The Best Man's Guarded Heart (13 page)

How could she have got it so wrong? And why were a hundred different emotions chasing her down? One minute she was in shock, the next close to tears, the next wanting to yell at Andreas and demand to know what those tender words he had whispered to her in Greek when they made love had meant. Because to her they had sounded like declarations of love.

What was she going to do about August? Sofia was moving to Athens with Christos next month, and had been so excited about inviting Grace to join them here on the island for holidays. Sofia would be hurt if Grace said no. Perhaps she should promise to come next year instead. But then would she just be putting off the inevitable? Would it be even harder to face Andreas next year?

A small voice in her head mocked her, goading her weak resolve, pointing out that she couldn't possibly bear not to see him for another year.

‘Ioannis is waiting for you out on the terrace.'

Her head shot up to find Andreas standing at her bedroom doorway, his sombre expression only adding to his unfair good looks. He propped a hand against the door frame, his burnt-orange polo shirt riding up to expose an inch of muscled torso above the band of his faded jeans. Her pulse thundered even faster.

She shut her notebook and stood. ‘I'm ready to go.'

His eyes moved to her suitcase and to the weekend bag beside the dressing table. He nodded, but didn't say anything.

She gripped the notebook. So much adrenaline was coursing through her body that despite her legs feeling weak and shaky she was possessed with a burning need to run. To run out of the room, to run away from the gut-wrenching desire to touch him again, to feel his lips on hers.

She placed the notebook and pen into her weekend case. ‘I have already told Ioannis, but just so that you know, the florists from Naxos are coming tomorrow to take away the floral supplies, and they will reuse the peonies for a church.'

Again he nodded, but didn't say anything. She grabbed her suitcase and walked towards him. He didn't move. She forced herself to give him a tight smile, her eyes darting over his face quickly, instinctively knowing that to linger would spell trouble.

Tension crackled in the room. Even a few feet away from him she felt the tug of his body. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she tried to ignore the pull of memories: the weight of his body, the overwhelming power and strength of his hold.

In a low voice he said, ‘I meant what I said last night. I do like you. A lot. And I never meant to hurt you.'

Distress coiled in her chest, in her throat, blocking off her airways. He went to place a hand on her arm but she stepped back. If he touched her she wouldn't leave here with a shred of self-respect intact.

Though she had never wanted more to run away, she forced herself to speak. ‘Thank you for everything you did to make yesterday so special for Sofia.'

‘Will you tell Sofia?'

How could he ask her that? Did he know her at
all
? ‘Of course not.'

‘Why not?'

Now she definitely wanted to yell at him. Yell at him that she wouldn't betray his trust, that she couldn't possibly reveal what they had shared, the awful soul-wrenching beauty of it, even to her best friend. Disappointment invaded every cell in her body.

‘Why? Are you going to tell Christos?'

‘Of course not...but women like to share these things.'

‘Why
wouldn't
you tell Christos? Maybe then he would understand if we were tense when we're together. In fact, maybe we should tell them. And then they might do the sensible thing and keep us apart as much as possible.'

* * *

Grace was staring at him with wild eyes, a slash of anger on her cheeks. What was he
doing
? Why did he have such a burning need to prove that he couldn't trust her? It was like a monster inside him, consuming him. He hated himself for it. But it was out of control.

‘I'm hoping the next time we meet the heat will be gone out of our relationship.'

She jerked back. The blood drained from her face. ‘The heat?' She grabbed her suitcase and made for the door.

If he hadn't stepped out of the way he was certain she would have shoulder-charged him. As it was, the wheels of her suitcase rolled over his toes.

He cursed and ran after her. He yanked the suitcase out of her hand. ‘I'll carry it downstairs for you.'

She grabbed it back. ‘No. Just back off, Andreas.
I don't need you.
'

Her biting words felt like fingernails clawing into his heart. He followed her down the stairs.

She walked out to Ioannis on the terrace and called to him in a happy voice. Then she turned to him. He'd expected a scowl, but she gave him a bright smile. Only the tremble in her hand when she reached it out to him told of her pretence.

