CHAPTER SIX

GLORY STARED AT the deep, rare blue of the Mediterranean as the helicopter circled a perfect little island consisting of dark green trees, white stone buildings, sharp, rocky white stone cliffs and soft, powdery white sand beaches.

Castor’s private island.

The beauty of it took her breath away in rather the same way as the man who owned it.

He sat beside her in the helicopter, talking to the pilot in melodic Greek. She had no idea what they were discussing, but the sound of his voice was soothing and she needed soothing, especially after over fifteen hours of travelling.

The journey from LA to Athens had been a long one, despite the luxuries of the private jet. The stewardess had shown Glory to the jet’s bedroom—a novelty she hadn’t been able to resist trying—but she hadn’t slept very well, tossing and turning, and generally not being able to get comfortable.

She wasn’t sure why. Probably something to do with Castor and everything he’d revealed after they’d taken off from LA.

He’d wanted to tell her all those things, that had been clear, and she’d even had the sense that he’d been desperate to talk about them. But only some things, as it turned out.

He’d been uncomfortable with her praise and he definitely had not wanted to talk about why taking down the trafficking rings was so important to him.

Not that taking down such things weren’t important, she just wanted to know why he felt compelled to do so.

Why? What is he to you?

He wasn’t anything. Her boss, maybe, if she was thinking of their marriage contract as a job. It was only that what he’d told her about what he was doing had fascinated her and she wanted to know more.

Such as what had led him to put everything he’d worked for—and to get where he was now, he would have had to have worked very hard—at risk. And not only what he’d worked for, but his life too.

What kind of man did that? That question had burned in her mind and the only answer she could come up with was the one thing she’d already noted about him: something was driving him. And it had to be personal somehow given the quiet ferocity in his voice and the glitter in his eyes.

Saving people was very important to him.

Not that she was surprised. Despite his anger with her the night at his mansion, she’d known he wasn’t the corrupt, jaded womaniser the gossip magazines made him out to be.

He was a knight in shining armour instead.

That’s not going to help your obsession with him.

No, it wouldn’t, and marrying him wouldn’t either. But then she wasn’t marrying him for herself, was she? She was doing this for Annabel.

The helicopter descended, heading for the helipad on a flat piece of ground near the most beautiful house. It was constructed of white stone on the side of a cliff, overlooking the sea, and consisted of a series of boxes and terraces on different levels, the terraces bordered by low stone walls. Greenery surrounded it, olive trees and cypresses and all sorts of other trees and shrubs.

She should have been staring out the window at her first glimpse of it amazed, yet her attention kept getting drawn to the man beside her as the helicopter came into land. He wasn’t looking at her, his attention out the window, and he was still talking to the pilot. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses again, the expression on his face giving no hint as to what he was thinking.

Why had he suddenly ended their conversation on the plane? Was the reason he was doing this painful? Because yes, it had to be, didn’t it?

Why are you so curious? What does it matter?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Not that she had the right to demand answers from him anyway and she didn’t want to pester him. Annabel used to get irritated with Glory constantly asking her how she was, and she didn’t imagine Castor would take it any better than her sister had.

The helicopter came in to land and instantly Castor leapt out. A man was waiting on the helipad and Castor went over to speak to him. They chatted a few moments, then Castor was back, pulling open the door of the helicopter and helping her out.

‘I have some things to attend to,’ he murmured, his hand strong around hers as she got awkwardly out of the helicopter. ‘But Nico here will show you around.’

Then before she could say anything, Castor let her go and strode off down one of the white gravel paths that wound through green lawn and low shrubs towards the house.

Nico, who apparently managed everything, introduced himself, then organised for her bag to be unloaded, picking it up and carrying it himself as he led the way to the house.

It really was a beautiful house, all whitewashed stone, the pretty terraces she’d seen from the air shaded by pergolas overlooking the deep, pristine blue of the ocean beyond. Inside it was white too, with white stone floors and white ceilings. The rooms were large and airy and full of light, with lots of white linen couches and jewel bright cushions scattered here and there. White gauzy curtains fluttered in the warm breeze coming through open windows, and the air was full of the scent of salt and sun and oranges.

The effect was of casual luxury with a rustic touch that Glory found incredibly appealing. As she did the little touches of art here—folk art sculptures, and paintings and hangings, along with the odd black-and-white photograph that were clearly of the island itself.

