Anastasios had been so sure there was no risk, bringing her out here to the middle of the ocean, and yet danger was everywhere. He’d wanted to hate her, but the more he learned about her, the more he felt a strange protective instinct, and the yacht no longer felt big enough for both of them.
“I haveto go to the mainland for the day.”
She blinked up from her drowsy sleep state, lifting a palm to shield the sun from her eyes. All the better to see Anastasios, and the breath flew from her body at the sight of him in faded jeans and a crisp white polo shirt, his hair brushed back from his brow, a pair of reflective sunglasses hooked into the neck of his shirt.
“Oh.” She nodded, hating the taste of disappointment that flooded her mouth. “No worries. Do you want me to stay here?”
As soon as she asked the question, she hated herself for how needy she sounded—and how compliant! She was his prisoner—shouldn’t she be trying to barter her way off the boat, no matter what?
“It’s best. I’m going for business; it wouldn’t be any fun for you.”
Translation, he didn’t want her company. She turned to face straight ahead, nodding in the same gesture. “Sure, okay.”
“I have meetings,” he added, as if she’d asked for further explanation.
“Are you asking my permission or something?” She rallied herself to ask, pleased that the words were both waspish and impatient. “Or is this a warning not to throw myself overboard or take a jetski and make a bid for freedom?”
He didn’t answer for so long she wondered if he’d gone, and when she glanced up somewhat sheepishly it was to find him staring straight ahead.
“I’ll call my friend at the paper today, get an update on the story. If he’s killed it, then you can leave anytime. Deal?”
Ice sledged her. She nodded quickly and looked away, hoping he’d go away before the tears stinging the backs of her eyes found purchase on her cheeks.
He was in a foul mood,and leaving the yacht only worsened it. He stared down at her for as long as he could as the helicopter lifted above the ocean, then he tacked towards Italy, making a beeline for Rome. He had an office there, and a home, and a whole normal life that he could slide into, pretending, for a time that he’d never met Phoebe Whittaker.
As soon as he was settled behind his desk with its view of theForo Romano, and in the distance theColosseo, he focused on the practicalities of distraction. He’d neglected work since Konstantinos’s passing; it was time to rectify that.
He made a flurry of calls, sending his secretaries into a spin with his sudden reemergence and lightning round of demands. He organized meetings, checked reports, anything he could think of to push Phoebe from his mind, and when she finally crept in—only two hours after sitting at his desk, he surrendered, just for a moment.
“Tommy? It’s me,” he said, as soon as his friend had answered the phone.
“Tasso. I wondered when I’d hear from you again.”
“I’ve been busy. How are things?”
“If you’re asking about the article, it’s close to running.”
Anastasios gripped the receiver more tightly. “It’s not true.”
“The source reckons there’s proof.”
Anastasios felt like a band was tightening around his chest. “What proof?”
“A love letter.”
“Christós.From my father?”
“Apparently.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“No, but the legal department has.”
“Can you get me a copy.”
“The source wouldn’t let us have it. It’s been shown to the relevant person, that’s all.”
“Tommy, I thought you were going to help me out on this.”