* * *
Thea’s heart thundered as she walked down the curving staircase. She steadied herself on the balustrade. One moment she thought Christo understood her. The next...?
‘Courage, Thea.’
What did he know of courage? Living his life of privilege. Not knowing fear. The dress didn’t frighten her. Mere scraps of fabric couldn’t hurt you. She knew where the real monsters hid—and tonight they’d be here, in this house.
She took a few breaths to calm herself and walked towards the ballroom. As she rounded a huge potted palm there Christo stood, towering in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, greeting his guests. The superfine wool moulded to the slim taper of his waist. His hands in the pockets of his trousers pulled them tight over his backside.
She stopped, hesitated, smoothed damp palms over the beaded fabric she wore. All the people terrified her. All this pretence. But she still had time; he hadn’t seen her. She should change.
Instead she froze, her chest tightening. Where had all the air gone? Perspiration pricked the back of her neck as her hands curled into tight fists. She needed to walk backwards, walk somewhere, yet she couldn’t take another step.
Thea knew the moment Christo realised she was there. His imposing shoulders straightened. His hands slid from his pockets and he turned.
‘Thea.’
His low velvet voice penetrated the tension corseting her chest. He strode towards her, arm outstretched. She played the game. Placed her hand in his, felt it engulfed. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing the palm where seconds earlier her nails had bitten into her soft flesh. And in that act he stole her breath, caused a burn to heat her cheeks.
He looked down at her, his gaze all-seeing. And for a moment she lost herself in the calm ocean of his eyes. Her breathing eased. Her pounding heart steadied. Christo did understand. He understood too well.
‘You look exquisite. I can see why red’s your favourite colour.’
Her cheeks heated, no doubt flaming into the shade of her dress. ‘Thank you. But it’s too generous a gift.’
‘It’s nothing less than you deserve for all you’ve done. But sadly for now we must work. Perhaps later...?’
He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. A flush of warmth stole over her, Christo’s invitation was clear. She could say yes and see what came of it.
Memories of that drizzly day in New York flooded into her consciousness. His hard, aroused body. Those deep, drugging kisses. A heavy pulse beat between her legs...
No, she had a part to play. That was all she could trust. Nothing more.
‘You work too hard,’ she said, focusing on what they had to do tonight.
Christo surveyed the crowd, as if he was making sure everyone appeared satisfied. But Thea could see what others didn’t notice. The tightness around his eyes. The dull shadows underneath.
‘My father would be proud.’ He let out a slow breath, looked down at the floor. ‘“Fun, fun, fun. That’s all you want to have,” he’d say to me. Other boys at school had holidays with their families. Hector sent me to work picking olives. I was nine.’
The thought of him being sent out to work so young was...shocking. She’d sometimes wondered about Christo as a small boy, what had made him the man he was. He always seemed so serious she wasn’t sure he knew how to have fun. Perhaps with good reason.
She stared out at the throng of people. At least they seemed to be enjoying themselves as waiters threaded in and out with food and wine.
She said, ‘That’s—’
‘Life. I learned long ago not to care.’
Thea wasn’t so sure. His voice sounded flat and dead, as if he had to force himself not to dwell on it.
‘Your father must be sorry he can’t be here tonight,’ she said.
Christo pinned her with his gaze, eyes hard and stormy. Time ticked for a few heartbeats, too much unsaid between them.
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘What about your mother?’ Where had she been when her son was sent away to pick olives as a little boy? ‘Surely she’ll want to celebrate your success?’
‘Ha! My mother?’ He tensed, a muscle at the side of his jaw ticking. ‘She’s never cared. Always claimed I was an impossible child. Why would she feign interest now? The woman’s as maternal as a cuckoo.’