Nico showed her to a room in the upper part of the house, with a big bed facing a long line of French doors that opened out onto a private terrace. The room was as white as everywhere else in the villa, as was the en suite bathroom complete with a bath and shower before huge windows that looked out over the sea.

It was incredible, and after Nico had left her alone, with instructions to treat the house as if it were her own, Glory had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Used to the LA heat, grime and pollution, and the run-down decor of the apartment she shared with Annabel, being here, where even the air smelled different, was astonishing.

After all the hours spent travelling, she felt tired and gritty-eyed, so she treated herself to a shower, revelling in the huge, white-tiled space, then stood wrapped in a towel in front of her suitcase, pulling a face at her clothing choices. Not that she had many choices. Eventually she pulled out her only skirt—a denim one—along with a clean white T-shirt.

She wasn’t sure what to do next and since Castor hadn’t given her any instructions, she decided to explore the villa, wandering through a series of interconnecting white rooms and short corridors.

Of Castor himself there was no sign.

Eventually she found herself in one of the smaller rooms where the walls were lined with rustic bookshelves that looked hand carved, the shelves stuffed full of well-thumbed paperbacks in various different genres, plus hardbacks on art and history and science and all kinds of other things.

There were a couple of large, comfortable-looking chairs positioned near the shelves, plus a generous window seat covered in cushions that looked far too inviting to resist. So Glory didn’t, curling up in it and gazing out the window at the afternoon sunlight bathing the island in a warm, golden glow.

She should probably call Annabel and tell her she’d arrived safely, but she didn’t move, gazing at the view and enjoying being in this beautiful place, in the kind of house that graced expensive home and garden type magazines.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep. She was just tired. And she only intended to close her eyes for a couple of moments. So it was very confusing when a deep, male voice said her name softly and she jolted awake, realising that view outside wasn’t golden any more but dark, the night sky beyond glittering with stars.

Glory inhaled sharply and turned her head to find Castor standing beside the window seat, looking down at her, his expression unreadable.

‘You certainly know how to hide.’ There was a faint edge in his voice. ‘I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes searching everywhere for you.’

Heavy-headed with sleep, Glory pushed herself up from the cushions. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said thickly. ‘I didn’t mean to go to sleep.’

He made a tutting sound and reached out, gently pulling away some strands of hair that had been apparently stuck to her cheek. ‘Jet lag. Happens to the best of us.’

The intimacy of the movement made her freeze in place, her breath catching, and she found herself staring into his eyes as something deep in them flared into life.

Very slowly, he reached out again, the tips of his fingers brushing her cheek, making everything inside her shiver.

All remaining sleep fled. She felt alive and awake, as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff caught between wanting to hurl herself over it or stay on the safety of her ledge.

For a long moment they stared at each other. Then abruptly he clenched his hand into a fist, the fierce glitter in his eyes extinguished. ‘Come, mikri alepou.’ He turned in the direction of the doorway, his voice casual, betraying nothing. ‘Dinner is on the lower terrace and we have some arrangements to discuss.’

Glory tried to will her heartbeat to slow down, her skin tingling from where he’d touched her. Why had he done that? Clearly it hadn’t been something he’d enjoyed since he’d then turned away as if she was the one who’d burned him. Like he had the night he’d kissed her.

Then again, had that been heat glittering momentarily in his eyes?

Ah, but she couldn’t think about that. If he’d wanted to kiss her again, he would have done so already and he hadn’t.

You want him to.

Glory swallowed and ignored that particular thought, just as she ignored the unmistakable lurch of disappointment that followed. Because she had no reason to be disappointed. He hadn’t promised her anything but Annabel’s IVF treatment and paying off their debt, and a two-week luxury vacation, and that’s all.

Pleasant fantasies of kisses and maybe more weren’t part of it and neither was wishful thinking.

Sliding off the window seat, she followed him.

The lower terrace was wide, with potted shrubs and various trees in tubs. There was also a long, rustic wooden table with rustic dining chairs and bright cushions on each seat. Food had been laid out—olives and fresh bread, cold meats and salad—along with a bottle of wine and a tall jug full of iced orange juice. Numerous candles in white stone holders had been lit, casting a diffuse and flickering light over the entire terrace.

It looked like a movie set or a scene out of someone else’s life. Definitely not her life.

