CHAPTER TWO
THE WORDS HUNG BETWEEN them like an actual, physical shape. Claudia stared at it, and passed it to her captor, and her insides quivered with surprise and shock and yes, damn it, with remembered desire.
“No,” she mumbled after a moment, wishing the car would open to reveal a hatch through which she might escape, and disappear. How dare he throw that night in her face? She had regretted it every time she’d thought of it since.
His knuckles were white again through the tan of his skin. Tension screeched through the car, and only the sound of Claudia’s labored breathing could be heard above the low rumble of the powerful car’s engine. She stared resolutely out of the window, outrage making it impossible for her to speak.
Her chest moved rapidly, and Stavros’s dark gaze moved from the road before them to his ward’s face, and then dropped lower. She was slim, and yet voluptuous. The hint of cleavage was exposed by the low scoop of her shirt, and he remembered every detail of how she’d felt when she’d wrapped her arms around his waist, gluing her young body to his and asking him to make love to her for her eighteenth birthday gift.
A muscle in his jaw clenched as he forced himself to focus on driving, but his mind was on that night, on the way he’d been equally angry and tempted. He’d wanted her. He’d wanted to be the one to teach her body how to feel, to show her what desire was and yes, damn it, he’d fantasised about giving his ward her first orgasm.
And the fact he’d even thought about it was a weakness that disgusted Stavros Aresteides to this very day.
Claudia was the daughter of his dearest friend and Stavros had been trusted with looking after her. With keeping her safe. He would have put money on the fact Christopher La Roche meant from men like him, as well as from any other multitude of disasters that would await the billion-pound heiress.
So he’d rejected her and he’d focused the anger he’d felt at himself squarely onto her. He winced as he remembered the charges he’d thrown at her, the disgust he had imbued his words with. He’d crushed her that night.
His lips twisted wistfully. He thought he had, anyway, but Claudia had bounced straight back. It had been only weeks after that she’d first appeared in the papers, wearing a dress he could still see clearly in his mind. It was burned into his memories, the way the white cotton had been almost transparent, the fabric had been so fine. It had scooped low over her breasts and had barely covered her arse. She’d been laughing at something someone had said, her head was tilted back, her fingers curved around a glass of champagne, and her nipples had been visibly erect.
It was the image that had captivated the nation and cemented her place as an up and coming ‘it’ girl. Who knew such a thing existed? Who knew it was possible to make a career out of being ‘famous’, though thank God she hadn’t turned up on any of those dodgy reality TV shows for washed-up newsreaders. Yet.
His lips were a grim line. He had to act, no matter how little this duty pleased him.
“We are still almost two hours from Barnwell,” he said coldly. “Why don’t you rest.”
“Rest?” She repeated with obvious incredulity. “You think I could rest after this?” She spun in her chair once more, pinning him with her outraged glare. “You think I should just go quietly with you? No way, Stavros. If you’re going to kidnap me then you’d better believe I’m going to make you know I’m here.”
He tossed her a look that hinted at barely-concealed impatience. “Stop being so childish,” he said. And the insult hurt. It hurt deeply, because he had said exactly that to her that night. “I am not kidnapping you. I am saving you.”
“Saving me?” She responded with a laugh. “From what?”
“From yourself, apparently,” he muttered, then slid her a sidelong glance. “From the hordes of photographers who have laid siege to your apartment. From your so-called friend Artie who is happy for you to be at the centre of his little drama.”
“This isn’t his fault.”
Stavros laughed and shook his head. They reached the motorway and he merged onto it, pressing his foot down so that the car growled with agreement as it sped up, moving into the fast-moving lane and beginning to devour the miles that stood between her normal life and captivity.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” She glared at him. “I’m just going to get an uber back to London as soon as we arrive.”
“We both know you won’t.” He passed a lorry and continued onwards. “You might think you don’t need your father’s money enough to stay. Fine. That’s your decision. If you want to try to make it in the real world like a big girl then, by all means, be my guest.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, still looking straight ahead. Tiny little lines of concentration formed and Claudia’s gut twisted.
He was outrageously handsome, given what a bastard he was. What a waste of such fantastic looks.
“But I do think you care about earning his approval. I think you care about the fact that your father trusted me to guide you morally and that you are badly in need of moral guidance.”
Colour drained from her face. “You’re not actually suggesting you’re fit for that role.”
