“What is a working holiday?”
“It’s where tourists come for our harvest season on Adras, and they stay in one of the small traditional Greek houses in the village, are served traditional Greek meals and exposed to our local culture, and in return, we put them to work in the groves, picking olives.”
Kassiani was fascinated. “People pay to do this.”
“Yes, and willing to pay a great deal for the privilege of working in our groves.”
“Do they actually help, or do the tourists get in the way?”
“Probably a little of both, but these aren’t the tourists that like being pampered on a cruise ship or luxury resort. They’re adventurous and are looking for new experiences, and being part of Greek culture is exciting for them. They have a fair amount of time off, and they enjoy exploring the island in their free time. They ride bikes and visit the beaches, and want souvenirs to take home so they spend money in the village, buying the honey and olive oil soaps and various olive oil products. They also eat in the taverna. They drink. They bring life to the little town.”
“You don’t mind them roaming about on your island?”
He shrugged. “I’m hardly ever there. And I don’t think of it as my island. I bought it so that I could give it back to the people of Adras.”
“Have many Americans participated in the work holiday program?”
“No Americans yet. Most have been from Holland and Scandinavia. Americans don’t seem to like taking their vacation days, or at least working on their vacation.”
“I think it’s a fantastic idea. I’d love to do it.”
“You’re not going to pick olives.”
“Why not? Haven’t you worked in the groves?”
“That’s different. I was born in the village. You’re a Dukas—”
“What does that have to do with anything? I’m Greek. The olive harvest is sacred in Greece.”
“Adras’s work holiday program is for seasoned European travelers who want authentic experiences, not my wife, or the lady of the estate. Women like you do not belong in the groves, or in the olive press. Period.”
“Even if I want to help?”
“It’s not up to you.”
“Why not? Maybe I can’t be a traditional Greek wife, but can’t I try to participate in Greek life? Locking me up in your villa will only create distance between me and the people who live on Adras.”
“As it should be. The villagers aren’t there to be your friends, or your playthings. They have their own lives and you’re not part of it.”
Kassiani’s jaw dropped. “That is so incredibly offensive.”
“Maybe. But it’s better that we are clear on this point now, because I am quite serious about this, and if it’s a problem for you, we simply won’t ever go to Adras—”
“You have a ridiculous need for power.” She jumped to her feet, and set her flute down on the table. “And this marriage is doomed if you think issuing me orders is going to help bring us closer!”
“I don’t understand your obsession with closeness.”
“It’s not an obsession!”
“Maybe because you were inexperienced when we married you don’t realize we have a really good physical relationship, one that is mutually satisfying—”
“It’s sex, Damen.”
“Yes. Good sex.”
“But it’s only sex. That is all we have. Any conversation out of bed is fraught with tension because you don’t want me to think, or challenge you, or have a brain. In your mind a good Greek wife is little more than a blow-up doll—”
“So tell me, kitten, is this how friends talk to each other? I’m serious. I don’t have many friends. Is this the way for us to be friends?”
She could see from his expression that he was serious. He really wanted to know.
Did he truly have no friends? No one close to him?
Sympathy flooded her. She sat back down on the low linen sofa. “It depends,” she said carefully. “Friends—real friends—are honest with each other. Real friends want the best for each other. Friends understand you, and try to be supportive of you.”
He said nothing and her brow furrowed. “Surely you had friends when you were younger, Damen? Surely there were people in your life that mattered?”
“Were, yes, but they’re not...there...anymore.”
“Why not? What happened?”
He shrugged, powerful shoulders rolling beneath the luxurious fabric of his shirt. “I became me,” he said flatly, before stepping past her and exiting through the glass door to the deck.
DAMEN GRIPPED THE railing tightly, and leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the water, watching the slow churn of the wake and where the water foamed white.
He was tired, and frustrated.
He truly wanted to make things smoother, but he didn’t know how to be this person she wanted him to be.
Kassiani didn’t understand that his past wasn’t a charming fairy tale. Yes, he was self-made, but the climb up had been horrendous. He’d accomplished huge things because he had no choice. If he didn’t become someone powerful, someone significant, he would have cracked and shattered.
If he hadn’t channeled his fury, if he hadn’t been bent on revenge, he might have been swallowed by his rage and pain.
Instead he channeled it, over and over until it became a discipline—head down, mouth shut, work harder.
Head down, mouth shut, work miracles.
Head down, mouth shut, change the world.
Change the world, or at least those in his sphere who were like him—helpless, dependent—so that poor people without choices and options didn’t have to be helpless and dependent. And his efforts were making a difference. His efforts had already changed the future for people on Adras, especially for young girls and women who aspired to be more. And his success meant they didn’t have to ever be in his position—trapped, cornered, without options.
But knowing that he’d accomplished that didn’t ease how unsettled he felt right now.
Damen thrived on challenge and success. He never accepted less than victory. But Kassiani’s claim earlier today that she was little more than a blow-up doll rankled.
No, he wasn’t comfortable with emotions, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t trying. Because he was trying. It’s why he searched her out when she was at the pool, and why he’d invited her to dinner, and why he’d asked Chef to make a special meal. He wanted to try to smooth things over. He wanted to try to make things calmer, but if Kassiani truly wanted intimacy, then she needed to give him time. She wasn’t going to get more from him by squeezing him. If she truly wanted more, she needed to push less.
* * *
Kassiani sat back down after Damen stepped outside, shoulders slumping, fear enveloping her.
She didn’t know how to do this. She didn’t know how to be the wife he wanted. She only knew how