Chapter5
AT SOME POINT, SHE must have fallen asleep, because Mila woke, being carried against Leonidas’s chest, with an intense, all-consuming feeling of…safety. In her sleep, she smiled, and snuggled closer to him, relief in her brain. She couldn’t grasp why she should feel such a thing, but knew she did. She was conscious of stairs, and then being resettled, still in his lap, then, the moving of a car. She tried to open her eyes, to look out of the windows, but she was so tired. It had been an awfully long time since Mila had relaxed enough to sleep well. There was the briefest impression of passing lights, and then she slept heavily, until the car came to a stop. Strong arms were wrapping around her, carrying her with ease. There were no lights here, and even the moon was dull, hidden behind clouds. Gravel crunched underfoot, a heavy timber door opened, and then, Mila was being placed in the biggest, softest bed she’d ever known.
She was utterly exhausted. She knew she should wake up, say something, but the sense of being cared for, and of being safe, was intoxicating. His hands removed her shoes deftly, taking extra care with her broken ankle; she was asleep before he’d neatly placed her shoes on the floor beside the bed.
The sun rose slowlyover the Loire valley, bathing the rows and rows of vines and fields in gold, so the green leaves shone brightly, contrasting against the clear dawn sky. His eyes rested on the landscape—which he’d always loved—but his mind was far away. Every now and again, he reached for his phone, to study the photographs of the villa, the words that had been scraped into the wall, as though just by looking at them, he could understand something vital.
He knew more now than he had last night.
He knew the paint was a British brand, available for purchase only in the UK, meaning it had been bought and brought to Croatia for the purpose of vandalism. He knew disturbances had been observed in the crawl space of the roof, including a single wrapper from a snack bar, meaning the stalker had likely been hiding out up there. While the idea made Leonidas’ skin crawl, it also offered some hope. Hope of fingerprints, hope of DNA, hope of something that had previously been unavailable to investigators.
There had to be something.
The obvious suspicion was that the stalker was connected to Mila, or somehow eavesdropping on her calls. These were the easiest ways to explain his intimate knowledge of her location, but there were other possibilities too. His security chief was preparing a dossier for him, and as soon as Leonidas had it, he’d possess more information. Until then, he had an unwelcome sense of uselessness.
Standing, he paced towards the edge of the terrace, casting his eyes over the vines, lips tightened. At least here, she was safe.
All Xenakis properties had the advantage of being fortress-like in their security. Their family fortune was considerable, such precautions were wise. Here, on a hill in the heart of the Loire valley, Leonidas’ winery had all the charm of a rustic chateau, and the practical features of a prison. An electric fence guarded the perimeter of his land, an electronic gate blocked any unwanted traffic, cameras monitored the exterior of the house at all times for motion or intrusion, all windows and doors were alarmed, and the feeds were scrutinized off-site, the video footage held by his own security team.
It was the safest place in the world.
Here, he could protect her.
He pulled out his phone to send Benji a quick update, but even with his old friend, he obfuscated with. “We’re safe,” the text read.
“Great. Where?”
Leonidas hovered a finger over the screen, then typed, “Somewhere impossible to find. I’ll update you when I have more info.”
Three dots appeared and then disappeared, and then, Benji’s response was, “Thanks. I owe you.”
“By my count, if I can find this jackass, we’ll be almost even.”
“Keep her safe, Leo. She’s very important to me.”
Leonidas’ eyes narrowed, his gaze focused on the gentle undulations in the distance with steely intensity. He had every intention of protecting Mila. Where he’d failed his twin sister, and his father, he would not fail with her.
For as long as she was at his chateau, she would be completely and utterly safe.
Even from you?A little voice in his head asked. After all, perhaps the greatest threat facing them here was the desire they felt for each other, and the almost unavoidable likelihood of acting on it. But Leonidas couldn’t. It was wrong, and beyond that, he’d given Benji his word. But the more time he spent with Mila, the more he felt as though he was trying to deny himself something as essential as oxygen.
Mila felt more restedthan she had for a long time. As she fought her way through the layers of sleep, she had an overwhelming sense of well-being. Strength. Care. Safety. But then, memories sharpened like daggers in the recesses of her mind, slashing her, forcing her to sit up and confront the truth of what had happened.
You’re mine.
Her heart pounded.
Slut.
Her stomach rolled and she pushed back the duvet, looking around, trying to grapple with the unfamiliar setting, but she was thrown, transposing herself back into the room in Croatia, even when the ocean was not visible beyond the window. Instead, there were rolling hills, lush vines, a blue sky, bright sun. She squinted, nausea cresting through her, filling her throat with acid and bile so she made her way quickly to one of three doors and, by a miracle of luck, found her way to a bathroom. She heaved over the toilet bowl, her brow hot and beaded with sweat, her palms clammy, the now-familiar anxiety response flooding her with adrenalin, so she couldn’t think straight.
The words kept running inside her mind, taunting her, haunting her, read aloud in a whispered voice that was murderously soft. With a shiver, she pushed up, moving gingerly to the sink and splashing water on her face before glimpsing her reflection in the mirror.
The same face she knew so well stared back at her, but inside, she was in turmoil. Sucking in a deep breath, she realized, belatedly, that she wore the same clothes she’d chosen for their dinner, and a new blade pressed to her belly, one of disappointment.
Leonidas hadn’t removed her clothes, nor had he changed her into anything more comfortable.
Of course he hadn’t. Only a jerk would have taken advantage of her in that moment. Besides, she’d been out cold when they’d arrived—wherever they were. Changing her outfit would have been surplus to requirements. She looked towards the bed and saw her shoes lined up beside it, in a gesture that was unexpectedly sweet and domesticated, and which made her wonder about his childhood and ordinary habits. Where did he live? Was he tidy? Neat? Clean? Organised? Or did he come home from the office and discard things as he went, bit by bit, like a handsome Hansel leaving bespoke suit pieces as breadcrumbs?