chapter FOUR
HE WOKE before he jumped.
Had trained himself to open his eyes as soon as the lurch in his chest appeared, rather than have the beauty in his bed feel the jerk of his body beside her.
It was that or sleep every night alone, and Nico had no intention of doing that.
He hadn’t had the dream in ages, but when Constantine had left and he had drifted back to sleep he had almost anticipated it—for yesterday something had stirred within him. The walk last night through the streets of Xanos had felt like a return to his familiar dream.
Where he lay paralysed, yet watching himself walk, talk, breathe, live.
A dream where his arms and legs were motionless, yet there he was walking around.
He hated the dream, hated lying there motionless, unable to move, unable to communicate with the version of himself he was watching.
Nico rolled over and her scent was there in bed beside him—and there was regret for not making love to her this morning, for not breaking his steadfast rule. For once he was tempted to close his eyes, to give into his body and slip back to his thoughts, but he had trained himself too well and instead got out of bed and showered and dressed. He didn’t shave and neither did he dress carefully, just pulled on the trousers he had worn last night and topped them with a black fitted shirt.
He toyed, only momentarily, with joining his family for breakfast, but not exactly relishing the prospect he decided otherwise. Given London was two hours behind them, he was for once kind to the long-suffering Charlotte, who arranged all his travel and other things, and he rang down himself to ask the concierge to arrange transport to take him back to the mainland. He didn’t want to go to Lathira and he certainly wasn’t going back on that ferry.
‘To where?’ the concierge asked, ‘and will you need a connection?’ for he could arrange a helicopter or seaplane to Volos and then a flight to Athens. For a beat of a moment Nico wished he’d rung Charlotte, for he didn’t actually know where he was going. Always his time was accounted for and he did not like the feeling this unexpected day off gave him. He had properties everywhere but they were all investments. His job was so global he preferred hotels. His yacht was moored in Puerto Banus in Spain, which was perhaps becoming his base, for Nico was half considering buying a property there, not as an investment, though, but as a home.
‘Just get me to Athens,’ Nico said and rang off. He would decide later, because, after yesterday’s episode, a day on the ocean did not particularly appeal.
It never entered his head he would see her that morning—surely the facade should mean the happy couple breakfasted in bed, but as the lift doors slid open there she was with Stavros. She looked stunning and groomed, every bit a Lathira wife—her make-up immaculate, no trace of last night’s crying evident, the elevator fresh with expensive fragrance, when Nico would have preferred the scent of her sex.
‘Kalimera.’ Nico greeted them and for the first time in his entire life he felt heat in his neck, in his ears and, as the liftman pressed the button, Nico found out how it felt to blush.
Not that Connie saw it.
Her own face was surely purple, her eyes staring down at her brand-new shoes. Stavros, unaware of the new charge in the air, stood beside her—but there was absolutely no guilt on her part. Her so-called husband had, after all, been with a lover of his own on their wedding night. Instead the burn in her cheeks was solely down to Nico, her body flaming in instinctive response, her cheeks firing at the memory of his mouth, his hands and all he had, last night, taught her to be.
‘Kalimera,’ Stavros said and nudged her, the dutiful wife, who must, he had told her, always perform, always look the part, entertain … And she opened her mouth to extend the greeting, to speak as she should, to act as she should, to greet her lover as a guest, and in her first act of defiance this morning she decided she would not. Connie stood instead, eyes forward, and slowly she blinked. She did not want to open her eyes to how things would be if she played along with the charade. She felt the nudge in her ribs again from Stavros, an irritated prompt which again she ignored.
And Nico knew it.
Though he stood in front of them, Nico was acutely aware of what was going on, could hear Stavros’s angry breathing, could see, in the highly polished doors, him turn to his newly belligerent wife. There was an unseen hint of a smile on Nico’s lips as behind him the sleeping dragon within her awoke.
But as they stepped out of the lift he stood for just a brief moment and watched as Stavros took his wife’s hand and they headed to the restaurant. Now he was not smiling, for she was still, Nico noted, minus her wedding ring, the row in the bedroom spilling outwards, and he was worried for her. Not, Nico told himself, because of closeness they had shared, worried as you would be for anyone. For he had stood up to his family, had turned away from the family business, from the island, had refused the direction to take a suitable wife and deliver the promise of rapid grandchildren—and even for a man as mentally tough as Nico, it had been hard. How much harder for Constantine, for a married woman, for the golden only child of her parents, to turn the mighty tide now?
