At the table, Elizabeth picked up one of the medicine bottles to check the label, and then the others. It was an old habit, an automatic habit. The first thing a medical professional needed to know was what, if anything, the patient was taking.
Kristian’s hunched figure in the wheelchair shuddered as he tried to follow the sound of her movements, his eyes shielded by a white gauze bandage wrapped around his head, the white gauze a brilliant contrast to his thick onyx hair. “Your services have already been terminated,” he said tersely.
“You’ve been overruled,” Elizabeth answered, returning the bottles to the table to study him. The bandages swathing his eyes exposed the hard, carved contours of his face. He had chiseled cheekbones, a firm chin and strong jaw shadowed with a rough black beard. From the look of it, he hadn’t shaved since the last nurse had been sent packing.
“By whom?” he demanded, leaning crookedly in his chair.
“Your physicians.”
“My physicians?”
“Yes, indeed. We’re in daily contact with them, Mr. Koumantaros, and these past several months have made them question your mental soundness.”
“You must be joking.”
“Not at all. There is a discussion that perhaps you’d be better cared for in a facility—”
“Get out!” he demanded, pointing at the door. “Get out now.”
Elizabeth didn’t move. Instead she cocked her head, coolly examining him. He looked impossibly unkempt, nothing like the sophisticated powerful tycoon he’d reportedly been, with castles and estates scattered all over the world and a gorgeous mistress tucked enticingly in each.
“They fear for you, Mr. Koumantaros,” she added quietly, “and so do I. You need help.”
“That’s absurd. If my doctors were so concerned, they’d be here. And you…you don’t know me. You can’t drop in here and make assessments based on two minutes of observation.”
“I can, because I’ve managed your case from day one, when you were released from the hospital. No one knows more about you and your day-to-day care than I do. And if you’d always been this despondent we’d see it as a personality issue, but your despair is new—”
“There’s no despair. I’m just tired.”
“Then let’s address that, shall we?” Elizabeth flipped open her leather portfolio and scribbled some notes. One couldn’t be too careful these days. She had to protect the agency, not to mention her staff. She’d learned early to document everything. “It’s tragic you’re still in your present condition—tragic to isolate yourself here on Taygetos when there are people waiting for you in Athens, people wanting you to come home.”
“I live here permanently now.”
She glanced up at him. “You’ve no intention of returning?”
“I spent years renovating this monastery, updating and converting it into a modern home to meet my needs.”
“That was before you were injured. It’s not practical for you to live here now. You can’t fly—”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
She swallowed, tried again. “It’s not easy for your friends or family to see you. You’re absolutely secluded here—”
“As I wish to be.”
“But how can you fully recover when you’re so alone in what is undoubtedly one of the most remote places in Greece?”
He averted his head, giving her a glimpse of a very strong, very proud profile. “This is my home,” he repeated stubbornly, his tone colder, flintier.
“And what of your company? The businesses? Have you given those up along with your friends and family?”
“If this is your bedside manner—”
“Oh, it is,” she assured him unapologetically. “Mr. Koumantaros, I’m not here to coddle you. Nor to say pretty things and try to make you laugh. I’m here to get you on your feet again.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“Because you like being helpless, or because you’re afraid of pain?”
For a moment he said nothing, his face growing paler against the white gauze bandaging his head. Finally he found his voice. “How dare you?” he demanded. “How dare you waltz into my home—?”
“It wasn’t exactly a waltz, Mr. Koumantaros. It took me two days to get here and that included planes, taxis, buses and asses.” She smiled thinly. This was the last place she’d wanted to come, and the last person she wanted to nurse. “It’s been nearly a year since your accident,” she continued. “There’s no medical reason for you to be as helpless as you are.”
“Get out.”
“I can’t. Not only have I’ve nowhere to go—as you must know, it’s too dark to take a donkey back down the mountain.”
“No, I don’t know. I’m blind. I’ve no idea what time of day it is.”
Heat surged to her cheeks. Heat and shame and disgust. Not for her, but him. If he expected her to feel sorry for him, he had another thing coming, and if he hoped to intimidate her, he was wrong again. He could shout and break things, but she wasn’t about to cower like a frightened puppy dog. Just because he was a famous Greek with a billion-dollar company didn’t mean he deserved her respect. Respect was earned, not automatically given.
“It’s almost four o’clock, Mr. Koumantaros. Half of the mountain is already steeped in shadows. I couldn’t go home tonight even if I wanted to. Your doctors have authorized me to stay, so I must. It’s either that or you go to a rehab facility in Athens. Your choice.”
“Not much of a choice.”
“No, it’s not.” Elizabeth picked up one of the prescription bottles and popped off the plastic cap to see the number of tablets inside. Three remained from a count of thirty. The prescription had only been refilled a week ago. “Still not sleeping, Mr. Koumantaros?”
“I can’t.”
“Still in a lot of pain, then?” She pressed the notebook to her chest, stared at him over the portfolio’s edge. Probably addicted to his painkillers now. Happened more often than not. One more battle ahead.
Kristian Koumantaros shifted in his wheelchair. The bandages that hid his eyes revealed the sharp twist of his lips. “As if you care.”
She didn’t even blink. His self-pity didn’t trigger sympathy. Self-pity was a typical stage in the healing process—an early stage, one of the first. And the fact that Kristian Koumantaros hadn’t moved beyond it meant he had a long, long way to go.
“I do care,” she answered flatly. Elizabeth didn’t bother to add that she also cared about the future of her company, First Class Rehab, and that providing for Kristian Koumantaros’s medical needs had nearly ruined her four-year-old company. “I do care, but I won’t be like the others—going soft on you, accepting your excuses, allowing you to get away with murder.”
“And what do you know of murder, Miss Holier-Than-Thou?” He wrenched his wheelchair forward, the hard rubber tires crunching glass shards.
“Careful, Mr. Koumantaros! You’ll pop a tire.”
“Good. Pop the goddamn tires. I hate this chair. I hate not seeing. I despise living like this.” He swore violently, but at least he’d stopped rolling forward and was sitting still while the butler hurriedly finished sweeping up the glass with a small broom and dustpan.