As Nick walked toward the DeHaviland home to receive some instructions, he realized he was looking forward to making the trip to Crete.
First of all, it would allow him to check on the progress of the home he was building on Santorini. He was anxious to begin his new life as vintner, tend his grape vines, harvest them and press them into wine. He was eternally grateful to the uncle who had raised him in Boston, and for the inheritance that uncle had left him.
Nick didn’t often dwell on his past. Orphaned at twelve, he was sent from a small village outside Athens to Boston to live with his father’s brother, a well-to-do fish merchant, who raised Nick as his own.
He had been educated at Harvard, found studying law to be stifling, and hoped he would never have to make a living at it. He much preferred the docks, the fishing boats, the fishermen. The sea. Although the Atlantic was nothing like the Aegean, it had been a pleasant enough substitute.
Harvard was where he had met Louise, his ex-fiancé. Merely the thought of her brought a bad taste into his mouth. Finding her in bed with his best friend had put an end to the liaison, and although he despised being cuckolded, he wasn’t sorry to have ended the relationship. He’d always felt that for some reason she had coerced him into the engagement, and that made him feel weak and ineffectual. He had learned that women were his weakness, therefore they could manipulate him. He was determined never to let that happen again.
In his innocence, he had thought women engaged in sexual activity merely to satisfy a man. Once he was no longer attached, he learned, from many willing partners, that that was not the case.
The second reason he looked forward to this trip was that he might finally learn why Honey DeHaviland had allowed him to seduce her. Or, he thought with a wry smile, had it been the other way around? That was more puzzling yet.
He arrived at the DeHaviland residence and was ushered into the library.
He crossed to one of the many bookcases and scanned the titles, noting a number of them were in Greek, some in Hebrew, but most in English. They were primarily dusty old tomes with religious titles promising the reader a deeper look into the Bible.
The door opened behind him and he turned to find Honey standing there, her hands on her hips, her expression resolute. She looked delectable; good enough to eat. Her luxurious hair was piled loosely atop her head, as if she’d put it up in a hurry, for tendrils hung down past her ears, giving her a soft look. He had the urge to unpin the splendid mass and bury his face in it.
She wore a dark russet gown that enhanced her coloring and accentuated her sweet bosom. He grew hard simply looking at her.
She stepped into the room and examined it, as if expecting to find someone hiding behind the curtains. It amused him.
“Good morning, Miss DeHaviland.” He greeted her with a polite bow, hiding his thoughts. “I’ve been studying your father’s reading selection. Somehow I can’t believe they are yours as well.”
Her gaze flicked to the bookcase. “My books are upstairs.”
“Who do you like to read? Bronte? Flaubert?”
She ignored him and paced, obviously nervous and upset. “This won’t do, you know.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It won’t do to have you ferry me to Crete. It just won’t. Don’t ask for any explanations; please, sir, just take my word for it.”
He leaned against a wing chair, crossing one ankle over the other. “That doesn’t pique my curiosity at all. What I want to know is what you were doing out that night by yourself. Did you actually get separated from friends, or had you gone out into the night alone, without a chaperone?”
She didn’t answer.
“Why would you do that?”
She graced him with a blank, wide-eyed stare. Her eyes were so dark blue they were almost black.
“You could have been seriously hurt by those two drunks. Mugged. Raped. Even murdered.”
“But I wasn’t, was I?
“Then, can you tell me why you seduced me?”
Anger and indignation flared in her eyes. “I did no such thing,” she argued, a flush stealing into her neck and cheeks.
“If I remember right, you refused to let me take you home, and you asked me to make love to you. Why?”
She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. Finally she said, “My reasons for doing what I did have absolutely nothing to do with you, therefore they are none of your concern.”
“But I was a participant—”
“Mr. Stamos, if I were not so anxious to get to Crete and marry Mr. Christophides,” she interrupted impatiently, “I would find another mode of transportation to get there.”
Nick curbed his response. He had learned of Reverend DeHaviland’s enormous debt and of Apollo Christophides’ engagement to Honey. He had also learned that Honey had not yet met her betrothed.
Apollo was a wealthy Greek importer who still lived with his mother, a woman people called “Aello”, meaning “harpy”, behind her back. Nick had heard stories about Apollo’s passivity, but it might have been exaggerated. Young men caring for their mothers were actually quite noble. After all, Apollo was still very successful and quite wealthy, no matter how his mother factored into his life.
Nick gave her a slight bow. “Dear lady, I shall ferry you to your beloved with the swiftness of Poseidon.”
Honey ignored the sarcasm and crossed to the door just as her father opened it.
The reverend entered, glanced at both of them, then ushered Nick to the desk to receive his instructions.
Honey left the library still fuming. How dare he think that she had seduced him! She may have taken the initiative, but he had very expertly taken it from there. In truth, he was the expert; Honey wondered just how many women had succumbed to his talents. Must have been plenty, she thought with a snort.
She passed the afternoon in her room, attempting to learn more Greek. It was not a passionate sounding language, not like French or Italian. She hoped Apollo would be pleased at her willingness to at least try to learn it. She frowned. At this moment, however, she didn’t give a tinker’s damn what would please him.
What will your marriage bed be like?
It didn’t matter what her marriage would be like, either in or out of bed. She didn’t care if the man never made love to her, but she knew that he would. It was, after all, a part of the marriage bond. Her father had told her that her betrothed was not necessarily a handsome man, but that didn’t matter either. She adored a man who had other qualities, like a sense of humor and an honorable heart. Looks could be so deceiving.
She pictured Nick Stamos, tall and handsome, with dark, brooding eyes, then firmly erased the image from her mind.
She was determined to save her father, and Apollo Christophides would ride to her rescue to do so.
But, after considerable pacing and quiet cursing, she finally admitted that she wanted something more before that. One night of excitement and fulfillment hadn’t satisfied her like she had thought it would, or like she’d hoped it would. Perhaps it would have been enough if fate hadn’t thrown her into the arms of Nick Stamos.
But it would have to do. How could she, in good conscience, want anything more from him, when he was transporting her to her betrothed?
There was no dissuading her father once he’d made a decision; she had learned that the hard way many years before. So, she would be within arm’s length, so to speak, of the man who had given her more pleasure in one night than she’d ever hoped to have in her lifetime. She would have to deal with it as best she could. At least Effie would be there; there was that.
But as she arranged her trousseau in her steamer trunk, she began to wonder at her sanity. The only sensible thing to do now was to keep her head up, board his vessel, and lock herself in her cabin. And stay as far away from Nick Stamos as humanly possible. On a boat. With no escape.