The Fallen Greek Bride\At the Greek Boss's Bidding (30 page)

Her lips curved in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Your life,” she said simply. “It’s all still before you.”

And quickly, before he could detain her, she climbed the stairs, disappearing into the jet’s cool, elegant interior where she settled into one of the leather chairs in the main cabin.

Except for the flight crew, the plane was empty.

Elizabeth fastened her seatbelt and settled back in the club chair. She knew it would be a very quiet trip home.

* * *

Back in London, Elizabeth rather rejoiced in the staggering number of cases piled high on her desk. She welcomed the billing issues, the cranky patients, the nurses needing vacations and personal days off, as every extra hour of work meant another hour she couldn’t think about Kristian, or Greece, or the chaotic two weeks spent there.

Because now that she was back in England, taking the train to work at her office in Richmond every day, she couldn’t fathom what had happened.

Couldn’t fathom how it had happened.

Couldn’t fathom why.

She wasn’t interested in men, or dating, or having another lover. She wasn’t interested in having a family, either. All she wanted was to work, to pay her bills, to keep her company running as smoothly as possible. Her business was her professional life, social life and personal life all rolled into one, and it suited her just fine.

Far better to be Plain Jane than Glamorous Grace Stile, with the world at her feet, because the whole world-at-your-feet thing was just an illusion anyway. As she’d learned the hard way, the more people thought you had, the more they envied you, and then resented you, and eventually they lobbied to see you fall.

Far better to live simply and quietly and mind your own business, she thought, shuffling papers into her briefcase.

She was leaving work early again today, tormented by a stomach bug that wouldn’t go away. She’d been back home in England just over two months now, but she hadn’t felt like herself for ages. Since Greece, as a matter of fact.

Her secretary glanced up as Elizabeth opened the office door.

“Still under the weather, Ms. Hatchet?” Mrs. Shipley asked sympathetically, pushing her reading glasses up on her head.

Mrs. Shipley had practically run the office single-handedly while Elizabeth was gone, and she couldn’t imagine a better administrative assistant.

“I am,” Elizabeth answered with a grimace, as her insides did another sickly, queasy rise and fall that made her want to throw up into the nearest rubbish bin. But of course she never had the pleasure of actually throwing up. She wasn’t lucky enough to get the thing—whatever it was—out of her system.

“If you picked up a parasite in Greece, you’ll need a good antibiotic, my dear. I know I’m sounding like a broken record, but you really should see a doctor. Get something for that. The right antibiotic will nip it in the bud. And you need it nipped in the bud, as you look downright peaky.”

Mrs. Shipley was right. Elizabeth felt absolutely wretched. She ached. Her head throbbed. Her stomach alternated between nausea and cramps. Even her sleep was disturbed, colored with weird, wild dreams of doom and gloom.

But what she feared most, and refused to confront, was the very real possibility that it wasn’t a parasite she’d picked up but something more permanent. Something more changing.

Something far more serious.

Like Kristian Koumantaros’s baby.

She’d been home just over two months now and she hadn’t had her period—which wasn’t altogether unusual, since she was the least regular woman she knew—but she couldn’t bring herself to actually take a pregnancy test.

If she wasn’t pregnant—fantastic.

If she was...

If she was?

The next morning her nausea was so severe she huddled next to the toilet, managing nothing more than wrenching dry heaves.

Her head was spinning and she was gagging, and all she could think was, What if I really am pregnant with Kristian Koumantaros’s baby?

Kristian Koumantaros was one of the most wealthy, powerful, successful men in Europe. He lived in ancient monasteries and castles and villas all over the world. He traveled by helicopter, private jet, luxury yacht. He negotiated with no one.

And she knew he wouldn’t negotiate with her. If he knew she was pregnant he’d step in, take over, take action.

And, yes, Kristian
ought
to know. But how would he benefit from knowing? Would the baby—if there really was a baby—benefit?

Would
she?

No. Not when Kristian viewed her as a heartless mercenary, a gold-digger, someone who preyed upon other’s weaknesses.

Elizabeth somehow managed to drag herself into work, drag listlessly through the day, and then caught the train home to Windsor.

Sitting on the train seat, thirty minutes away from her stop, it hit her for the first time. She was pregnant. She knew deep down she was going to have a baby.

But Kristian. What about Kristian?

A wave of ice flooded her. What would he say, much less do, if he knew about the baby? He didn’t even like her. He despised her. How would he react if he knew she carried his child?

