The Giannakis Bride. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
of anyone in the house, before rounding on him. “Tell me, Dimitrios Giannakis, just how badly do you want your daughter to get well again?”
“More than anything in the world, as you very well know.”
“Then I suggest you keep your tongue and your temper on a very short leash. Your behavior tonight was inexcusable.”
“You might not think so, if you knew the history between Brianna and me.”
“I don’t give a rat’s behind about your history! The only person I care about is Poppy, and I will not sit idly by and watch you systematically sabotage what might turn out to be her best chance of recovery.”
“Brianna isn’t all she seems.”
“Really? I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and she struck me as a very nice, sincere woman.”
“You didn’t see past the beautiful face.”
“I’m not the one hung up on her looks, Dimitrios. You are. And I strongly recommend you get over it.”
“Easier said than done,” he grumbled, helping her into her car. “She’s a carbon copy of her sister.”
Noelle laughed. “Identical twins usually are, dear!” she said and, engaging the gears, roared off into the night.
No sooner had they disappeared outside than Brianna escaped upstairs to her room. She and Dimitrios were like oil and water, never meant to mix. If Noelle Manning hadn’t been there to referee, they’d have been at each other’s throats by now. But they had to find a way to get along, and she could only hope a good night’s rest would leave them both more kindly disposed toward each other by morning.
Erika or one of her minions had turned down the bed, switched on a reading lamp and left two English-language magazines on the nightstand. The French windows in the sitting area stood open, their filmy white drapes pulled back and hanging still as mist at each side. Over the arm of the love seat lay a shawl of softest mohair. A sterling silver tray holding an exquisite bone china hot chocolate pot and mug waited on the coffee table. Regardless of whether or not she approved, Erika was obeying to the letter her instructions to treat the guest like royalty.
But then, from what Brianna had seen, palatial was the key word at the villa Giannakis. She’d barely been able to concentrate on the evening meal, she’d been so bowled over by the magnificence of the setting. His dining room must have been fifteen by thirty feet, with a marble-tiled floor and priceless Savonnerie rug. Original artwork worth a king’s ransom hung on the walls.
The table, large enough to seat twenty with ease, consisted of a square slab of beveled glass supported by pillars fashioned after Doric columns. Five chairs upholstered in rich cranberry fabric lined each side. A fabulous old carved sideboard and sleek sterling candelabra completed the decor, resulting in a marriage of antique and modern; of classic elegance and good taste.
A sharp departure from her penthouse which, although overlooking the strait separating the mainland from Vancouver Island, and furnished with its own kind of elegance, didn’t compare to this place, which oozed comfort and opulence at every turn. And yet she’d have given anything to be back there now, mistress of her own fate.
But that wasn’t an option. She was here in Dimitrios’s home, if not exactly a prisoner, then certainly not a cherished guest, either.
Too keyed up to sleep, Brianna kicked off her shoes, tucked the shawl around her shoulders and stepped out on her deck. Moonlight spilled over the sea and dappled the garden with shadows. Apart from the soft sigh of waves on the beach below, the night was utterly quiet, utterly peaceful—until a rap at the door shattered it, that was.
“Brianna,” Dimitrios announced, too loudly for her to pretend she hadn’t heard him, “it is I.”
How painfully formal and grammatically correct, she thought wryly, refusing to acknowledge the frisson of apprehension his voice inspired. “If you’ve come to continue needling me,” she began, opening the door, “you can take yourself and your—”
“I have come to apologize. Again. And to ask if we can forget the past, not just for Poppy’s sake, but for yours and mine. This business of donating bone marrow amounts to more than a few minutes in a doctor’s office. The tests are exhaustive, and I have no wish to make your time here any more unpleasant than it has to be.”
“Well, if tonight’s any example…”
“It’s not. I’m afraid I’m never at my best after I come back from the hospital, but that scarcely excuses my taking out my anxiety on others, especially not you.” He offered his hand. “May we please start over?”
She could cope with his hostility, his bad behavior. Let him snipe and rant until the earth stopped turning, if he chose. He couldn’t hurt her that way, not anymore. But in his present conciliatory mode, he was downright dangerous. Enough that the resentment she’d harbored all these years suddenly seemed not so well-founded, after all, and how stupid a conclusion was that when all the evidence pointed to the contrary? “I’m not sure it’s possible,” she said, struggling to shore up her sagging defenses.
Taking her by surprise, he slid his fingers around her wrist in a warm, close grip. “Can we at least talk about it, and try to find a way?”
She wrenched her arm free and stepped back, horrified by the way her pulse leaped at his touch.
She’d have done better to stand her ground because he took her retreat as an invitation to march right into the room and close the door. It was all she could do not to run for cover behind the love seat. Trying not to hyperventilate, she clutched the cashmere shawl tightly at her throat.
The suite was generously proportioned. Even allowing for what the furniture occupied, there was still almost enough floor area left for a Las Vegas chorus girl to put on a show. Yet he seemed to swallow up the space until it shrank to the size of a shoe box. “What’s the matter, Brianna?” he inquired silkily, closing in on her. “Are you afraid I might kiss you—or just afraid you might like it too much to try to stop me?”
“Neither,” she replied, and suppressing a tug of something suspiciously like desire, she drew herself up to her full five foot nine in an attempt to stare him down.
She might as well have spared herself the effort. “Really?” he purred. “Why don’t we find out?”
His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close. The feel of his body against hers sent the blood thrumming through her veins. The lightning rod that was his mouth brought back in vivid recall the memory of the first time he’d kissed her, and where it had led: to a rendezvous in his stateroom, and an introduction to the pleasures of lovemaking, of sex, that had spoiled her for any other man.
But she remembered, too, what came afterward. The betrayal, the abandonment, had almost killed her. Although she’d honored her modeling assignments, smiling through her pain, covering up the dark circles under her eyes, everyone had noticed something was wrong. Rumors that she was ill—anorexic, bulimic, on the verge of a break-down—had circulated like wildfire and almost destroyed her career.
You’ve got to show them you’re still on top, Carter had urged. And she had. Because her career was all she had left. Dimitrios had robbed her of everything else.
She couldn’t let him do it again.
Lifting her hands, she pushed against the solid wall of his chest with all her might. “That might be your idea of starting over, but it’s certainly not mine.”
He released her willingly enough. “Forgive me for allowing my baser instincts to get the better of me,” he said, aloof disdain written all over his cold, beautiful face. “Believe me, I know better than anybody that what happened between us in the past is long ago over and done with, and nothing either of us can say or do will ever change that.”
“At least we’re agreed on one thing.”
“More than one, I hope.