Castor moved over to the table and pulled out a chair, indicating she should sit.

She blushed as she sat down, very conscious of him standing behind her, tall and powerful and very, very warm.

‘That’s gentlemanly of you,’ she said sincerely. ‘For a notorious playboy, I mean.’

Castor pushed her chair in, then moved around the table to sit opposite her, giving her a fleeting glance as he did so. One of those practised smiles turned his mouth. ‘I try.’ His tone was casual as he reached for a napkin and flicked it over his lap.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said without thinking. ‘You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. Not now I know the truth.’

He went still, his gaze flickering gold beneath his lashes. ‘Pretend? Pretend what?’

Should you really have said that?

Why did she keep doing that? Why did she keep talking to him as if she knew him when she didn’t? He might have told her his secret on the jet, but only because he wanted her to know what was at stake. It wasn’t because he wanted to confide in her specifically. And then she’d pestered him for answers...

She was presuming too much on too little acquaintance.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said it.’

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze narrowing, his expression opaque. ‘But you did say it. So please continue.’

She didn’t want to continue, but she also didn’t want to argue, so she picked up her own napkin and fussed with it. ‘Oh, you know, pretend to smile. Pretend to be charming. Pretend to be the playboy everyone thinks you are.’

‘I see.’ He gave her a steady and rather unnerving stare. ‘And what makes you think I’m pretending?’

‘Your s-smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.’ Glory fiddled with her napkin. ‘It seems kind of...fake. Especially when most of the time with me you don’t smile at all.’

He said nothing, his gaze unblinking.

‘Like you’re doing right now, in fact,’ she pointed out.

He stayed quiet.

‘Anyway,’ she went on quickly, trying to fill up the tense silence. ‘All I wanted to say was that you don’t have to smile or be charming or...or...anything else with me.’

The tension in the air gathered tighter.

Abruptly Castor reached for the open bottle of wine that stood on the table and with a certain amount of deliberation poured it into two wine glasses.

Glory looked down at the napkin in her lap, smoothing it while her heartbeat raced, anxiety twisting in her stomach.

She shouldn’t have said anything. Why had she? She was better at observing people than talking with them and now she’d clearly offended him.

Does it matter if you offend him? He certainly doesn’t seem to care if he offends you.

That was true. He had a couple of times and without apology, while she seemed to be apologising to him all the time.

‘I’m not the only one who pretends.’

His voice came suddenly from across the table, low and deep, with that edge to it that she thought now was anger.

She looked up from her napkin to find him watching her, making her breath catch.

‘Wh-what?’

‘You pretend, Glory Albright.’ His stare became intent. A predator’s stare. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You seem so shy and so afraid. Stammering like a child whenever you talk to me. Yet I see the way you look at me.’ The gold in his eyes glittered as he pushed the wine glass in her direction. ‘And I certainly felt it the night you kissed me. There’s nothing really shy about you, is there?’ He leaned forward slowly, the candlelight leaping and flickering over his fallen-angel beauty. ‘You’re hungry, mikri alepou. You’re hungry, just like me.’

Glory was sitting there frozen, her dark eyes fixed on his. Her lush mouth had opened slightly, the pretty freckles dusting her nose standing out under the blush that had risen in her cheeks.

He shouldn’t be angry with her. He had no right to be. Yet fury wound through him, hot and raw, coming from a place so deep inside him he hadn’t known it was there.

A fury that had begun to climb as he’d spent fifteen minutes searching the villa for her. A fury in direct proportion to the cold thread of worry that had also began to build. Because she didn’t seem to be anywhere around and yet no one had seen her leave. He’d ordered Nico to search the grounds while he did another search of the villa, the chill inside him gathering along with his anger.

How dare she make him worry about where she was? And how dare he worry about her at all? Because since when did he care?

The last decade of his life he’d had to cut his emotions off completely or else go mad, and he’d done so successfully. So successfully that sometimes he wondered if he still felt anything at all.

Yet in the space of a week, one ordinary young woman from LA had set alight something inside him and now here he was, frantically searching his villa as if she mattered in any way, and yes, he was furious about it.

And then when he’d gone into one of the smaller rooms he kept as a library, he’d found her lying on the couch fast asleep as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

An intense relief had overcome him then, only to be overtaken by an equally intense fury, because why he should be quite so relieved he had no idea. She hadn’t disappeared inexplicably or been taken by any of the people he was trying to bring down. She’d simply wandered off and fallen asleep on the couch as if he hadn’t mobilised the entirety of the villa’s staff to look for her.

