The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHINЧитать онлайн книгу.
Nicos watched the fleeting emotions chase across her expressive features before she successfully masked them.
‘Mythos Investments is one of my companies.’
Of course. The name alone should have alerted her, but at the time she hadn’t given much thought to anything other than finding a solitary haven of her own.
Suspicion ignited, and demanded answer. ‘Did you employ a private detective to monitor my every move?’ Katrina queried tightly.
An ex-military whose instructions were to observe, protect if necessary, and be unobtrusive at all times. A successful operation, Nicos acknowledged, for which the man had received a handsome remuneration.
His silence was more eloquent than mere words, and Katrina’s mouth thinned. ‘I see.’
Nicos’s gaze speared hers. ‘What do you see, pedhi mou?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.
Too quiet. Like the calm before a storm. Something she chose to ignore.
‘Two men bent on manipulating my life,’ she retaliated fiercely. ‘My father during his lifetime, and now you.’ She picked up her water glass and momentarily toyed with the idea of throwing its contents in his face.
‘Don’t,’ Nicos warned softly.
She was caught on the brink of violence. Aware of the acute satisfaction of such an action, and the folly of carrying it through. ‘You read minds?’
‘Yours.’
She took in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘The activity reports would have been incredibly repetitive,’ she began tightly.
Work, social activities. A few male partners, none of whom had stayed overnight.
‘How dare you?’ The anger bubbled over. ‘It was an invasion of privacy. Harassment. I should file charges against you!’
His gaze didn’t waver. ‘It was protection.’
‘Did Kevin know?’ she demanded starkly.
‘We discussed it.’
Traitors, both of them. ‘Dear heaven,’ she breathed with pious disregard. ‘I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen!’
‘You’re the daughter of a very wealthy man, and—’
‘The estranged wife of someone who is almost my father’s equal,’ Katrina finished bitterly.
‘Yes.’
‘I hate you.’
His shoulders lifted in an imperturbable shrug. ‘So—hate me. At least it’s an active emotion.’
She was steaming, her anger a palpable entity.
He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm, the whiteness of her knuckles as she sought control.
‘If you leave now, you’ll only delay the inevitable,’ Nicos warned silkily. ‘And invoke a repeat performance.’
It didn’t help that he was right.
‘I don’t want this,’ she vowed with unaccustomed vehemence. ‘Any of it.’
‘But you want Macbride.’
It was a statement she didn’t, couldn’t refute.
Why should sharing a residence for a year with her estranged husband pose any problems? They were both adults. They had extensive work obligations, separate interests. With luck, they’d hardly see each other much at all.
A tiny bubble of laughter rose and died in her throat. Who was she kidding?
Katrina looked at the bulky envelope, then lifted her head and met his enigmatic gaze. ‘I won’t share a bedroom with you.’
Their eyes clashed, brilliant green and dark brown. And held. She wasn’t conscious of the way her breath hitched, or its slow release several long seconds later.
‘I don’t believe I asked you to.’
His voice was cool, almost ice, and she contained a slight shiver as it threatened to slither the length of her spine.
‘Friday,’ Katrina stated. The seventh day, thus fulfilling the first condition listed in Kevin’s will. ‘Evening,’ she qualified.
‘I won’t be home until late.’
One eyebrow arched in disdain. ‘I don’t see that as a problem.’
Nicos inclined his head, signalled the waiter, and ordered coffee.
‘Not for me.’ She had to get out of here, away from the man who’d once held her heart, her world, in his hands.
Whatever needed to be faced, she’d face on Friday. But for now, she wanted to be as far away from Nicos Kasoulis as possible.
With unhurried movements she rose to her feet, collected her evening purse, barely stifling a startled gasp as Nicos unfolded his lengthy frame and caught hold of her wrist.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she vented with an angry snap.
‘I’d say it’s obvious.’
The waiter appeared out of nowhere, accepted the cash Nicos handed him, beamed appreciatively at the size of the tip, and Katrina had little option but to allow Nicos to accompany her from the restaurant.
The instant they reached the foyer she tried to wrench her hand from his, and failed miserably. Short of an undignified struggle she was compelled to walk at his side through the elegant arcade to the street.
‘If you don’t let my hand go, I’ll scream,’ she threatened, sotto voce.
‘Go ahead,’ Nicos directed imperturbably. ‘I imagine female histrionics will garner some attention.’
‘You’re the most impossible man I’ve ever met!’
His quiet laughter was the living end.
‘Go to hell!’
‘You don’t want me to take you there,’ Nicos warned with a dangerous silkiness that sent ice slithering down the length of her spine.
‘I don’t want you…finis.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘A statement.’
‘A year, Katrina. Maybe we could attempt a truce of sorts?’
She spared him an angry glance. ‘I doubt it’s possible.’
‘Try,’ he suggested succinctly.
She reached into her evening purse, extracted a set of keys, and indicated the sleek white Porsche parked kerbside. ‘My car.’
‘Proving a point, Katrina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I should follow your example.’ He lowered his head and pulled her close in one easy movement.
She opened her mouth to protest, but no word escaped as he took possession in a manner that reached right down to her soul. And tugged at something long dormant. Evoking a vivid memory of how it used to be between them.
Of its own accord her body sank in against his, savouring for a brief few seconds the feeling of coming home. Of recognition at the most base level, and need.
The slow sweep of his tongue explored her own, tangled, then took her deep.
Dear Lord, how could she be this needy?
With a reluctant groan she tore her mouth away, and attempted to put some distance between them. Her own distress was evident, and she fought a mixture of anger and resentment as he brushed his knuckles along the edge of her jaw.
‘Chemistry,’ she dismissed with practised