‘Thank you...' For a moment she paused, as though uncertain as to how to continue. ‘For your help with the flowers.' Affecting a breezy air, she added, ‘I'll see you again in August. It will be lovely to spend some time with Sofia.' Her tone was cool and distant.

He needed to let go of her hand, yet he held on to it. He felt her trying to tug it away but his fingers clasped tighter. ‘Enjoy your time in Crete.'

Tears shone in her eyes and her smile quivered for a moment. ‘I can't wait.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

F
OUR
DAYS
LATER
Grace sat at a waterfront bar on the horseshoe-shaped historic harbour of Chania city. Around her tourists ambled in the early-evening sun, soaking in the architecture and beauty of the Venetian harbour, stopping to inspect the menus at the vibrant restaurants or to step into the craft shops that lined the waterfront. Behind the harbour, on one of the criss-crossing narrow lanes, lay her hotel, one of many boutique hotels located in the restored town houses of the Venetian quarter.

Her floristry workshop had finished an hour earlier, and while part of her had wanted nothing more than to go back to her room and collapse onto her bed, she had forced herself instead to make the most of her time in this pretty city. To ignore how her heart bent in two every time a couple passed her.

This city seemed to do something to people. It was as if its romantic laid-back atmosphere insinuated itself into everyone's mood. Couples held hands and whispered intimacies to one another. Families sat at café tables and chatted for hours on end. And Grace was so lonely she felt physically ill with the pain tearing at her heart, the empty pit in her stomach.

But she could not let it defeat her. For the past few days she had stared that loneliness in the face, and as small chunks of realisation had formed into a larger understanding she had slowly begun to make sense of her past. And why Andreas pushing her away had hurt so much.

A couple passed in front of the bar, bent into one another, laughing and teasing, hands tucked into each other's sides as they tickled one another. She glanced away and grabbed her wine glass. She lifted it to her mouth but put it back down untouched. Blindly, she pulled out some coins from her purse and left them on the table.

On the cobbled street of the waterfront and in the side laneways she kept her head down, navigating the crowds, racing away from memories of how Andreas had pulled her back into bed that Saturday morning and held her hostage with teasing and tickles—a prelude that had quickly led to the most shattering of lovemaking.

Her hotel was tucked along a narrow lane in the middle of a stacked terrace of four-storey town houses. The reception was a simple hallway that daylight only touched early in the morning. In the evenings the owner—Ada, warm and generous—lit a row of candles that beckoned her guests in.

Grace climbed the wooden stairs to her bedroom on the top floor, hearing the now familiar sound of her own footsteps on the worn threads and smelling the scent of furniture polish. The higher she climbed the more sunlight penetrated the windows as the town house crept out of the hold of the neighbouring properties.

On the landing turn of the top floor her eyes met the sight of familiar polished tan shoes. She stumbled against the banister. Shoes she suspected were handmade. Especially for him.

Her heart started. Was she seeing things in her sleep-deprived state?

She saw dark navy trousers, tanned hands gripped tightly between bent legs as he sat on the top step of the stairs, a pale blue shirt and then his broad shoulders, muscled neck, sharp jawline, the hint of an evening shadow. Her eyes lingered on his mouth and she was assailed by memories of intimate moments, but also afraid to move them upwards. What would she find there?

She gripped the banister and peeked up. Her heart stopped. Deep shadows filled his green-eyed gaze; lines of tension crinkled the corners of his eyes.

‘Hi.'

Such a simple word, but said gently and with a small smile it conveyed so much more. But was that just wishful thinking on her part?

The butterflies in her stomach and her leaping heart swooped together to form one mass of confusion in her chest. She stumbled out a stunned, ‘Hi...'

His smile slowly died and they stared at each other. The air crackled with the tension of intense attraction and hurt.

He rested his arms more heavily on his legs and leaned towards her. ‘How are you?'

She tried not to grimace and met his eyes. ‘I'm okay.'

