The Stephanides Pregnancy. Lynne Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ burst. Strong arms grabbed her and buoyed her up out of the water again where she coughed and spluttered and struggled to suck in enough oxygen to satisfy herself. He swam back to the shore with her and heaved her up the beach.

      ‘I’m OK…’ she gasped.

      He said something raw in Greek but the hands that held her were surprisingly gentle. The terror that had engulfed her in those frightening seconds when she had been in the water alone brought a shocked surge of tears to her eyes and, although she was struggling to hold them back, a stifled sob escaped her.

      Recognising the depth of her distress, Cristos helped her back towards the house. ‘What have you done to your foot?’

      ‘I cut it…’

      Lean, strong face taut, he bent down and scooped her up to carry her indoors. When he set her down in a bathroom, she was shaking. ‘You’re all right. Nothing is going to happen to you. Nobody is going to harm you,’ Cristos asserted fiercely. ‘You are safe with me…OK?’

      She collided with lustrous dark golden eyes and her heartbeat limbered up as if she were about to go for a sprint. ‘OK…’

      ‘Let me look at your foot.’ He sat her down on the cushioned wicker chair and turned up her sole, ebony brows drawing together when he saw the gash.

      ‘I want a bath,’ she whispered.

      ‘You should stay out of the water with that cut.’

      ‘I smell like seaweed…’ Betsy pointed out.

      ‘And look like a mermaid…’ Cristos stared down at her. Drenched, her hair was more vibrant than ever but the sun had flushed her pale skin and her clear eyes were as bright and changeable a blue-green as the sea he loved.

      ‘Something fishy about my legs?’ she teased.

      He looked. He knew he shouldn’t because his body was already reacting to the mere presence of hers with a ferocious craving that not even his usual rock-solid discipline could kill. ‘You have incredible legs,’ he told her truthfully, for those slim thighs, elegant knees, narrow ankles and amazingly tiny feet of hers were in his far-from-humble opinion amazing works of art.

      She went pink and, suddenly shy of him, she got up to run herself a bath. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she muttered, belatedly recognising the reality that his clothes were wet as well.

      He glanced back from the door, inky black lashes low over his brilliant incisive eyes. ‘You can’t swim. Don’t go dancing on the rocks again,’ he warned her drily.

      ‘I wasn’t dancing…I was trying to bathe that cut in salt water to prevent infection—’

      ‘You were willing to risk blood-poisoning and drowning sooner than return here?’ Cristos dealt her a stark look of impatience. ‘Stop dramatising yourself—’

      Betsy went brick-red with embarrassment. ‘I don’t dramatise myself—’

      ‘What else were you doing when you ran away from me?’ Cristos slung back with scorn. ‘I don’t abuse women. Have you got that straight, because I don’t want to waste any more time chasing after you? I spent all afternoon searching high and low for you when I should have been concentrating on more important issues—’

      ‘I didn’t ask you to go looking for me. For goodness’ sake, I was upset. I wake up feeling like hell and find myself in a totally strange place with a very angry guy…’ Recalling the fact that that same guy had undoubtedly saved her life when he’d rescued her from the sea, she squirmed at the awareness that she had yet to thank him for that feat. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the water,’ she added in a small voice.

      ‘No problem. I wouldn’t dream of letting harm come to you,’ Cristos contended silkily. ‘If you were part of the kidnapping plot, I want you all in one piece to hand over to the police.’

      Betsy sent him a furious look from eyes that flashed like emeralds. ‘Get out of here!’

      Wide shoulders thrown back, long, lean, powerful length fluid, Cristos sauntered out. On the other side of the door he smiled. It was very easy to get a rise out of her.

      Betsy slid into the sunken bath that was embellished with water jets and set in a surround of exquisite multicoloured mosaic tiles. The floor was made of marble. No expense had been spared. The house might look delightfully rustic on the outside but from what little she had noted indoors the finish was more in the luxury millionaire class. Were kidnappers usually so generous to their victims?

      Her hair rinsed and squeaky clean, Betsy wrapped herself in a big fleecy towel and padded back out to the bedroom. It rejoiced in Mediterranean-blue painted walls, a giant bed with a carved wood headboard and crisp white lace-edged linen bedding.

      Cristos appeared in the doorway. Hair brushed back from his brow and clean-shaven, he was so incredibly attractive that just one look deprived her of the ability to breathe. ‘I used the shower outside.’

      In some disconcertion she studied his exquisitely tailored beige chinos and his short-sleeved black shirt. ‘Where did you get the clean clothes?

      ‘My weekend case travelled with us. Let me have a look at your foot. I found a first-aid kit in the kitchen.’

      His hands were cool on her warm skin. His luxuriant black hair gleamed in the fading light arrowing through the window and she was horribly tempted to curve her fingers to his handsome head. Hands curling in on themselves to resist a level of temptation that was new to her, she sat very still while he demonstrated how extremely resourceful he could be with antiseptic and plasters.

      ‘I’ll loan you a shirt,’ he murmured, vaulting upright again.

      Finding that she was too self-conscious to look at him, she turned away, wondering why she got so embarrassed and tongue-tied around him. ‘Nothing here is what you expect,’ she muttered to fill the silence.

      ‘Isn’t it? I think this is an upmarket honeymooners’ retreat that has been hired purely for our benefit. In the room next door there’s a most incongruous arrangement of flowers and a bottle of celebration champagne awaiting us.’

      ‘A honeymooners’ retreat?’ She grabbed at the shirt he tossed.

      ‘The perfect place. Someone choosing to vacation on a tiny deserted island doesn’t want company so whoever is in charge of this place won’t visit. I imagine that there was a radio here for communication in the event of an emergency but that has naturally been removed.’

      Betsy slid her arms into the blue shirt and began carefully to roll up the sleeves. Having buttoned the shirt, she gave the towel a discreet jerk to detach it. Watching her, watching her even when he knew he should not, possessed of the very knowledge that she was naked beneath his shirt; Cristos was endeavouring to get a grip on a powerful surge of rampant lust. His own weakness angered him. She was the gorilla’s girlfriend. He was damned if he wanted a kidnapper’s leavings. The cotton was so fine he could see the pale pink crests of her pert breasts, the faint hint of tantalising shadow below her belly. He was damned beyond all hope of reclaim. It was the weird situation, Cristos assured himself grimly. It was making him act out of character, it was making him behave like a testosterone-charged teenager who had only had sex in his own imagination.

      ‘Right now all I care about is eating.’ СКАЧАТЬ