Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (9 page)

I smiled. He smiled back. I extended my hand to shake his.

"Ronan," I said, slowly and distinctly.

My hand now in his, his skin leathery and rough, his grip kind, his smile beaming.

"Olo," he said, his English heavily accented.

I smiled.

"Hello, Olo," I said, and then laughed.

He joined me.

We then grew quiet as we waited.

I wasn't sure how much English he spoke, his life being lived on a postage stamp-sized island nestled in the Aegean Sea among those who spoke Greek.

"You go ..." he started, stopping as he struggled for the word.

He made a small square with his hands, miming walls, a roof, his fingers pointing toward the hills.

"The house?" I asked. "The stone house?"

He smiled, relieved, nodding his head eagerly.

"You go back?" he then asked.

I shook my head.

"No, no," I said. "To town."

He nodded with a smile, understanding me.

Another awkward silence.

Just where was Mikalo?

"Sad," Olo then said.

I cocked my head, listening, not sure what he meant.

He continued.

"The house," he said. "Sad."

"Sad," I repeated. "Why?"

Pausing, Olo pursed his lips, thinking, his mind racing for a way to explain.

He put his hand to his heart and then, taking it away, it joined its twin as he indicated something breaking.

His eyes watched me, wondering if I understood.

I did.

I nodded.

"Mikalo?"

His head shook emphatically.

"No, no, no," he said.

And then he glanced toward the house before returning to look at me.

"Nona," he whispered as he quickly crossed himself.

"Nona's heart?" I asked, my hand on my heart.

He nodded and then put a finger to his lips.

I nodded in return, promising him my silence.

Around the corner they came, Mikalo driving the familiar Jeep, the young man riding shot gun.

They glided to a stop in front of Olo and I, the handsome stranger jumping from his seat and expertly, and very strongly, lifting me into the Jeep in one easy movement.

"My Grace," Mikalo was saying, "this is Damen."

The young man, Damen, smiled, his hand absentmindedly patting my thigh.

Suddenly aware of the intimacy of the gesture, he stopped, pulling his hand from my leg like he would a hot burner, his sun-kissed cheeks blushing an even deeper red as he shook his head, his eyes suddenly on the ground beneath his scuffed work boots.

Mikalo burst into laughter, Olo choking on his guffaws from beneath the hand covering his mouth.

Not sure what to do, I laughed as well.

"She is mine, good friend," Mikalo teased between tears.

Damen, lifting his head, grabbed my hand, pressing it to his lips in apology.

"Please," he said, his voice low, his eyes stunning in their blueness, his hair thick and falling just below his ears to graze the tanned, rounded muscles of his shoulders, the inkling of an elaborate tattoo on his chest peeking from beneath his grease-stained white t-shirt. "Forgive me."

His English was beautiful, his voice even more so, deep, rumbling through his chest, the accent unique and enticing. The kind of voice made to whisper in the dark after a night of unbridled passion.

"Stop," I teased.

"I do not know, my Grace," Mikalo said, still teasing, his cheeks stained with tears. "He may steal your heart."

Damen put a hand to his chest, the fingers long and thick, the nails stained dark with oil and dust and dirt, and took a step back.

"No," he promised, his eyes boring into me, their beauty capturing me, not letting me go, forcing me to listen, to hear his words and take them into my very soul. "We will be the best of friends, for life."

And then he smiled. A small smile. Almost shy. Boyish.

Damn.

I could feel my throat tighten as I tried to dispel the highly inappropriate thoughts I was on the verge of having.

I mean, Mikalo was my heart, my soul, my to-be husband.

But this Damen? He was definitely swoon worthy.

And I was only human.

Very human.

But Damen, my goodness ...

Tall, dark-haired, strong jaw, strong nose, thick dark eyebrows set low over these impossibly blue eyes. A deep blue. Not a bright, pale blue. No, these were dark. Like a gem, perhaps. A sapphire. Yes, absolutely. Deep and rich and dark and stunning like a sapphire.

Add to that a gorgeous, sincere smile and muscles to die for. Not the lean, strong muscles of Mikalo. These were the thick, rounded muscles one got from lifting tires, working wrenches, pounding nail with hammers, building houses, throwing boulders or something. Whatever he did, these were muscles earned in a sea of sweat under a broiling sun.

Whoever this man loved would be very lucky.

Very lucky indeed.

Still, despite my completely healthy and quite normal appreciation of this man's utter beauty, my heart belonged to Mikalo.

"Yes," I finally said, flashing this Damen a sweet smile. "Any friend of my Mikalo is a friend of mine. Always."

Damen almost sighed with relief.

We were driving away now, Mikalo still smiling.

I glanced back.

Olo and Damen stood watching us go.

A house of sadness, I suddenly remembered. Nona's sadness.

It was time to tell Mikalo what happened last night.

There really was a town.

Climbing yet another small hill, we came over the top and turned, the small collection of buildings, all centered around a town square, spreading themselves before us.

Five minutes later, we were gliding to a stop in front of a small store. From the looks of it, beyond this square, a fountain anchoring the center, there was the store, an even smaller restaurant, and, within a stone's throw, perhaps half a dozen houses.

