“Yes, I think Belle was the sole target, with the other captives taken as collateral.” His fists tightened. “Those men were highly trained. They meant business, Alex. She could’ve been killed.” Anger and residual terror at what could’ve happened coiled in his gut.
“But she wasn’t. And we’ll find this guy and make him pay. Whatever it takes. For now, you have to reflect on the positives.”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
Belle was safe and back where she belonged. He could only be thankful he’d gotten to her—to all of them—in time.
He ended the call and walked to the double French doors. The view from this room never ceased to work its magic on him. The sloping garden planted with plumbago and sweet-smelling jasmine led down stone steps to pristine white sands lapped by the sea. The blend of greens and blues made the outdoors almost an extension of the room.
From here, he could hear the waves washing onto the shore. The gentle undulation of the sea soothed his chaotic thoughts, as it always did, and shucking off his shoes, he walked barefoot down across the terrace and onto the grass. He breathed in the cleansing air, but his tension didn’t ease.
Belle was back in his life, but it seemed they were farther apart than ever.
…
Belle entered the kitchen a few minutes shy of seven, irresistibly drawn to the delicious aroma of moussaka. Rays from the setting sun slanted through the partly painted glass windows, throwing gorgeous colored patterns on the walls.
She’d hardly touched the light snack she’d been served on the plane, but now her stomach reminded her of its lack of nourishment. It growled in anticipation and remembrance of Demetra’s specialty. As she entered the large, homey kitchen, she squashed the small voice in her mind that hinted she was trying to avoid Nick for as long as possible by staying away from the living room. But she didn’t deny the fact that she’d spent more time than necessary in the shower, reveling in the feel of being washed clean.
Of course, being alone had also meant reliving the hellish events of the past few days. How had Charles Mwana reacted to the loss of his quarry? She’d seen the look in his eyes during their last conversation. The rabid fascination…the hunger…
No. She refused to think about that…
Pulling in a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she summoned a smile when Demetra looked up.
“Kalispera, Kyria Andreakos.”
“Good evening,” she responded to the lyrical greeting.
“Sit, sit.” Demetra indicated a chair at the large, aged pine table in the middle of the vast space. Belle sat, grateful to get off of her torn and blistered feet, and accepted the glass of chilled homemade lemonade the woman set in front of her.
“Efkharisto,” she thanked her and sipped the drink gratefully.
“Moussaka, your favorite, yes?” Demetra prompted in her broken English.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it. It smells lovely.” She rubbed her stomach for emphasis and earned herself a beaming smile.
When Demetra’s gaze shifted beyond Belle’s shoulder, she didn’t need to be told Nick had entered the room. The hairs on her neck had risen in full alert. She sucked in a tremulous breath as he drew near, her senses reacting to his masculine scent. Her pulse leapt as she felt his warmth against her back.
“Not as lovely as you smell.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, his touch causing her senses to spin. “Although I expected you to sleep longer. Why didn’t you ring down for me to come and get you?”
She shrugged, then wished she hadn’t when it only further imprinted the heat of his hands on her naked skin. She’d found the clothes she’d worn during her honeymoon in the exact place she’d left them—why Nick had kept them she had no idea—and the mohair-lined slippers Demetra had supplied cradled her lacerated feet perfectly. “As you can see, there was no need. I’m quite capable of dressing myself and walking on my own two feet.”
“Nevertheless, you shouldn’t put too much stress on your injuries. Some of those cuts are quite deep,” he said imperiously.
“Sure, I’ll bear that in mind.”
If he heard the flippancy in her tone, he chose to ignore it.
“Did you sleep well?” He leaned close, his breath caressing her ear.
She tried to hide her shiver. “Yes, I did, thank you.” She cleared her throat, eager to dispel the lump lodged there, and moved away from him on the pretext of sipping of her drink. His hands slid off her shoulders, but he didn’t leave her side. Instead, he came around to stand in front of her. One long forefinger tilted her chin to inspect her face, as if he were verifying for himself that she had indeed slept well.
For a brief moment, she wished she’d at least put on some lip gloss, maybe a stroke of mascara. Then she pushed the thought away. What did it matter what she looked like? He’d never seen her as more than a possession to be owned and controlled—and forgotten when she’d dared to challenge him.
“No
jet lag?”