Irritated by these unwanted adjustments to his rigidly organized life, he listened with half an ear to the vineyard manager’s wife babble about housekeepers on vacation and stocked refrigerators, trying not to betray his impatience for her to get the hell out and leave them alone.
The nervous woman insisted on orienting them in the house, which looked from the outside like an Old English rabbit warren. Once inside, however, the floor plan opened up. Half the interior walls had been knocked out, some had been left as archways and pony walls, and the exterior ones along the back had been replaced by floor-to-ceiling windows. The remodeling, skilled as it was, was obvious to Gideon’s sharp eye, but he approved. The revised floor plan let the stunning view of grounds, beach and sea become the wallpaper for the airy main-floor living space.
“The code for the guest wireless is on the desk in here,” the woman prattled on as she led them up the stairs and pressed open a pair of double doors.
Gideon glanced into a modern office of sleek equipment, comfortable workspaces and a stylish, old-fashioned wet bar. A frosted crest was subtly carved into the mirrored wall behind it. In the back of his mind, he heard again the male voice identifying himself when he had called the hotel, the modulated voice vaguely familiar.
It’s Nic...Makricosta. I’m looking for my sister, Adara. Gideon had put the tiny hesitation down to anything from nerves to distraction.
Now, as he recognized the crest, he put two and two together and came up with C-4 explosive. A curse escaped him.
Both women turned startled gazes to where he lingered in the office doorway.
“You told me your brother had changed his name. I didn’t realize to what,” Gideon said, trying for dry and wry, but his throat had become a wasteland in the face of serious danger to his invented identity.
“Oh,” Adara said with ingenuous humor. “I didn’t realize I never...” A tiny smile of sheepish pride crept across her lips. “He’s kind of a big deal, isn’t he? It’s one of the reasons I hesitated to get in touch. I thought he might dismiss me as a crackpot, or as someone trying to get money out of him.”
Kind of a big deal? Nicodemus Marcussen was the owner and president of the world’s largest media empire, not to mention a celebrated journalist in his own right. His work these days tended toward in-depth analysis of third-world coup d’état stuff, but he was no stranger to political exposés and other investigative reporting in print or on camera. Running a background check would be something he did between pouring his morning coffee and taking his first sip.
Gideon reassured himself Nic had no reason to do it, but tension still crawled though him as they continued their tour.
“My number is on the speed dial,” the woman said to Adara. “Please call if you need anything. The Kyrios was most emphatic that you be looked after. He’s hurrying his business in Athens as best he can, but it will be a couple of days before he’s able to join you.” She made the statement as she led them into a regal guest room brimming with fresh flowers, wine, a fruit basket, a private balcony with cushioned wicker furniture and a massive sleigh bed with a puffy white cover. “I trust you’ll be comfortable?”
Gideon watched Adara count the number of beds in the room and become almost as pale as the pristine quilt. She looked to him, clearly expecting him to ask for a second room. Any day previous to this one he would have, without hesitation. Today he remained stubbornly silent.
Color crept under her skin as the silence stretched and she realized if anyone made an alteration to these arrangements, it would have to be her. He watched subtle, uncomfortable tension invade her posture and almost willed her to do it. He wanted to share her bed, but he suddenly saw exactly how hard it was for her to stand up for herself.
She gave a jerky little smile at the woman and said, “It’s fine, thank you,” and Gideon felt a pang of disappointment directed at himself. He should have made this easy for her. But he didn’t want to.
The woman left. As the distant sound of the front door closing echoed through the quiet house, Adara looked to him as if he’d let her down.
“Do we just take another room?” A white line outlined her pursed mouth.
“Why would we need to?” he challenged lightly.
“We’re not sharing a bed, Gideon.” Hard and implacable, not like her at all.
“Why not?” he asked with a matching belligerence, exactly like himself because this issue was riling him right down to the cells at the very center of his being.
Her gaze became wild-eyed and full of angry anxiety. “Have you listened to me at all in the last twenty-four hours? I don’t want to get pregnant!”
“People have felt that way for centuries. That’s why they invented condoms,” he retorted with equal ire. “I bought some before we left the hotel. Do you have an allergy to latex that I don’t know about?”
She took a step back, her anger falling away so completely it took him aback. “I didn’t think of that.” Her brows came together in consternation. “You really wouldn’t mind wearing one?”
He stood there flummoxed, utterly amazed. “You really didn’t think of asking me to use them?”
“Well, you never have the whole time we’ve been married. I wasn’t with anyone else before you. They’re not exactly on my radar.” She gave a defensive shrug of her shoulders, averting her gaze while a flush of embarrassment stained her cheekbones.
Innocent, he thought, and was reminded of another time when they’d stood in a bedroom, her nervous tension palpable while he was drowning in sexual hunger.
Anticipation was like a bed of nails in his back, pushing him toward her. On that first occasion, she had worn a blush-pink negligee and a cloak of reserve he’d enjoyed peeling away very, very slowly.
Don’t screw this up, he’d told himself then, and reiterated it to himself today. The first n
ight of their marriage, he’d had one chance to get their intimate relationship off on the right foot. He had one chance to press the reset button now.
The primal mate in him wanted to move across the room, kiss her into receptiveness and fall on the bed in a familiar act of simple, much-needed release.