Panic flooded her—panic that made her feel even colder and more afraid.

She couldn’t let him find out. She wouldn’t let him find out.

Stop it, she silently chastised herself as her panic grew. It’s not as though you’ll bump into him.

You live on opposite ends of the continent. You’re both on islands separated by seas. No way to accidentally meet.

As heartless as it sounded, she’d make sure they wouldn’t meet, either.

He’d take the baby. She knew he’d take the baby from her. Just the way Nico had taken everything from her.

Greek men were proud, and fierce. Greek men, particularly Greek tycoons, thought they were above rules and laws. And Kristian Koumantaros, now that he was nearly recovered, would be no different.

Elizabeth’s nausea increased, and she stirred restlessly in her seat, anxious to be home, where she could take a long bath, climb into bed and just relax.

She needed to relax. Her heart was pounding far too hard.

Trying to distract herself, she glanced around the train cabin, studying the different commuters, before glancing at the man next to her reading a newspaper. His face was hidden by the back of the paper and her gaze fell on the headlines. Nothing looked particularly interesting until she read,
Koumantaros in London for Treatment.

Koumantaros.

Kristian Koumantaros?

Breath catching, she leaned forward to better see the article. She only got the first line or two before the man rudely shuffled the pages and turned his back to her preventing her from reading more.

But Elizabeth didn’t need to read much more than those first two lines to get the gist of the article.

Kristian had undergone the risky eye surgery at Moorfield’s Hospital in London today.

CHAPTER TWELVE

W
ALKING
FROM
THE
train station to her little house, Elizabeth felt her nerves started getting the best of her. For the past three years she’d made historic Windsor her home, having found it the perfect antidote to the stresses of her career, but today the walk filled her with apprehension.

Something felt wrong. And it wasn’t just thinking about the baby. It was an uneasy sixth sense that things around her weren’t right.

Picking up her pace, she tried to silence her fears, telling herself she was tired and overly imaginative.

No one was watching her.

No one was following her.

And nothing bad was going to happen.

But tugging the collar of her coat up, and crossing her arms over her chest to keep warm, she couldn’t help thinking that something felt bad. And the bad feeling was growing stronger as she left the road and hurried up the crushed gravel path toward her house.

Windsor provided plenty of diversion on weekends, with brilliant shopping as well as the gorgeous castle and the riverside walks, but as she entered her house and closed the door behind her, her quiet little house on its quiet little lane seemed very isolated.

If someone had followed her home, no one would see.

If someone broke into her house, no one would hear her cries for help.

Elizabeth locked the front door, then went through the kitchen to the back door, checking the lock on that before finally taking her coat off and turning the heat up.

In the kitchen she put on the kettle for tea, and was just about to make some toast when a knock sounded on her door.

She froze, the loaf of bread still in her hands, and stood still so long that the knock sounded again.

Putting the bread on the counter, and the knife down, she headed for the door, checking through a window first before she actually opened it.

A new model Jaguar was parked out front, and a man stood on her doorstep, his back to her as he faced the car. But she knew the man—knew his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the shape of his head.

Kristian.

Kristian here.

But today was his surgery...he was supposed to have had surgery...the paper had said...

Unless he’d backed out.

But he wouldn’t back out, would he?

Heart hammering, she undid the lock and opened the door, and the sound of the lock turning caught his attention. Kristian shifted, turning toward her. But as he faced her his eyes never blinked, and his expression remained impassive.

“Kristian,” she whispered, cold all over again.

“Cratchett,” he answered soberly.

And looking up into his face, a face so sculpturally perfect, the striking features contrasted by black hair and blue eyes, she thought him a beautiful but fearsome angel. One sent to judge her, punish her.

Glancing past him to the car, the sleek black Jaguar with tinted windows, she wondered how many cars he had scattered all over the world.

“You’re...here,” she said foolishly, her mind so strangely blank that nothing came to her—nothing but shock and fear. He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. She’d only found out today herself.

“Yes, I am.” His head tipped and he looked at her directly, but still without recognition. She felt her heart turn over with sympathy for him. He hadn’t gone through with the surgery. He must have had second thoughts. And while she didn’t blame him—it was a very new, very dangerous procedure—it just reaffirmed all over again her determination to keep the pregnancy a secret...at least for now.

“How did you know I lived here?”