He studied her doubtfully and rolled his neck from side to side, as though trying to rid it of tension. ‘For the past few days I've been trying to convince myself that I was okay with you leaving. That you would never be part of my life. But today I flew home to Kasas, after a few days of business in Budapest, and realised just how lonely the island was without you.'

Her heart leapt and hope fired through her. But then reality jumped in and gave her a stern talking-to; he was here because of the sexual attraction between them—nothing more.

A slash of embarrassment coloured her cheeks. ‘I'm not interested in a fling.'

His expression hardened. ‘Neither am I.'

‘So why are you here?'

He twisted around on the stairs and turned back to her holding the messiest bunch of hand-tied Coral Charm peonies she'd ever seen. He held them out to her.

She examined them dubiously. ‘Where on earth did you get those from?' The florist who had put the bouquet together should hang her head in shame.

‘I went to your floristry school. They told me you had already left. I wanted to bring you some flowers so I bought these there.'

‘Somebody in the school created
that
?'

He looked indignant. ‘No,
I
put it together—and I thought I did a pretty good job, considering.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I wanted to show you what you mean to me—if that means faffing around with flowers and embarrassing myself in front of a group of strangers who seemed to find it all very amusing, then so be it.'

Her head spun. This whole conversation was getting more unreal by the moment. ‘How did you even know where I was? I didn't tell you the name of the school or what days I would be attending.'

‘Sofia told me.'

He was the one who'd wanted to keep their relationship secret. Sofia would definitely suspect something now. ‘Didn't she want to know why?'

‘Yes, and I told her that I had messed up big-time and needed to find you to apologise.'

‘But what about keeping our relationship private?'

‘Finding you was more important.'

He spoke with such quiet intensity it left her unable to draw breath, never mind find an adequate response. She took the bouquet from him and ran her finger and thumb along the fragile petals.

He gestured to the narrow confines of the stairs and the nearby bedroom doors. ‘Can we talk somewhere more private? In your bedroom?'

Her budget had only allowed for a single room. Avoiding physical contact with him in such a small space would almost be impossible. She shuffled uncomfortably. ‘It's a tiny room—nothing like the hotel rooms you would use. There isn't much space.'

His gaze narrowed. ‘
Aman!
Do you think I care about what size the room is when we have so much to talk about? Heaven help me, but if we have to have this conversation in a broom cupboard we will.'

* * *

Andreas stood and waited for Grace to pass him on the stairs. Beneath the top layer of the delicate fabric of her tea dress she wore a rose-pink slip, the borders covered in a deep pink lace... He was like a teenager around her—staring down her dress at the exposed slopes of her breasts, fantasising about undressing her.

With a tiny huff she flew past him. His hands itched to reach out and grab her. To feel her body against his again, to inhale her summertime scent, to feel her gentle breath on his skin.

She opened her hotel room door with an ancient key and went immediately to the balcony doors at the opposite side of the room and flung them open.

Yes, the room was small, but it was filled with her scent, and for a moment he couldn't move with the sensation that
this
was where he belonged. Surrounded by her scent, by the scattering of jewellery and make-up on the dressing table, the sight of her clothes in the wardrobe, her shoes below, a lone white and crimson bra hanging on a chair-back.

How was it possible that he adored every single item that belonged to her? Longed to hear when and why she had bought them? He wanted to bury himself in her, heart and soul. Know everything about her.

His head reeling, but more than ever determined to right the wrongs he had committed, he joined her out on the small balcony, which only had enough space for them both to stand.

‘Great view.'

Beside him she leaned on the railing, her back arching. Her loose hair swung down to the sides of her face so that he was unable to see her. He longed to push it back, to be able to see those eyes, that full mouth again.

‘You wanted to talk.'

Where would he start?
His heart leapt wildly in his chest. Fear balled in his throat. He dragged in some air. Through the neighbouring rooftops the harbour was visible. His eyes ran along the harbour wall to the lighthouse at the end. His stomach rolled. He had to explain. But what if the damage he had done was irreparable?

‘When my ex cheated on me it changed me.' He paused as humiliation raged through him.

Grace straightened beside him and studied him fleetingly. ‘Because you loved her?'

