The woman before him was different. She sparked with unfamiliar energy. Her stance, legs apart and hands planted on hips, was defiant rather than placating.
The Emma Piper he knew was a slight figure, slender and appealing in a muted sort of way. This Emma even looked different. She wore a skimpy bikini of bright aqua. It clung to a figure far more sexy than he’d anticipated, though admittedly he’d never seen her anything but fully dressed. Her damp skin glowed like a gold-tinted pearl and those plump breasts rising and falling with her quick breaths looked as if they’d fill his palms to perfection.
A feral rush of heat jagged at his groin, an instant, unstoppable reaction that did not fit his mood or his expectations.
Christo dragged his gaze up to her face and saw her eyebrows arch in query, challenging him as if he had no right to stare.
As if she wasn’t his runaway wife!
‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ he murmured in the soft, lethal voice that stopped meandering board meetings in a second.
But, instead of backing down and losing the attitude, Emma jutted her rounded chin, lifted her cute, not quite retroussé nose in the air and planted her feet wider, drawing his attention to her shapely legs.
The heat in his groin flared hotter.
Slowly she shook her head, making her tangled, wet hair slide around her shoulders. Sunlight caught it, highlighting the dark honey with strands of gold he’d never seen before. But then they’d spent most of their time indoors, in her grandfather’s house or at nearby restaurants. The bright Greek sunshine revealed details he simply hadn’t noticed.
‘You’ve got that the wrong way around.’
‘Sorry?’ Christo drew himself up to his full height, looking down on the slim woman before him. But, extraordinarily, she simply stared back, her mouth set in a mulish line. Her stare was bold rather than apologetic.
For a second he was so surprised he even wondered if the impossible had happened. If this wasn’t Emma but some lookalike imposter.
But Christo Karides had never been one for fantasy. He’d been a pragmatist since childhood, with no time for fiction.
‘Have you any idea how worried everyone was?’ His voice was gruff, hitting a gravelly note that betrayed the gut-deep worry he’d rather not remember. ‘I even called the police! I thought you’d been abducted.’
He’d mobilised the best people to scour Melbourne and the surrounds, praying something terrible hadn’t happened to his quiet little spouse.
There were ruthless people out there, including some ready to take advantage of a defenceless woman. His brain had kept circling back to the possibility that when he found her it would be too late. He’d never felt so helpless. The memory fed his fury.
‘I rang my aunt to explain that I was safe.’
‘You didn’t ring me!’ Christo heard his voice rise and drew a frustrated breath.
Was she wilfully misunderstanding? The woman he’d wooed had seemed reasonably intelligent and eminently sensible. Not the sort to disappear on her wedding day. He leaned into her space, determined to get through to her. ‘I half-expected to find your abused body abandoned somewhere.’
He saw shock work its way through her, making her eyes round and her shoulders stiffen. Then she shook her head again as if dismissing his concern as nothing. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine.’
‘Not good enough, Emma. Not nearly good enough. You owe me.’ An explanation to start with but far more after that.
‘Oh, that’s rich coming from you.’ Her mouth curled up at one corner.
Was she sneering at him?
Christo covered the space between them in one long stride, bringing him close enough to inhale the scent of sea and feminine warmth that made something in his belly skitter into life.
Shackling her wrist with his, he tugged her close enough to feel the heat of her body.
‘Stop it, Emma. You’re my wife!’
Her voice when it came was so low he had to crane forward to hear it. Yet it throbbed with a passion he’d never heard from her. ‘And how I wish I wasn’t.’
Christo stared down at her. Never, in his whole life, had he met a woman who wasn’t pleased to be with him. He’d lost count of the number who’d vied to catch his attention. Yet this one, the one he’d honoured with his name and his hand in marriage, regarded him as she would a venomous snake.
Had the world gone mad?
Where was his sweet Emma? The woman who revelled in his smiles, the gentle, generous woman he’d selected from all the contenders?
Her mouth twisted into a tight line as she stared down at his hand on her wrist. ‘Let me go now. Marriage doesn’t give you the right to assault me.’
‘Assault? You have to be kidding.’ His brow knotted in disbelief. As if he’d ever assault a woman!
‘It is if I don’t want to be touched and believe me, Christo, the last person on this earth I want touching me is you.’
Her voice was sharp with disdain and her nostrils flared as she met his stare. Something thumped deep in his chest at the unexpected, unbelievable insult.
Deliberately he dropped her hand and spread his empty fingers before her face. Anger throbbed through him. No, fury at being treated with such unprovoked contempt.
‘Okay, no touching. Now explain.’
At last Emma seemed to realise the depth of his ire. The combative light faded from her eyes and her mouth compressed into a flat line. Abruptly she looked less fiery and more...hurt.
Christo resisted the ridiculous impulse to pull her close. He’d met enough manipulative women not to fall for a play on his sympathy.
‘I know, Christo.’ Her voice was flat, devoid of vigour. ‘I know why you married me. There, is that enough explanation?’
‘It’s no explanation at all.’ Yet the nape of his neck prickled.
It wasn’t possible. He’d spoken of it to no one except Damen and then he’d ensured they were out of earshot. He’d left his blushing bride with her beaming family on the other side of the sprawling house.
He wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done. On the contrary, his actions had been sensible, laudable and honourable. He’d offered marriage and the promise of his protection and loyalty to this woman. What more could she want? His actions had been spurred by the best of motives.
Except, looking into those wide, wounded eyes, Christo recalled her untutored ardour. Emma’s shy delight at his wooing.
He’d told himself she didn’t expect his love.
The old man had made it clear his granddaughter would marry to please him. Christo assumed she understood that behind the niceties of their courtship lay a world of practicality. That he’d wed for convenience.
But you never spelled it out to her, did you?
Christo silenced the carping voice.
No one who knew him would believe he’d been bowled over by little Emma Piper.
But Emma didn’t know him. Not really.
For a second he wavered, surprised to feel guilt razor his gullet.
Till logic asserted itself. She’d chosen to marry him. He’d never spoken of love. Never promised more than he was willing to give.
Emma had flounced off in a huff and made him look like a fool. It was a part he’d never played before and never intended to play again.
Indignation