‘Sir …’ The concierge interrupted his thoughts, abject in his apology, especially for such an esteemed guest, but the hotel was already struggling to accommodate the demands of the wedding guests, and to have Nico Eliades added to the list had spun behind the scenes into chaos. No matter how he had juggled, the poor man had to now tell his esteemed guest that his transport would be another fifteen minutes.
At best.
‘Perhaps you would like breakfast while you wait.’
Nico was about to decline for he never ate breakfast. He operated better hungry, black coffee his only charge till lunchtime, but, yes, he might as well say farewell to his parents.
Not that they seemed particularly pleased to see him. His mother almost jumped out of her skin when he approached the table.
‘Nico!’ Her exclamation was horrified, then rapidly changed to pleasant surprise. ‘I thought you’d left.’
‘Clearly not,’ Nico said.
‘When?’ His father did not even an attempt to greet him, just demanded to know when he would be gone—and Nico had not, from the day he had turned eighteen, given in to his father’s demands, and he didn’t start now.
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I will do some sightseeing.’ He had no intention, of course, he was just testing their reaction.
‘You, sightseeing?’ His mother smiled brightly, but it was so blatantly false that Nico was quite sure he could have leant over and peeled it from her well made-up face. ‘The only views you like are from your yacht or five-star hotel windows.’
‘I would like to see more of the island,’ Nico said.
‘I’m surprised we never came before—I always thought it was a miserable place …’ Because that was how his parents had described it, Nico realised, over and over. Whenever Xanos had been mentioned, they had turned up their noses, told him it wasn’t worth the time … ‘It’s really quite charming, I’d like to see it for myself.’ His eyes halted whatever was about to come from his mother’s mouth, even his father stayed quiet. ‘Is there a problem?’ Nico never dodged issues.
‘Of course not,’ his mother said, far too quickly.
There was no silver service, his mother was quick to point out, but coffee was quickly brought over to him and Nico took a sip and watched as Constantine stood chatting to some guests as Stavros made his way over and duly took her hand.
It was not jealousy that assailed him as he watched another man take her hand, it was something far deeper, something that incensed, and perhaps it incensed her, too, for she walked off from her husband. Nico saw her rather pointed drop of his hand as she went over to the breakfast buffet, and that knot of nervousness for her was back in his stomach.
You don’t mess with these people.
There were rules and there were ways, hundreds upon thousand of unspoken things that were expected, that were done without question, and there was a tinge of regret for telling Constantine she had choices, when in reality she had none.
‘I’m going to get some breakfast.’ He would break his rule for her—and not just about eating. He went into his pocket and pulled out his business card, not the one he gave his lovers. Nico had two phone numbers, one for women that rang frequently but was answered rarely and changed all too often, the other number his permanent one.
‘Kalimera,’ Nico said for the second time that morning as he joined her at the breakfast buffet.
‘Kalimera.’ She answered for herself, she certainly did not need Stavros’s prompting.
‘How are you?’ His voice was low and soft and the concern in it almost made her break down.
‘Trying to choose …’ And though her eyes wandered over the fruit, they were speaking not about fruit but in their own coded language.
‘Be careful.’ His hand was completely steady as he spooned some yoghurt into a bowl, but, as choices went, Connie made the wrong one, blueberries not the best fruit when one’s hand was shaking so.
‘Look, Constantine, if you need anything …’
‘It’s Connie,’ she muttered, because it was who she was, a girl from a village, the golden child of a family that had made good. And if she did what her heart told her to, then she would surely destroy them.
‘Not to me,’ Nico said, and then he placed the business card on the bench. When he’d safely gone, she collected it, the weight of paper heavy in her hand, but her heart lighter for it. Just a small slip of card, but it was, Connie knew, her most valued possession.
‘Eat later.’ Stavros was beside her. ‘We need to socialise.’
She turned to her husband. ‘We need to talk.’ But he wasn’t about to listen to her, so she did as she was told, but only for now, and as she turned she saw the concierge approach Nico. She had to stand and make small talk, while out of the corner of her eye she was watching him, how effortlessly elegant he looked. The restaurant blazed with Lathira’s and Xanos’s Sunday and wedding best. It reeked of perfume and was filled with clean-shaven or well made-up faces, gold on fingers and necks and ears. And there Nico stood, unshaven, almost, her heart shivered, unkempt, for his shirt was a bit crumpled and his trousers were the same ones he’d had on the day before. But he stood out, not for that reason. He stood out for he commanded attention in a way that new clothes and heavy Greek gold never could.
She watched as he left, as all the good in her life walked out of the room without a backward glance, and, as she had yesterday, she wanted to run to him.
To run with him.
To be free.