Her quietly spoken question hit him hard in the gut. He gave an involuntary wince. ‘The fact that you have to ask that question again tells me just how much I've messed up.'

She rested against the balcony railing and waited for him to continue, watching him warily.

‘I wasn't in love with my ex. My feelings for her never came close to what I feel for you. The pain of my divorce was because of my pride. My father had warned me against marrying my ex and I ignored him.'

Unable to face her while saying what needed to be said, he turned and stared instead at the red clay rooftop of her hotel.

‘A year later he was looking at photos of my wife, naked with another man. The paparazzi had sent the photos to him too, in a bid to blackmail him. It tore me apart to see his humiliation and disgust.' His stomach rolled again, and he clenched his hands into tight balls. ‘We have our differences, but he didn't deserve that.'

On a soft exhalation, Grace said, ‘How awful...' Her hand reached out for a moment to touch his arm, but then she pulled it back, crossing her arms on her chest instead. ‘Did you talk about it?'

Boy, had they. He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, he yelled at me non-stop for an hour, about the disgrace I'd brought to the family. And then all the old arguments resurfaced: how I had walked away from the family business, taken sides with my uncle.'

‘But he couldn't blame you for your ex's behaviour?'

‘He had warned me about her. After we argued my father and I didn't speak until Christos's engagement.'

‘And that hurt you?'

More than he had ever imagined
. ‘Yes. He's stubborn and pig-headed, but in his own way he loves me. The day he passed that envelope of photos to me he seemed broken. Until he lashed out and spoke of the disgrace it had brought to the family name. My wife had cheated on me. So had a close friend. I felt like a failure. My pride had taken a huge dent. The only way I could cope was to throw myself into work and pretend that I didn't care.'

‘What about your mum?'

‘She was heartbroken and stuck in the middle, trying to negotiate peace between us. Family is everything to her. She said nothing, but I could see with my own eyes her upset. I'd made it clear that I would never be in a relationship again. And of course that meant that I would never give her grandchildren.'

‘Andreas, why are you telling me this?'

‘My refusal to trust others again was because of shame and wounded pride. I refused point-blank to believe that I could ever trust in a woman again. I was convinced of it. It gave me safety and security, I would never be humiliated again. I would never endure the pain of being betrayed. And then
you
walked into my life. Loyal, generous, fun, giving. You. I hated how attracted I was to you. I tried to fight it. But I became more bewitched by you every time we were together.'

She stared at him, clearly confused, before walking back into the bedroom. There she sat on the side of the bed, its vibrant yellow bedspread a golden sun in the otherwise neutral bedroom with its white walls and recycled furniture painted in shades of white. She rubbed a hand along the nape of her neck, her head dipping so that he couldn't read her expression when he sat on the chair opposite.

She brought her hands together on her crossed knees and squeezed so tightly her unvarnished fingernails turned white. ‘But you didn't trust me.'

‘Before the wedding, as I got to know you, I
did
. It was the only reason I came to you on the eve of the wedding. I trusted in you. With me, with Sofia, with your family, you are supportive and strong. You don't play games. You don't try to manipulate others for your own ends. You're honest and loyal.'

Her hands flew up into the air. ‘You didn't think that on the day of the wedding. It was clear you didn't trust me then.'

He grimaced, but nodded his agreement. ‘I'm not proud to admit that I panicked. Our night together, the morning after...it blew me away. It was different to anything I'd experienced before. I was falling for you and it scared me. You wanted love and romance. I couldn't give you either. At least I thought I couldn't.'

‘I honestly didn't mention the wedding present deliberately. I'm so sorry that I did.'

‘I know you didn't. You said the day after that I was looking for a reason to push you away. And you were right.'

Grace bowed her head and ran a hand over her face. Without seeing her expression, he knew he had hurt her again.

In a rush he continued. ‘Not just because I saw that my mother suspected something was happening between us, but because the whole day was bringing back memories I had refused to think about since my divorce and I couldn't cope with them.'

‘Why didn't you explain any of this to me?'