Charlotte’s gaze settled on a surprisingly elaborate music centre, which sat on top of an old wooden chest. There were CDs piled up all around it, running the gamut from country to classics and jazz. ‘Wow,’ she breathed softly, ‘quite a collection.’
‘Don’t you like music?’
‘I love it,’ Charlotte admitted, remembering that she had once as she ran her fingertips down the stack. ‘Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald—you have excellent taste,’ she said pointedly, hoping to provoke him into saying something revealing for a change.
‘Why, thank you,’ Iannis responded evenly.
Charlotte thought she heard an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Would you like me to put some music on?’ he suggested.
She had imagined it, Charlotte told herself. He sounded so relaxed now. ‘You choose.’
‘Drink?’
She nodded in agreement, and then, as some blue notes issued softly from a number of speakers set at intervals around the room, turned full circle with surprise. ‘You really like your music,’ Charlotte remarked, when Iannis returned from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed, handing her a glass of chilled white wine.
‘My first husband loathed music—’ Charlotte’s stomach clenched. The words had slipped out while her brain was cruising in neutral, she realised. The soothing melody had lulled her into a false sense of security.
‘How many husbands have you had?’ Iannis said, slanting her a curious look.
‘Just one.’
‘One being enough?’
He wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Quite,’ Charlotte agreed, pressing her lips together.
‘Well, I think music can be very useful,’ Iannis said pointedly. ‘I can usually find a piece suitable for any given situation.’
I bet you can, Charlotte thought as their eyes met over the rim of the glass. Taking people off guard, perhaps? And what music would he choose for lovemaking? Nothing obvious, she was certain of that—a man with such refined skills would look for something subtle.
‘Here, wear my robe,’ he offered, tossing her a towelling dressing gown in thick cotton pile the colour of clotted cream. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said when she’d slipped it on, and, dragging the lapels together over the full swell of her breasts, he brought her close and dropped a kiss on her mouth.
Charlotte told herself to relax. She was looking for trouble where none existed. Everything was perfect. It didn’t matter who Iannis really was. If he turned out to be a small businessman on Iskos rather than a fisherman, she could live with that. The expression in his eyes, the firm curve of his mouth—that same mouth that had traced a path of sensation over every part of her—everything about him reassured her.
She loved the way he brought the robe tight over her sensitised body, loved the ownership in his firm clasp and the tickling sensation when his warm breath ruffled her hair. This was everything she wanted. She could stay, send back her work to England from Iskos; she didn’t need to go home ever again…this was home.
So why couldn’t she relax? Why was a worm of doubt creeping into her mind again? Charlotte wondered, gazing up to search Iannis’s eyes. Because nothing was as it seemed? Because the man she loved was an illusion, a figment of her imagination?
When you wanted something so badly, wanted to believe in someone so badly, you could talk yourself into anything. But, even accepting that, she wanted to hold reality at bay and lose herself in his piercing gaze. She wanted to believe everything Iannis had made her believe. And, worse still, she ached for her own fanciful ideas about him to be true. Iannis Kiriakos, fisherman of Iskos.
The phrase scorched a path of scorn right through her daydreams. Running her fingers over the dense weave of the blatantly luxurious robe, Charlotte could hardly credit the fact that she was still staring into his eyes, still wanting to believe. It was pathetic. She was pathetic! Mashing her lips together in anger, she dragged her glance away and waited until she had regained some semblance of control, then, turning back to Iannis, she smiled. Let him think she was still sucked into the deception. Then she might at least have the satisfaction of discovering the truth about him.
‘What are you looking so serious about?’ Iannis demanded softly.
There was such power in his voice, such authority—and he knew how to use it, Charlotte realised, feeling it raise all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. ‘Nothing,’ she managed casually.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he said, removing the glass from her hand.
‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte murmured. She swallowed convulsively, feeling her senses flare. If she was to go along with this deception she had to go along with all of it, she realised, quivering as Iannis used his hands as a musician might, running them lightly down the length of her arms, only to use a firmer touch as he brought them up to her shoulders again.
‘Kiss me,’ he demanded, dipping his head so that their lips were only a fraction apart.
The music changed. It had to be a compilation Iannis had put together, Charlotte realised, holding her breath as Aretha Franklin started singing.
‘This is wonderful music for—’
‘Dancing,’ Iannis supplied, slipping his hands around her waist to draw her close. ‘Do you like it?’ he murmured, and his mouth was so close to her ear that his breath threw a lasso of sensation around her senses.
Like it? Charlotte wasn’t able to think clearly enough about anything to give him an answer. She wanted only to burrow into Iannis, to drink in his warmth, to relish the way they fit together, like two pieces of the same jigsaw. She was suddenly relaxed, disarmed, completely contented. Her heart felt as if it was about to burst. Was this love? To see a fault in a relationship and refuse to acknowledge it, not allow it to intrude on the depths of your feelings?
She gazed up, knowing her emotions were plainly on show for him to see. But his gaze was hard, and a cold dash of reality intruded. Love was not an issue here, Charlotte realised—there was only lust between them. Lust and suspicion. Love was not a condition she could even contemplate where Iannis Kiriakos was concerned—not if her self-esteem really meant anything.
‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said as the track ended. ‘Your clothes are still in the bathroom.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Charlotte said, stepping back promptly to save her pride. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’
‘Are you hungry?’
The normality of the question made her pause. ‘A little,’ she admitted curiously.
‘I’d better feed you, then. I don’t want you fading away.’
There wasn’t the remotest chance, Charlotte thought, reading the message behind his eyes.
‘Feel free to look around when you’re ready,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll make an omelette. Marianna left some chocolate cake for me—if you’re good, I’ll share it with you.’
‘What do I have to do to be good?’ Charlotte pressed lightly with a provocative smile as she struggled to restore some of her confidence.
‘I’ll think of something,’