“I had your address,” he said blandly.

“Oh. I see.” But she didn’t see. Her home address was on nothing—although she supposed if a man like Kristian Koumantaros wanted to know where she lived it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to find out. He had money, and connections. People would tell him things, particularly private detectives—not that he’d do that...

Or would he?

Frowning, bewildered, she stared up at him, still trying to figure out what he was doing here in Windsor—on her doorstep, no less.

From the kitchen, her kettle began to whistle.

His head lifted, his black brows pulling.

“The kettle,” she said, by way of explanation. “I was just making tea. I should turn it off.” And without waiting for him to answer she went to the kitchen and unplugged the kettle, only to turn around and discover Kristian right there behind her, making her small, old-fashioned kitchen, with its porcelain farm sink and simple farmhouse table, look tired and primitive.

“Oh,” she said, taking a nervous step back. “You’re here.”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “I appear to be everywhere today.”

“Yes.” She pressed her skirt smooth, her hands uncomfortably damp. How had he made his way into the kitchen so quickly? It was almost as if he knew his way already—or as if he could actually see...

Could
he?

Her pulse quickened, her nerves strung so tight she felt disturbingly close to falling apart. It had been such an overwhelming day as it was. First her certainty about the baby, and now Kristian in her house.

“Have you been in England long?” she asked softly, trying to figure out just what was going on.

“I’ve spent part of the last month here.”

A month in England. Her heart jumped a little, and she had to exhale slowly to try to calm herself. “I didn’t know.”

One of his black eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing else. At least some things hadn’t changed, she thought. He was still as uncommunicative as ever. But that didn’t mean she had to play his game.

“The surgery—it was scheduled for today, wasn’t it?” she asked awkwardly.

“Why?”

“I read it in the paper...actually, it was on the train home. You were supposed to have the treatment done today in London.”

“Really?”

She felt increasingly puzzled. “It’s what the paper said,” she repeated defensively.

“I see.” He smiled benignly. And the conversation staggered to a stop there.

Uncertainly, she turned to pour her tea.

Good manners required her to ask if he’d like a cup, but the last thing she wanted to do was prolong this miserable visit.

She wrestled with her conscience. Good manners won. “Would you like some tea?” she asked, voice stilted.

White teeth flashed in a mocking smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Hands shaking, she retrieved another cup and saucer from the cupboard before filling his cup.

He couldn’t see...could he?

He couldn’t possibly see...

But something inside her, that same peculiar sixth sense from earlier, made her suspicious.

“Toast?” Her voice quavered. She hated that. She hated that suddenly everything felt so wildly out of control.

“No, thank you.”

Glancing at him, she put the bread away, too nervous now to eat.

“You’re not going to eat?” he asked mildly.

“No.”

“You’re not hungry?”

Her stomach did another uncomfortable freefall. How did he know she wasn’t going to eat?

“The surgery,” she said. “You didn’t have it today.”

“No.” He paused for the briefest moment. “I had it a month ago.”

Her legs nearly went from beneath her. Elizabeth put a hand out to the kitchen table to support herself. “A month ago?” she whispered, her gaze riveted to his face.

“Mmmm.”

He wasn’t helping at all, was he? She swallowed around the huge lump filling her throat. “Can you, can you...see?”

“Imperfectly.”

Imperfectly,
she repeated silently, growing increasingly light-headed. “Tell me...tell me...how much do you see?”

“It’s not all dark anymore. One eye is more or less just shadows and dark shapes, but with the other eye I get a bit more. While I’ll probably never be able to drive or pilot my own plane again, I can see you.”

“And what do you see...now?” Her voice was faint to her own ears.

“You.”

Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid she’d faint.

“The colors aren’t what they were,” he added. “Everything’s faded, so the world’s rather gray and white, but I know you’re standing near a table. You’re touching the table with one hand. Your other hand is on your stomach.”

He was right. He was exactly right. And her hand was on her stomach because she felt like throwing up. “Kristian.”

He just looked at her, really looked at her, and she didn’t know whether to smile for him or burst into tears. He could see. Imperfectly, as he’d said, but something was better than nothing. Something meant he’d live independently more easily. He’d also have more power in his life again, as well as control.

Control.

And suddenly she realized that if he could see her, he’d eventually see the changes in her body. He’d know she was pregnant...

Her insides churned.

“Is that why you’re here tonight?” she asked. “To tell me your good news?”

