The Greek's Forbidden Princess. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
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A knocking woke her. She had that awful cotton wool taste in her mouth that told her she’d actually fallen asleep in broad daylight.
Except it wasn’t daylight. It was murky twilight and so chilly it was a wonder she’d slept.
Again that knocking, harder this time, and Amelie swung her head round. Through the side window she saw a dark shadow loom like a giant mountain bear. Her heart skidded against her ribs. Adrenaline pumped too hard, too fast, and she had to force down a moment’s primitive, instinctive fear.
Then she woke properly, remembering their predicament. If only it was merely wildlife she had to worry about!
She slid along the back seat, carefully tucking her coat around Seb, who, remarkably, still slept. The poor kid truly was running on empty.
As she put her hand on the handle, the massive form outside retreated, allowing her to open the door.
Instantly a blast of frigid air struck. Amelie gasped then forced herself out, shutting the door quickly to keep in the relative warmth. Fat snowflakes tickled her face. She sucked in a draught of oxygen that froze her throat and made all the tiny hairs on her body rise.
Except she suspected it wasn’t the cold air alone that did that. More likely it was reaction to the great, shaggy bear of a man standing just a pace away.
At least those profoundly broad shoulders blocked some of the wind. They were a perfect frame for a wickedly bold, dark face—straight black eyebrows, strong, too strong nose, high-cut cheekbones and a jaw that reminded her of the Acropolis’s uncompromising angles. It didn’t matter that his mouth was finely chiselled and full, for he didn’t smile. His mouth was grim, a perfect match for eyes as grey and dour as the mountain looming beyond him.
No welcome. No offer of assistance.
Amelie lifted her chin, the better to see him, refusing to be intimidated by that beetling brow or the aggressive bunch of his huge hands.
Or by the unwanted punch of pure feminine response to his aura of potent masculinity.
By sheer force of will she kept her arms at her sides instead of wrapping them around her freezing body. She’d stood firm against the worst St Galla could throw at her, not least her own father. She wasn’t about to fall in a heap because of a scowl.
No matter how much she wanted to turn tail and find some cosy hotel where she could curl up and be alone.
This isn’t about you, Amelie.
The reminder gave her strength. Her life had always been about others. Her forays into seeking personal happiness had been disastrous.
‘Kalimera.’ Good day.
He didn’t reply. Not by so much as a muscle twitch did his expression change, yet she had the impression that anger coiled tight within that imposing frame.
The only thing about him that moved was his hair, overlong and tousled by the whipping wind, jet black like his eyebrows, and if his expression was any indication, his heart.
How could a man so stern and unyielding make her pulse quicken and her knees go weak with excitement?
‘You’re blocking the gates.’
Biting back a retort she knew would win her no friends, Amelie smiled. It was the small public smile she sometimes felt she’d perfected before she could walk. The sort that wore well, no matter how tough the circumstances or how much she wished she was anywhere else.
‘So I am.’ Because parking here had been the only way to guarantee attention. Lambis Evangelos and his employees couldn’t drive in or out with her car parked across the entrance. ‘If you open the gates I’ll remedy that.’
He didn’t even bother to shake his head or, being Greek, to lift his chin in that supremely dismissive reverse nod that signified no.
Tiredness dragged at Amelie, and a building fury that she’d travelled so far, hiding from the press all the way, fearing someone would recognise them and destroy their anonymity, to be met by this. The blank annoyance of a man who didn’t give a damn.
Perhaps this last-ditch effort was doomed to fail.
Acid swirled through her insides and the metallic taste of defeat was bitter on her tongue. Amelie felt a tremor of despair begin deep in the pit of her belly and widened her stance, staking her right to be here.
At the movement something flickered in those deep-set eyes, but he said nothing.
So be it. He might be rugged up in a massive coat but Amelie wasn’t dressed for this unseasonably early snowstorm. Her clothes were chic rather than warm. The weather on the Mediterranean island of St Galla had been summery. The cool weather wouldn’t begin there for another couple of months and snow was rare.
Amelie turned to open the rear car door.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice was deep and resonant. She felt it circle her ribs then burrow low, making her insides soften.
Suddenly, gloriously, anger welled, burning bright in veins turned sluggish with cold and the prospect of defeat. She would not let this man with a voice like hot whisky, so at odds with those glacial eyes, turn her inside out.
‘Since a civil greeting is out of the question, I’m getting back in the car, where at least there’s some warmth.’
‘Stop.’ He stretched out one arm, his big, square hand just a hairsbreadth from hers. Then, abruptly, rejecting the idea of physical contact, he let it drop.
Somehow, more than anything, that hurt.
She didn’t want him to touch her. But that infinitesimal rejection felt like a tipping point. Amelie assured herself this foolishness was just the aftermath of a hellish time, of stress and trauma and worry.
‘Why? Do you have something to say that I want to hear?’ Her chin hiked up and to her amazement she caught sight of a tiny twist at the corner of that stern mouth. It was nothing like a smile, nothing so human. But it was something.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘This is public property. I’ve every right to park here while I wait to be let in.’
Those long fingers twitched at his sides and Amelie wondered on a snared breath of icy air whether he fought the impulse to shake her or move her bodily.
‘There’s nothing for you here.’ He said it slowly, enunciating each word with a precise perfection that reminded her English wasn’t his native language.
‘I didn’t come for myself.’ Amelie kept her voice even, betraying none of the pain she repressed. She was a master at hiding emotion in public. She did it so well she wondered what it would be like to let go—to cry and complain and rail against the cruelty of fate. But that wasn’t her way. She didn’t know how.
One sleek eyebrow cocked high in silent interrogation.
‘I’ve brought my nephew.’
Silence. More of that absolute, unnerving stillness. Had he trained in being impenetrable? Or just in being unfeeling?
Surely even this dour man, who’d already made it clear she wasn’t welcome, had some kernel of softness for a little boy.
Slowly, as if not trusting her to dash past him and scale the huge gates, he bent and peered into the car. When he straightened his face was unchanged. Clearly little Seb’s presence made no difference. They could stay here in what appeared to be a full-scale snowstorm and there’d be no offer of shelter.
Amelie bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the indignant outburst jammed in her mouth.
The sensible thing would be to admit defeat, start the car and drive back to the nearest village, looking for accommodation. She’d do that. Soon.
But her hands shook too much to drive down