"This is where some of our people live," Mikalo explained as he walked around the front of the Jeep and joined me on the passenger side.

"But there isn't anyone here," I found myself saying. "How does anything stay open?"

He smiled.

"It is a thing we, my family, support. They have a life, a community, not built around what happens at the house, no? It is a good thing for them."

Taking my hand,

"Come, walk with me."

And we set off, talking as we walked.

"Mikalo," I began, "I spoke with Nona last night."

He held his tongue, waiting for me to finish.

"I was polite. I was honest. I did my best to reach out and connect with her. I really did. But she's never going to agree to our marriage. Or even allow us to marry."

His silence was deafening.

We walked on a quiet street paved with very smooth, large stones. Much as you would find centuries ago, perhaps, in cities like Rome or Athens. Perhaps even Antioch.

Before us waited the gentle upward slope of the hill, the jagged rock lost in the yellowing brush.

We turned, wandering the opposite way, past the same small stucco houses, over the same flat paving stones.

I could feel the ocean breeze on my face, smell the salt in the air, feel the air change as we approached the shore.

We were once again in the town square, the fountain turned off, the ornately carved concrete having not seen water for who knows how long.

Inside the restaurant, a small group of men sat, smoking and drinking and talking. It was nice to see, this little peek into a private moment, my heart growing happy that people did live here, drink here, laugh here. Until now I hadn't seen any signs of life, a fact which had began to haunt me.

Noticing me glance into the restaurant, the group of older strangers briefly holding my attention, Mikalo spoke.

"This is a favorite spot of mine. They have a wonderful sardine dish that is wonderful, one I really enjoy, and there are times when those men, the ones talking now, will bring their instruments and play, people, those who live here, those visiting, sometimes tourists, dancing and laughing. It makes my heart very happy."

"There are tourists?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Of course, yes. We are not adverse to having visitors. They stay on this side where those who live here will benefit from their company, show them the few sites, help them down the rocks to the water. Even take them out on their boats for a few coins.

"They just do not come to the house, of course."

Of course.

Taking a breath, my hand in his as we left the square and started on a path toward the water, he returned to the subject of Nona.

"This I know," he began. "I know you shared words and I know it did not go as nice as you and she had hoped."

She had hoped it would go well?, I felt like asking. Instead I stayed silent, allowing him to continue.

"She and I, we speak," he explained, "and there is a great desire to see me with someone who is Greek, who is like me. This you now know. She wants what she believes is best for me, my Grace. And her ears will not hear that you are the one I love, the one who is best for me.

"So we will marry and have a life separate from her ... "

He raised his head as we stopped, the sparkling blue of the water now in sight.

"And from this," he continued, his eyes fixed on the rolling waves.

Damn, this was breaking my heart. But what was I supposed to do? If Nona was unwilling to listen to reason, consider the possibility of Mikalo and I together, what was I supposed to do? As much as Mikalo breaking from his family was hurting me, as much as he and I, as a couple, having little to nothing to do with Greece or his family here, was breaking my heart, my hands were tied.

The only thing that'd make these people happy would be if I were to go away and disappear.

And that was simply not going to happen.

Ever.

"Do we need anything at the store?" I found my asking, bizarrely.

I don't know. I just felt the need to speak, to say something, and that was the only thing I could think of.

Bizarre.

Thank goodness he laughed.

"No," he finally said. "We have what we need."

Yes, I realized as I looked up at him, his eyes behind his dark glasses fixed on the sea, the breeze lifting the locks of his hair from his forehead, his hand still in mine. He was right.

I pulled close, nuzzling into him, his arm at once around my waist, holding me tight.

We have what we need. That's what really mattered.

Nothing else mattered.

His lips on mine, his body pressed to my naked flesh, his hardness slowly inching deeper as he wrapped his fingers in my hair, nothing could interrupt the exquisite perfection of this moment.

The hot sun burning my skin. The dry grass crushed underneath our bodies. Even the bugs zipping and zooming around us, their buzzing in my ear, their little winged bodies tempted by the sweat in the air, none of that was important.

There was only Mikalo on top of me, his breath catching in his throat as he gasped, our union now complete as he stopped, his length buried in me.

We had been driving back over the hill, my thoughts still trapped in the quiet nightmare of Nona and the Delis clan's hatred of me, when he had suddenly swerved from the road, the Jeep bouncing precariously as we headed into the brush, the low-lying branches of the trees, the rocks littering the earth.

I had gripped the door, thankful the seat belt was holding me tight.

Had he lost his fucking mind?, I thought.

I glanced over to find him with a small grin on his face, his eyes watching the non-existent road from beneath his shades.

Oh please, don't let this be another surprise. We were still coming out of the last one, the memory of that house of broken hearts lingering.

With another quick turn, we found ourselves stopped.

I caught my breath.

He jumped from behind the wheel, came to the passenger side and, easily taking my seat belt from me, lifted me from the Jeep and, together, his arms holding me, fell with me into the grass.

Wordlessly, he pressed his lips to mine.

Wordlessly, he lifted my dress, his fingers teasing my sensitive flesh, the pink nubs responding at once to his touch.