At The Greek Boss's Bidding. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
seven—had the same bloody mentality as the first six. In their eyes the wheelchair rendered him incompetent, unable to think for himself.
“I’m not paying you any longer,” he repeated firmly, determined to get this over and done with. “You’ve had your last payment. You and your company are finished here.”
And then she made that sound again—that little sound which had made him draw back. But this time he recognized the sound for what it was.
A laugh.
She was laughing at him.
Laughing and walking around the side of his chair so he had to crane his head to try to follow her.
He felt her hands settle on the back of his chair. She must have bent down, or perhaps she wasn’t very tall, because her voice came surprisingly close to his ear.
“But you aren’t paying me any longer. Our services have been retained and we are authorized to continue providing your care. Only now, instead of you paying for your care, the financial arrangements are being handled by a private source.”
He went cold—cold and heavy. Even his legs, with their only limited sensation. “What?”
“It’s true,” she continued, beginning to push his chair and moving him forward. “I’m not the only one who thinks its high time you recovered.” She continued pushing him despite his attempt to resist. “You’re going to get well,” she added, her voice whispering sweetly in his ear. “Whether you want to or not.”
CHAPTER TWO
KRISTIAN clamped down on the wheel-rims, holding them tight to stop their progress. “Who is paying for my care?”
Elizabeth hated played games, and she didn’t believe it was right to keep anyone in the dark, but she’d signed a confidentiality agreement and she had to honor it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Koumantaros. I’m not at liberty to say.”
Her answer only antagonized him further. Kristian threw his head back and his powerful shoulders squared. His hands gripped the rims so tightly his knuckles shone white. “I won’t have someone else assuming responsibility for my care, much less for what is surely questionable care.”
Elizabeth cringed at the criticism. The criticism—slander?—was personal. It was her company. She personally interviewed, hired and trained each nurse that worked for First Class Rehab. Not that he knew. And not that she wanted him to know right now.
No, what mattered now was getting Mr. Koumantaros on a schedule, creating a predictable routine with regular periods of nourishment, exercise and rest. And to do that she really needed him to have his lunch.
“We can talk more over lunch,” Elizabeth replied, beginning to roll him back out onto the terrace once more. But, just like before, Kristian clamped his hands down and gripped the wheel-rims hard, preventing him from going forward.
“I don’t like being pushed.”
Elizabeth stepped away and stared down at him, seeing for the first time the dark pink scar that snaked from beneath the sleeve of his sky-blue Egyptian cotton shirt, running from elbow to wrist. A multiple fracture, she thought, recalling just how many bones had broken. By all indications he should have died. But he hadn’t. He’d survived. And after all that she wasn’t about to let him give up now and wither away inside this shuttered villa.
“I didn’t think you could get yourself around,” she said, hanging on to her patience by a thread.
“I can push myself short distances.”
“That’s not quite the same thing as walking, is it?” she said exasperatedly. If he could do more…if he could walk…why didn’t he? Ornio, she thought, using the Greek word for ornery. The previous nurses hadn’t exaggerated a bit. Kristian was as obstinate as a mule.
He snorted. “Is that your idea of encouragement?”
Her lips compressed. Kristian also knew how to play both sides. One minute he was the aggressor, the next the victim. Worse, he was succeeding in baiting her, getting to her, and no one ever—ever—got under her skin. Not anymore. “It’s a statement of fact, Mr. Koumantaros. You’re still in the chair because your muscles have atrophied since the accident. But initially the doctors expected you to walk again.” They thought you’d want to.
“It didn’t work out.”
“Because it hurt too much?”
“The therapy wasn’t working.”
“You gave up.” She reached for the handles on the back of his chair and gave a hard push. “Now, how about that lunch?”
He wouldn’t release the rims. “How about you tell me who is covering your services, and then we’ll have lunch?”
Part of her admired his bargaining skill and tactics. He was clearly a leader, and accustomed to being in control. But she was a leader, too, and she was just as comfortable giving direction. “I can’t tell you.” Her jaw firmed. “Not until you’re walking.”
He craned to see her, even though he couldn’t see anything. “So you can tell me.”
“Once you’re walking.”
“Why not until then?”
She shrugged. “It’s the terms of the contract.”
“But you know this person?”
“We spoke on the phone.”
He grew still, his expression changing as well, as though he were thinking, turning inward. “How long until I walk?”
“It depends entirely on you. Your hamstrings and hip muscles have unfortunately tightened, shortening up, but it’s not irreparable, Mr. Koumantaros. It just requires diligent physical therapy.”
“But even with diligent therapy I’ll always need a walker.”
She heard his bitterness but didn’t comment on it. It wouldn’t serve anything at this point. “A walker or a cane. But isn’t that better than a wheelchair? Wouldn’t you enjoy being independent again?”
“But it’ll never be the same, never as it was—”
“People are confronted by change every day, Mr. Koumantaros.”
“Do not patronize me.” His voice deepened, roughened, revealing blistering fury.
“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to understand. And if this is because others died and you—”
“Not one more word,” he growled. “Not one.”
“Mr. Koumantaros, you are no less of a man because others died and you didn’t.”
“Then you do not know me. You do not know who I am, or who I was before. Because the best part of me—the good in me—died that day on the mountain. The good in me perished while I was saving someone I didn’t even like.”
He laughed harshly, the laugh tinged with self-loathing. “I’m not a hero. I’m a monster.” And, reaching up, with a savage yank he ripped the bandages from his head. Rearing back in his wheelchair, Kristian threw his head into sunlight. “Do you see the monster now?”
Elizabeth sucked in her breath as the warm Mediterranean light touched the hard planes of his face.
A jagged scar ran the length of the right side of his face, ending precariously close to his right eye. The skin was still a tender pink, although one day it would pale, lightening until it nearly matched his skin tone—as long as he stayed out of the sun.
But the scar wasn’t why she stared. And the scar wasn’t what caused her chest to seize up, squeezing with a terrible, breathless tenderness.
Kristian Koumantaros was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Even with the scar snaking like a fork of lightning over his cheekbone,