowed that to sink in. ‘And the beach is surely big enough for us to share for a short while.’

‘I’m not sure your employer would agree,’ she said tautly. ‘Does he know this is how you spend your time?’

‘He would certainly consider it one of my duties to offer hospitality to his guest.’

‘I am not,’ she said. ‘His guest. Officially. And you have a very strange idea of hospitality.’

‘Why?’ His brows lifted. ‘I have brought you food, drink and shelter.’ He stood, hands on hips, and looked her up and down slowly, and with unconcealed appreciation, his eyes lingering on the smooth rise of her breasts above the flimsy cups of her bikini. ‘But if there is any requirement I have not supplied, you have only to tell me,’ he added silkily.

‘Thank you,’ Zoe said through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve already done more than enough.’

He laughed. ‘Then shall we declare a truce, thespinis? It is too beautiful a day to fight. And if you won’t eat with me, at least drink some water.’

Zoe gave him a mutinous look, then knelt, and carefully decanted some of the water he’d brought into her own container. ‘Thank you.’ Stonily, she placed the bottle on the outermost corner of the towel, where he had now stretched himself, very much at his ease.

‘Efharisto,’ he corrected, lazily. ‘If you are going to stay on the island for any length of time, you need to learn a little Greek.’

‘I have a phrase book,’ she said. ‘So I don’t need personal tutoring—thanks.’

His brows drew together. ‘You also have attitude,’ he told her drily. ‘Maybe you could learn, instead, a little philoxenia—the Greek warmth towards strangers. Because others may not understand.’

‘Perhaps,’ Zoe said, lifting her chin coolly, ‘this is not a situation where warmth is advisable.’

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her measuringly. ‘What makes you so nervous?’ he asked. ‘You think that I intend, maybe, to force myself upon you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, thespinis. In the first place, it is far too hot. In the second, rape has no appeal for me.’

He lay back, looking up at the cloudless sky, lacing his fingers behind his head, his voice meditative.

‘I prefer a cool room, with the shutters drawn, a comfortable bed, a bottle of good wine, and a girl who wishes to be with me as much as I want her.’

He turned his head, sending her a faint smile. ‘And nothing less will do. So, you see, you are quite safe.’

Her face warmed. She said huskily, ‘You paint—a vivid picture.’

‘And, I hope, a reassuring one.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes.’ And tried to subdue the betraying quiver deep inside her.

‘Enough to tell me your name?’

She hesitated. ‘It’s—Zoe.’

‘A Greek name,’ he approved softly. ‘And I am Andreas.’ He paused. ‘So now that we are properly acquainted, will you share some lunch with me?’

There seemed no good reason to refuse. And perhaps it would be sensible to be a little conciliatory to someone who might be in a position to help her.

So she gave a constrained smile, and murmured, ‘That would be—nice.’

The cool-box contained cold chicken, a bag of salad leaves, black olives, tomatoes, feta cheese and some fresh bread. There was also, she noted, a plastic box containing dark grapes and peaches, as well as two chilled bottles of beer, two glasses wrapped in napkins, paper plates, and some cutlery.

This had never been planned as a solitary meal, she thought. And her agreement, it seemed, had been taken for granted. But then he probably didn’t get many refusals, she thought, with an inward grimace. And at least he’d brought beer, and not the bottle of good wine he’d mentioned earlier. So attempted seduction did not appear to be on the menu.

It was also clear that she was expected to set out the plates, and divide the food between them. Woman’s work, she supposed with irony. And found herself wondering who had assembled the picnic in the first place.

Yet, in spite of her reservations, she enjoyed the meal. The chicken was succulent and the olives and tomatoes had a superb tangy flavour that made those in the supermarket at home seem pallid by comparison.

‘Would you like a peach?’ He peeled it for her deftly, and she watched his hands, observing the long fingers and well-kept nails. Pretty fastidious for a gardener, she thought. And although his deep voice with its husky timbre was faintly accented, his English seemed faultless.

Andreas, she thought, and wondered…

The fruit was marvellous, too, ripe and sweet, although she was embarrassed to find the juice running down her chin, and into the cleft between her breasts. Something that was not lost on him, she realised with vexation, trying to mop herself discreetly with her napkin.

To deflect his attention, she said, ‘Do you like gardening?’

‘I enjoy seeing the results,’ he said. ‘Why? Are you thinking of hiring my services when you come to live at the house?’

She dried her fingers. ‘I haven’t given it a thought,’ she fibbed.

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Then think of it now.’

‘Are you so much in demand?’

‘Of course,’ he said promptly. ‘But I could be persuaded to make time for you in my busy schedule.’

He either had the biggest ego in the western world, Zoe told herself seething, or it was a wind-up, and she was sure it was the latter.

But whichever it was, it remained light years away from the taciturn attitude of Mr Harbutt, who wore heavy boots and corduroy trousers summer and winter, and smelled faintly of compost, and who’d done the heavy digging at the cottage for her mother.

She said coolly, ‘I think you could prove too expensive for me.’

‘You devastate me,’ Andreas said lightly. ‘Perhaps we could work out a deal together—some kind of reciprocal arrangement.’ He watched her stiffen, then went on silkily, ‘Much of the island’s economy is conducted on the barter system. If you are to live here you will have to accustom yourself.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Zoe mou, what do you do for a living?’

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