As if she wasn’t lying curled up on the couch with her hands beneath her chin like a child, pretty russet hair spread over the white linen, the denim miniskirt she wore pulled up to expose rounded thighs and smooth, pale silken skin.

Over the years he’d become so jaded that it took a lot to get him hard. But looking down at her lush feminine curves and her innocence, he felt his fury and relief transform into something burning, that ached, that made him hollow with hunger.

Every part of him had tightened with desire and he’d had to take a step out of the room to control himself. To not simply scoop her up in his arms, carry her straight to his bedroom and punish her for making him angry, for making him worry. For making him feel anything at all, because he didn’t like it.

But of course he wasn’t going to do that. He’d made his decision not to touch her and he couldn’t. Yet the time it took to get himself in hand didn’t help his temper, and by the time he’d gone back in to wake her up, he felt as if everything was strangely precarious. As if he was an explorer in unfamiliar territory constantly on the lookout for threats.

Maybe that was why he’d pulled her hair off her cheek and touched her cheekbone. Because he wanted to understand the nature of the threat she presented. Solve the mystery of why she should render his control as brittle as glass.

It had been a mistake though, because even now he could feel the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips, as if the very touch of her burned him. Just as it had been a mistake to have this dinner with her, to sit here with her velvety dark eyes focused on him, her deliciously husky voice telling him that now she knew the truth, he didn’t have to pretend.

And all he could think about was how great a relief that would be. To have just one person he could be himself with, because he hadn’t had that in years. Theos, if he’d ever had it.

Hungry, he’d said to her and he was. Hungry for someone who saw beneath that mask of his, who saw him.

Just as he saw her, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. She wanted him and it was obvious.

‘I...I don’t know what you mean,’ she said thickly, grabbing her wine glass and taking a healthy sip.

He shoved his chair back from the table. ‘Then come here and I’ll show you.’

What are you doing? You don’t want to go down this particular path.

No. This was a game he played with women who knew what they were doing and who liked a challenge just as he did, not with inexperienced innocents like her.

He should be walking away, putting some distance between them, not sitting here staring at her and challenging her to come closer.

Yet he didn’t move and he didn’t look away. Fury and hunger had him in its grip and he couldn’t get free.

You don’t want to get free. You want to feel something for the first time in years...

Yes, he did. He couldn’t deny it.

Glory put her wine down, her expression turning wary. ‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘I think you know exactly what I’m going to do.’ He held himself very still, tension gripping every muscle. There was no charm now and all his smiles had disappeared. She’d told him not to pretend and so here he was, not pretending. If she didn’t like that after all, well, she knew where the door was.

A long, aching moment passed and then, strangely, concern filled her velvety gaze. ‘You’re angry with me.’

The sudden change of subject made him catch his breath. ‘What?’

‘You’re angry with me—I can see it in your eyes. Was it something I did?’ Her hands moved nervously in her lap, fiddling with her napkin again. ‘I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, should I? I’m sorry. I was just so tired.’

Theos, did she really think all of this was about anger? Could she not see the desire that burned in his eyes? Or was it simply that she didn’t recognise it?

Why would she recognise it? She’s had no experience with men, as you know very well.

Castor gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to have to explain himself, but it wasn’t fair to let her think she’d angered him. Especially when it was obvious that mattered to her since she kept apologising.

‘Of course I’m angry with you,’ he bit out. ‘I’m angry with you for falling asleep and letting me find you all curled up, with your hair across the cushions and your denim skirt up around your thighs. Looking like Sleeping Beauty waiting for your prince to wake you with a kiss.’

‘But I—’

‘You made me want to do that, Glory. You made me want to kiss you and more. And yes, that made me angry. Because I wasn’t going to touch you. Yet all I can think about right now is whether you still want your virginity.’ His voice had deepened into a growl and he let it. ‘Because if not, I’m quite happy to take it from you right here and now.’

Her eyes went very wide, her mouth opening. Her hands stilled and a tide of colour crept up her neck and over her cheeks, contrasting beautifully with the white of her T-shirt.

‘You are?’ Her voice had gone hoarse. ‘Why? I’m not beautiful. I’m not special. I’m ordinary, remember?’

