beautiful. He had to swallow his tongue because he hadn’t seen what she was wearing when she sat behind her desk. The black skirt and white shirt were expected, but the leopard-print heels were not. Her legs were a mile long in those things—and he had a sudden memory of them wrapped around his waist while he pounded into her.
“What is it, Ms. Chatsfield?” he said, feigningboredom. He couldn’t stand, however, or she’d see he was anything but. His body was hardening by degrees as he looked at her standing there like a conquering Amazon.
She shut the door firmly behind her and came over to stand in front of his desk. He sprawled lazily, his suit jacket at least hiding the evidence of his attraction to her.
“I want you to go,” she said softly. The gold flecks in her eyes sparked, but not in passion. Anger, no doubt. Except her tone was not angry at all. It was … resigned, he thought.
“That’s not a secret, Lucilla
mow
.”
“I mean it, Christos. This time, you’re leaving. Call my father and give your notice. And then get the hell out of my company and my life.”
A prickle of alarm slid along the back of his neck, raising the hairs there. He let his chair rock forward very slowly. And then he stood. They faced each other across the desk and he noticed that her chin trembled. Just once. Just barely.
So strong, this woman. So repressed.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, darling. I don’t walk away until the job is done. And it’s not. I’m sorry if you’ve decided to have an attack of conscience over last night, but it changes nothing. I’m here to stay.”
Her eyes held his and her chin lifted. He pictured Boudicca rousing the tribes against the Romans.
“You need to rethink your answer. Or you can tell the shareholders in just a few days precisely who Nikos Stavrou is.”
Ice formed into a ball in his belly. But he would not react. “And who do you think he is?” he asked mildly. Dangerously.
She swallowed. “I know who he is,” she said. “He’s a criminal. And he’s you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
L UCILLA COULD NOT believe what she’d just been told. Her stomach roiled in fury and pain. The triumph she’d expected to feel was strangely absent. She’d wanted to find out something about Christos, something to make him go away—but she hadn’t expected this.
He stood there so tall and remote and angry, his eyes flashing hot. He was not in the least bit cowed—and had she really expected he would be?
“I don’t know what you think you know about me, Lucilla
mou
, but there is nothing you can say that will make me quit.”
She sucked in a pained breath. He’d been in her bed last night. He’d been a tender and amazing lover, both giving and demanding. He’d coaxed responses from her body that had stunned her. Responses she wanted to experience again and again.
But he wasn’t who she thought he was. Hewas not the cool, urbane man of mystery he pretended to be. He was a violent criminal. Or had been.
“You nearly killed a man,” she said, her throat tight. “Your own father.”
His face morphed into a cold mask. His eyes gave nothing away. They were curiously blank, and somehow that hurt far more than if he’d stayed angry or become suddenly remorseful. If he’d broken down and said how he’d made a youthful mistake, how he regretted his actions, how he’d built himself into a better man because he knew he’d needed to do so, then she might have felt a wave of sympathy for him.
As it was, she felt angry, betrayed—and sad. So very sad. Who was this man she’d given herself to last night? She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked when he’d opened the guest-room door—lost and alone and almost terrified—but how did that mesh with who she now knew him to be?
“I did indeed,” he said, his voice cold and empty. “And I served my time for it, too.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Yet you keep it hidden. And you changed your name.”
A flash of
“What is it, Ms. Chatsfield?” he said, feigningboredom. He couldn’t stand, however, or she’d see he was anything but. His body was hardening by degrees as he looked at her standing there like a conquering Amazon.
She shut the door firmly behind her and came over to stand in front of his desk. He sprawled lazily, his suit jacket at least hiding the evidence of his attraction to her.
“I want you to go,” she said softly. The gold flecks in her eyes sparked, but not in passion. Anger, no doubt. Except her tone was not angry at all. It was … resigned, he thought.
“That’s not a secret, Lucilla
mow
.”
“I mean it, Christos. This time, you’re leaving. Call my father and give your notice. And then get the hell out of my company and my life.”
A prickle of alarm slid along the back of his neck, raising the hairs there. He let his chair rock forward very slowly. And then he stood. They faced each other across the desk and he noticed that her chin trembled. Just once. Just barely.
So strong, this woman. So repressed.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, darling. I don’t walk away until the job is done. And it’s not. I’m sorry if you’ve decided to have an attack of conscience over last night, but it changes nothing. I’m here to stay.”
Her eyes held his and her chin lifted. He pictured Boudicca rousing the tribes against the Romans.
“You need to rethink your answer. Or you can tell the shareholders in just a few days precisely who Nikos Stavrou is.”
Ice formed into a ball in his belly. But he would not react. “And who do you think he is?” he asked mildly. Dangerously.
She swallowed. “I know who he is,” she said. “He’s a criminal. And he’s you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
L UCILLA COULD NOT believe what she’d just been told. Her stomach roiled in fury and pain. The triumph she’d expected to feel was strangely absent. She’d wanted to find out something about Christos, something to make him go away—but she hadn’t expected this.
He stood there so tall and remote and angry, his eyes flashing hot. He was not in the least bit cowed—and had she really expected he would be?
“I don’t know what you think you know about me, Lucilla
mou
, but there is nothing you can say that will make me quit.”
She sucked in a pained breath. He’d been in her bed last night. He’d been a tender and amazing lover, both giving and demanding. He’d coaxed responses from her body that had stunned her. Responses she wanted to experience again and again.
But he wasn’t who she thought he was. Hewas not the cool, urbane man of mystery he pretended to be. He was a violent criminal. Or had been.
“You nearly killed a man,” she said, her throat tight. “Your own father.”
His face morphed into a cold mask. His eyes gave nothing away. They were curiously blank, and somehow that hurt far more than if he’d stayed angry or become suddenly remorseful. If he’d broken down and said how he’d made a youthful mistake, how he regretted his actions, how he’d built himself into a better man because he knew he’d needed to do so, then she might have felt a wave of sympathy for him.
As it was, she felt angry, betrayed—and sad. So very sad. Who was this man she’d given herself to last night? She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked when he’d opened the guest-room door—lost and alone and almost terrified—but how did that mesh with who she now knew him to be?
“I did indeed,” he said, his voice cold and empty. “And I served my time for it, too.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Yet you keep it hidden. And you changed your name.”
A flash of
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