Amazing that she could remember such minute detail after all this time, even down to the tremor of excitement that had skittered down her spine at his scrutiny.
But then, he was the man who’d saved her life.
Every minute they’d spent together was emblazoned in her mind. Through the intervening years she’d revisited that time so often, drawing strength from the recollection of his formidable will-power, his unhesitating, almost casual acceptance of the need to help her.
The memory of the man himself had been a far more potent talisman than the piece of jewellery he’d left behind.
The sound of footsteps, rapid and purposeful, broke across her thoughts and she stiffened in her seat, preparing herself to face him.
The lock clicked and the door swung open and there he was. Stavros Denakis.
Her eyes widened as she took him in. He was bigger than she remembered, so powerfully built across the shoulders that he filled the doorway. She watched his hand clench white-knuckled on the door knob and his chest expand as he drew in a deep breath.
His face might have been sculpted in stone, the flesh tight over a magnificent bone structure. There was a flash of white as his lips drew back for an instant in an expression of shock. His eyes bored into her, dark and doubting. They narrowed as they swept from her head to her waist—all he could see of her behind the table.
Tessa felt that scrutiny like a physical touch and tilted her chin up, her eyes meeting his.
Recognition flared through her. It wasn’t just the sight of him but the way she responded to his presence—the quickened pulse, the breathless constriction of her chest, the tell-tale quiver of excitement as she looked up at him.
She’d know this man in the dark, blindfolded.
He’d affected her like that the first time they’d met. Why should she be surprised to discover that hadn’t changed?
He strode forward and came to a halt just in front of the small table.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded in English. His voice was deep, a mere whisper, but with the sort of authority that guaranteed an answer.
‘Tessa Marlowe.’ She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth.
He jerked his head up abruptly in clear rejection. For a moment there was silence between them, broken only by the sound of her shallow breathing. Then he leaned forward, planting both fists on the table before her. His head loomed close to hers and she stiffened against the urge to retreat, shrink back in her chair.
She breathed deep, searching for calm. But instead another sensation ricocheted through her. The subtle, tantalising scent of him evoked something unmistakable, a female awareness that circled and curled in on itself, deep in the pit of her belly.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ she whispered, her voice hoarse with stress.
His eyes looked obsidian-black now, slitted and gleaming between long lashes.
There was no recognition there. No welcome. Only doubt. And fury.
‘Who are you?’ he said again.
‘I told you. I’m Tessa Marlowe.’
He slammed his palm against the table. ‘No! Tessa Marlowe died four years ago.’
The air seemed to crackle, the tension between them sucking the oxygen from her lungs.
She’d expected surprise, astonishment, but not this anger that welled from him in waves. The force of it pinned her against the hard back of her seat.
She gathered her strength and spoke, surprised to hear her voice so calm and cool. ‘You’re mistaken. I was injured, unconscious. But that’s all.’
He gazed at her, unblinking. ‘Prove it.’
She fumbled at the neckline of her T-shirt. Drew the familiar chain up till she felt it in her hand: the ring she’d protected and cherished all these years.
For a moment she hesitated, held it close in her clenched fist. Then she dragged it out, holding the chain at full length away from her, its burden resting in her open palm.
He watched her intently, didn’t even blink. A sizzle of energy jagged between them and she wondered why she hadn’t heard the sound of a thunderclap to accompany it.
Then he flicked his eyes from hers and down to the prize she held in her hand.
Released from his thrall, she sagged in her seat, exhausted by the assault this man made on her senses.
She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath and knew that at last he believed.
Stavros stared, unbelieving, at the ring in the centre of her slender palm.
He’d recognise it anywhere, had known it all his life. The heavy circlet of gold, worn but still solid. Its centrepiece engraved in ancient times with tiny, exquisite carvings of a hunter in a chariot facing a lion at bay. It had been designed for use untold generations ago as a seal—the unique identifying mark of a man of power.
And now it was the symbol of his house, the House of Denakis. A stylised version of that chariot, that hunter, graced the doors of Denakis showrooms in Athens, Paris, London, New York, Zurich and Tokyo.