‘I told you that I was wrong about that. And as to why, I don’t know. What I do know is that I want you, mikri alepou, because you told me that I didn’t have to pretend.’ He paused, staring into those beautiful eyes of hers. ‘So, I’m not pretending.’

Something shifted in her gaze and her mouth closed, her chin suddenly getting a determined slant to it.

She put her napkin down, pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Then she moved around the table, coming closer to him.

He waited, anticipation tightening inside him, joining his hunger to create something thick and hot. This was a very bad idea and he knew it. He couldn’t afford to indulge himself with someone like her, not when she was part of his mission. And certainly not when all he had to offer was a night of pleasure and nothing more.

Glory stopped beside his chair and looked down at him. She smelled of soap and a sweet, musky scent that was all her. It made his mouth water. He wanted to position her between his thighs and make her stand there as he ran his hands up her legs and over the curve of her bottom. Watch that hungry look turn to flame in her eyes and know that it was him she wanted. Really him.

Not the dissipated playboy he pretended to be, but the flawed man he actually was.

The man who couldn’t even take care of his own sister.

The thought came and went as Glory laid her fingertips lightly on his hand where it rested on the arm of his chair and said, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I have been pretending. And perhaps I don’t want to pretend any more either.’

He stared at her small hand touching his, the heat from her fingertips pinning him there as if she’d run a spear straight through him. Then slowly he lifted his gaze to hers.

Her eyes were so beautiful, dark and full of emotion. Desire burned there, along with fear and excitement and hunger.

And a question she probably didn’t even know she was asking.

He knew though, just as he knew the answer.

Castor turned his hand over and closed his fingers around hers. Then he tugged her closer, reaching up to tangle his free hand in her hair, pulling her head down. She didn’t resist, her other hand coming down to rest on his shoulder, balancing herself as he tugged her down even further until her mouth brushed over his, his entire being held captive by the softness of her lips on his. He could taste the wine she’d been drinking, both tart and sweet at the same time, which was exactly like her too. Tart and sweet. Sharp and soft. And so warm, so very, very warm...

Her hair fell around him like a curtain and he wanted to bury his face in her curls. But then her mouth opened, her tongue touching his bottom lip, shyly exploring, making electricity crackle the length of his spine, and it abruptly became clear to him that if he didn’t stop this he would take her virginity here and now.

Do you really have such little control over yourself that you’d ignore doing the responsible thing in favour of what you want instead? And all because of one kiss? Remember what happens when you do that.

A cold thread wound through the heat. Oh, yes, he remembered.

Ismena tugging on his hand, because she wanted him to take her to get ice cream. It was late and he still had a lot of homework to do, and he knew he should refuse. But the girl at the ice cream shop had been flirting with another boy, and he was jealous. He wanted to talk to her, ask her out before this other boy got to her.

So he’d taken Ismena out to get ice cream. And he’d talked to the girl in the ice cream shop. And by the time he’d finally managed to get her number, Ismena had disappeared...

No, he couldn’t be so irresponsible again. He couldn’t think only of himself. Glory wasn’t a little girl and he wasn’t fifteen any more, but she was still an innocent and he had the power to hurt her, which made it his job to protect her. Especially when sex was something he could easily get from someone else.

It didn’t have to be from her, no matter what his brain insisted on telling him.

Castor released her and pulled away. She looked at him uncertainly, her luscious mouth red from his kiss, and he could feel the heat inside him wanting to break out of the cage he’d put it in.

It was a struggle to control it, but he did.

‘Not tonight,’ he said quietly, holding her gaze so she could see the decision he’d made in his. ‘Not ever. Do you understand?’

Hurt flickered over her face. Then she turned away abruptly, going back to her seat and sitting down, looking down at her plate and saying nothing.

So much for not hurting her.

There was a dull ache in his chest for no reason that he could see so he ignored it. Pain was fleeting and her pain would be fleeting too.

She’d eventually see his refusal as the lucky escape it was and would go on to find another, far more deserving man than he was to gift her virginity to.

Castor reached into his pocket and took out the box he’d put in there earlier that evening, laying it down on the table. ‘This is an engagement ring,’ he said casually. ‘I want you to wear it tomorrow. It’s large and expensive and I’d like some pictures of you wearing it.’

He didn’t wait to see if she picked the box up.

He got to his feet, turned and walked away.