He eyed her speculatively.
“I gather this is like a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ kind of mentorship?”
He arched his brows then gave his full attention back to the motorway. “In what way do you think I lack the ability to guide you?”
“You’re … you run through women faster than I change shoes,” she said thickly, wishing she could do a better job of concealing how his sexploits affected her.
“That was a long time ago,” he said seriously. He thought of Riannon and anger churned his gut. Anger directed at the woman he’d been intending to marry and his brother, who was now to be her groom. Anger at the fact they were spending Christmas with his family, and everyone was happy with the substitution.
“Yeah, well, like you said. I’m twenty-one. Isn’t this my time to live a little?”
“A little,” he responded dryly. “Have a taste of the wild life, certainly. Not to eat the whole damned buffet as you are. When was the last time you had a quiet night in?” He prompted unrelentingly.
“It’s a busy time of year, I told you,” she murmured. “My calendar for December books up months in advance. I’m meant to be going to see the London Symphony tonight, in fact.”
“You’ll have to buy the recording.”
She glared at him. “You’re serious about this?”
“Yes, Claudia. I’m deadly serious. Now sit back and enjoy the ride.” He flicked the car radio on and the sound of classical Christmas carols filled the space. She doubted a man like Stavros with a heart chipped from the ice core of the earth had chosen to play something so beautifully festive. He probably hadn’t even realized that Christmas carols were on the radio. He just wanted to drown out her objections to this stupid plan.
Claudia settled back in her seat and shut her eyes, letting the music wash over her and relax her.
This was a stupid idea but no doubt it wasn’t fully formed. She’d go to Barnwell for a few days. Once he had calmed down, she’d talk some sense into him. And then she’d get the hell out of there before she could make an even bigger fool of herself than she had three years earlier.
*
It was dusk by the time his car reached the estate. The sun was setting low in the sky and the air was thick with the magic of the countryside. Despite the anger she felt towards her captor, Claudia sat up straighter in the seat and peered out of her window, craning to catch any of the landmarks that might seem familiar.
It had been a long time since she’d been to his home. In fact, she’d come only once, right after her father’s funeral. Stavros had brought her home to stay for a few nights, while the arrangements were put in place for her ongoing care.
The little orphan he’d been lumbered with the duty of caring of – a duty he so clearly hadn’t wanted.
At fifteen, she’d been on the brink of womanhood and spending days in proximity to this man, even in her grief-addled state, had woken something inside of her. He’d imprinted on her mind, and she’d begun to dream about him.
She’d wanted him even then, though she hadn’t known what the feelings were that had been coursing through her hormonally charged body. She’d known only that he made her heart flip and flop and her pulse race, that she felt warm when she was near him.
A hedge of blackberries grew wild on one side. She remembered walking all the way down to it and picking the berries in the midday sun. They’d been warm and gooey and had dribbled down her chin as she’d eaten them. Her fingers had been stained for days. In fact, even after she’d returned to boarding school, she’d borne faint traces of the purple juice, a reminder of Barnwell and the changes that had begun to take place in her body and mind.
He pressed a button above the visor and slowed the car down at the same time. A large, wrought-iron gate began to open inwards, and though she didn’t hear it, she imagined it groaning like a bad film adaptation of Dracula.
It was a magical time of day to arrive somewhere like Barnwell. The air was almost golden and it cast shadows and light on the rolling lawns that passed on either side of the gravel drive. He moved the car into the estate and, she couldn’t help herself, Claudia spun in her seat to watch the gates begin to close. She watched until they’d slammed shut.
And tried not to get all dramatic about the fact she was literally under his lock and key. She knew from experience it wasn’t easy to leave the estate without his permission.
It was one of the things Stavros had told her back when Christopher had died and the press had begun to follow her, looking for a photo of the poor, grieving orphan.
“You can relax here, asteráki. No one can enter the estate without my knowledge. We have alarms on the perimeter, cameras watching the entrances. You are safe.”
Only the dangers had come from within.
Had come from him, and her, and how she felt for him.
The car moved onwards, around the large curve of the drive, so that to the left she could see the formal garden with its elaborately planted patterns. Even at this time of year it was beautiful, the ferns in between each garden bed growing tall and proud, reminding her of ten Christmas trees standing guard over the place.
To her right was one of the gate houses, and the gardens behind it grew more wild and free, a tangle of trees that had reminded fifteen-year-old Claudia La Roche of an enchanted woodland.
