His housekeeper raised her eyebrows. “Fine, sir. She went to the guesthouse. To her workshop, I mean.”
The workshop. Alex ran a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he said sheepishly.
He found her there, perched on a high stool at a workbench. She was wearing jeans and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail; her feet were bare, one on the rung of the stool, one on the floor. She was bent over a sketchpad, intensity in every line of her body, and humming something he couldn’t identify other than to be sure the tune was almost painfully off-key.
He smiled, came up behind her quietly and slipped his arms around her.
“Kalimera, kardoula mou,” he said softly, and kissed the nape of her neck.
She sank back against him, her head against his shoulder, her hands covering his.
“Kalimera, Alexandros,” she said, and turned her face to his for a kiss.
“Mmm,” he said. She tasted wonderful, of coffee and of herself. “I missed you.”
She laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Alex grinned and turned her in his arms. “Then, why were you in such a hurry to leave my bed?”
“Oh, I wasn’t in a hurry at all!” She blushed. “I mean—”
“Such a nice compliment, glyka mou. No need to explain it away.”
Maria linked her hands behind his neck. “I woke up and thought of a small change I want to make in your mother’s necklace. Nothing that will alter the design,” she said hastily, “just a modification in the way I planned to position the central stone. I promise, she’ll still like it.”
“She’ll love it, Maria. She thinks the design, your work, all the pictures you sent, are brilliant.”
Her face glowed with pleasure. “I’m so glad, Alexandros! This commission means the world to me.”
His gaze fell to her lips. “What else means the world to you?” he said huskily.
His hands slid under her shirt, cupped her breasts. Her breath caught; he watched her eyes turn from hazel to coffee-brown to ink-black.
“This,” she said, covering his hands with hers, “oh, this, this, this …”
He carried her to the bed. And as he came down beside her and kissed her, as they undressed each other, as she kissed his mouth, his throat, his chest, his belly and, at last, touched the tip of her tongue to the silk-over-steel power of his erection, she knew that what she’d just told him was only partly true.
This—touching him, kissing him, sharing his passion—did mean the world, but only because—because…
Because she loved him.
They had brunch, what Athenia referred to as a kolatsio, a snack, on a terrace overlooking the water. Thick, sweet Greek coffee. Olives. Feta cheese. Slices of warm, delicious bread and a tray of sweet cheese pastries that Alex said were called kalitsounia kritis.
They should have been called heavenly. The pastries were delicious and decadent and surely fattening but Maria didn’t care. She would not worry about anything this morning, not when life was so perfect. Even the day was perfect. Bright. Sunny. Warm. Unusual for the time of year, Alexandros said, and nothing like the weather they’d left behind in New York.
The truth was, nothing was like what she’d left in New York. Not this beautiful place. And not this wonderful, gorgeous, sexy, strong, funny, caring, intelligent man.
Now, Maria, Sister Sarah would have cautioned, that’s far too many adjectives.
Yes, Maria thought, but Sister had never met Alex.
He was seated across from her, talking about his house. He loved it; she could see that in his animated face. He was proud of it; she could hear that in his voice. How did you come to find such a perfect house? she’d asked, and he’d said, with a boyish grin, that he hadn’t found it, he’d built it.
And he had.
He’d worked along with the architect. With the builder. With the carpenters. He’d wanted a house that blended into its surroundings, that was spare and strong and unique.
“Like these cliffs,” he said.
Like you, she thought.
He told her that he’d lived in the palace until he’d gone away to boarding school and then university, and, though he loved its history and elegance, it had never felt like home. So, once he had his MBA, he’d bought a condo in Ellos and another in New York. Then, one weekend at the family compound overlooking the turbulent waters that separated Aristo and Calista, the Strait of Poseidon that Kitty had mentioned at dinner, it had suddenly hit him that what he wanted was a place of his own, overlooking the sea.
“I’d always loved driving along these cliffs so it seemed natural to call a friend, a realtor, inquire about property, then bring another friend, an architect, to see what he might suggest, and—” Alex laughed. “Look at you, kardoula mou. Your beautiful eyes are glazing over, thanks to my endless talk about myself.” He reached for her hands, lifted them to his lips and kissed them. “What I really want to talk about is you.”
She smiled. “My life isn’t anywhere near as interesting. And my eyes aren’t glazing over. I love learning things about you, Alexandros.”
She did. Oh, she did! She’d gone from hating him to loving him in what seemed a heartbeat but the truth was, she’d fallen in love with him that first terrible night.
“Still, I won’t say another word until you tell me about Maria Santos.”
“It’s a dull—Hey,” she said, laughing as Alex, in one fast move, rose from his chair, tugged her into his arms and settled into his chair again but this time with her in his lap.
“Okay, then,” he said, “I’ll tell you about her. Maria Santos was born twenty-five years ago. She was the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen.”
Maria began to laugh. “Alex, that’s silly!”
“What?” he said, his eyes round with innocence. “You mean, you’re not twenty-five? What are you, then? Forty-five? Fifty-five? My God, you can’t be sixty—”
“I was not the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen.”
“I’ll bet you were.”
“I was premature. Tiny. Skinny. Almost bald.”
“Beautiful,” Alex said, grinning, “just as I said.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “You’re crazy, Alexandros.”
“Crazy about you,” he said softly.
Could your heart really sing? She’d never heard such thrilling words. Her prince. Her lover. Her Alexandros was crazy about her.
“And I want to know all about you.”
That was wonderful, too. No one had ever wanted to know all about her, not once in her entire life. Smiling, she pressed her lips lightly to his.
“Okay,” she said softly, “here’s the entire, unexciting tale. I was born in the Bronx. I went to school in the Bronx. Public elementary and middle schools, and high school at Saint Mary’s. Then I went to college in—”
“The Bronx?” Alex said, and smiled.
“You guessed it. Lehman College. I studied—”
“Art.”
She sighed and lay her head against his shoulder. “I studied business. Mama’s idea, and I hated it. When everybody was studying Word and Excel, I sketched. Back then, before I discovered I loved working