“And to celebrate your good news.”

She swayed on her feet. “My good news?”

“You do have good news, don’t you?” he persisted.

Elizabeth stared at Kristian where he stood, just inside the kitchen doorway. Protectively she rubbed her stomach, over her not yet existent bump, trying to stay calm. “I...I don’t think so.”

“I suppose it depends on how you look at it,” he answered. His mouth slanted, black lashes lowering to conceal the startling blue of his eyes. “We knew each other only two weeks and two days, and that was two months and two weeks ago. Those two weeks were mostly good. But there was a disappointment or two, wasn’t there?”

She couldn’t tear her eyes off him. He looked strong and dynamic, and his tone was commanding. “A couple,” she echoed nervously.

“One of the greatest offenses is that we flew to Kithira for dinner and we never ate. We were in my favorite restaurant and we never enjoyed an actual meal.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s your
greatest
disappointment?”

“If you’d ever eaten there, you’d understand. It’s truly great food. Greek food as it’s meant to be.”

She blinked, her fingers balling into knuckled fists. “You’re here to tell me I missed out on a great meal?”

“It was supposed to be a special evening.”

He infuriated her. Absolutely infuriated her. Pressing her fists to her ribs, she shook inwardly with rage. Here she was, exhausted from work, stressed and sick from her pregnancy, worried about his sight, deeply concerned about the future, and all he could think of was a missed meal?

“Why don’t you have your pilot take you back to Kithira and you can
have
your delicious dinner?” she snapped.

“But that wouldn’t help you. You still wouldn’t know what a delicious meal you’d missed.” He gestured behind him, to the compact living room. “So I’ve brought that meal to you.”

“What?”

“I won’t have you flying in your state, and I’m worrying about the baby.”

“What baby?” she choked, her veins filling with a flood of ice water.

“Our baby,” he answered simply, turning away and heading for the living room, which had been transformed while they were in the kitchen.

The owner of the Kithirian restaurant, along with the waiter who had served them that night, had set up a table, chairs, covering the table in a crisp white cloth and table settings for two. The lights had been turned down and candles flickered on the table, and on the side table next to her small antique sofa, and somewhere, she didn’t know where, music played.

They’d turned her living room into a Greek taverna and Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot, unable to take it all in. “What’s going on?”

Kristian shrugged. “We’re going to have that dinner tonight. Now.” He moved to take one of the chairs, and pulled it out for her. “A Greek baby needs Greek food.”

“Kristian—”

“It’s true.” His voice dropped, and his expression hardened. “You’re having our baby.”

“My baby.”

“Our baby,” he corrected firmly. “And it is
our
baby.” His blue gaze held hers. “Isn’t it?”

With candles flickering on the crisp white cloth, soft Greek music in the background, and darkly handsome Kristian here before her, Elizabeth felt tears start to her eyes. Two months without a word from him. Two months without apology, remorse, forgiveness. Two months of painful silence and now this—this power-play in her living room.

“I know you haven’t been feeling well,” he continued quietly. “I know because I’ve been in London, watching over you.”

Weakly she sat down—not at the table, but on one of her living room chairs. “You think I’m a gold-digger.”

“A gold-digger? Grace Stile? A woman as wealthy as Athina Onassis Roussel?”

Elizabeth clasped her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to talk about Grace Stile.”

“I do.” He dropped into a chair opposite her. “And I want to talk about Nico and Cosima and all these other sordid characters appearing in our own little Greek play.”

The waiter and the restaurant owner had disappeared into the kitchen. They must have begun warming or preparing food, as the smell coming from the back of the house made her stomach growl.

“I know Nico put you through hell in your marriage,” Kristian continued. “I know the divorce was even worse. He drove you out of Greece and the media hounded you for years after. I don’t blame you for changing your name, for moving to England and trying to become someone else.”

She held her breath, knowing there was a
but
coming. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the set of his shoulders.

“But,” he added, “I minded very much not being able to see you. Much more not being able to see—and assess—the situation that night at the Kithira castle for myself.”

She linked her fingers to hide the fact they were trembling. “That evening was a nightmare. I just want to forget it. Forget them. Forget Grace, too.”

“I can’t forget Grace.” His head lifted and his gaze searched her face. “Because she’s beautiful. And she’s you.”

The lump in her throat burned, swelled, making everything inside her hurt worse. “I’m not beautiful.”