And then, there was the house. She leaned forward unconsciously as they approached, her eyes sweeping over the stone mansion, with its ancient windows and chimneys. It was both impossibly grand and homely at the same time, a testament to the restorations that Stavros’s grandmother had undertaken. Wisteria grew wild over this side, though at the moment it was just the skeletal evidence of what warmth would bring – a nest of dry, wooded veins that scrambled over the stone side of the house. He brought the car to a stop on the gravel and they both sat there for a moment, the silence dropping heavier than the night.
“Marta has prepared dinner,” he said stiffly, then pushed his car door open.
Claudia watched as he sprung from the vehicle and moved towards the house, without a backwards glance at the car or her. She stayed where she was, not as a form of protest, but because she was glued to the seat.
Standing like this, walking to the house, she could only stare. She’d seen him six months earlier, it wasn’t as though she’d been deprived of the sight of him. But it had been their usual twenty-minute cocktail for her birthday – a ritual he observed each year, marking the progress of her aging by presenting her with some kind of gift or other, undoubtedly hand-selected by one of his assistants.
But somehow, watching him stride towards his country estate, wearing jeans and a pullover rather than the suits she usually saw him in, she could only stare.
And feel something like danger and warning slick her insides with a dark, desirous heat.
He was the embodiment of power. She pressed her hand to the door but stayed where she was, a sinking feeling wrapping around her.
How the hell was she going to get through even a day of this? Let alone two weeks?
She pushed the car open, and her shoes made a crunching sound as they landed on the gravel. It was colder here at Barnwell than in London, and her leather jacket offered little protection to the mid-winter’s evening. She wrapped her arms over her chest and jogged towards the side entrance.
Everything about it brought memories back, including the glow from within the door that had seemed so welcoming as a grieving fifteen-year-old. Now, it seemed to be like the fires of the devil’s belly. She swallowed and pushed the door inwards.
Stavros was on the other side, apparently waiting for her.
“Do you remember how to get to your room?”
The question did something odd to her. Just the reference of ‘her room’ made her long for all the things she’d never had. A normal home. A bedroom of her own. The familiarity that came of being wanted by someone.
She nodded, sure she could find her way.
“Good.” His eyes glittered when they met hers. “Then go and freshen up. We’ll eat in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” she snapped, unable to resist the temptation of lifting her fingers to her brow and mock-military saluting him.
He reached out and grabbed her hand, surprising them both. He held her fingers between his, and her body reacted instantly. Every fibre of her being began to vibrate with desire and need. Her eyes latched to his and she jerked her fingers away, terrified of what she’d felt, of what had happened the instant they’d touched.
“Do not mock this,” he said seriously. “You are here because you need to be. I hope you will see that, in time.” She was too full of jingling emotions to respond. She couldn’t trust herself to speak and so she didn’t.
She shouldered past him angrily and moved out of the small boots room into the wide corridor.
It was like being back in time. Everything – every thing – was exactly as it had been then, six years ago. Her eyes flicked over the paintings she’d walked past and taken note of with a sense of wonderment, back then, and then onwards to the enormous staircase that ran like the ribcage to the house’s body. The stairs were at least two metres wide, and they moved in a sort of square spiral, grandly allowing one to travel around the house solo or with an entourage of fifty, if the occasion required.
She took them two at a time, as she had as a child, enjoying the feeling of making air push through her lungs. She paused on the first floor, and looked left then right.
His room, she knew, was the first door on the left.
She’d had nightmares, back when she’d first come to Barnwell, and he’d comforted her the first night, waking at the sound of her crying and making her a hot chocolate. She swallowed and turned right, forcing the memory down deep inside of her.
The first door on the right was the room she’d used on that occasion.
Not ‘her’ room or anything so cozy and normal. She lingered on the threshold a moment and then pushed the door inwards, holding her breath without realizing it.
It was more than a room. It was enormous, with a four-poster bed recessed into a cavity down one end, a lounge suite set in the middle of the room, and a pair of arm chairs set in front of the fire. There was a bathroom and a walk-in robe, and the windows overlooking the river that flowed to the west of the house were bayed, so that she could sit there and watch the progress of the water. As she had done so often as a teenager.
On the wall beside the bed, she knew what she’d see without even looking. She turned slowly, her heart thumping in anticipation.
Books.
All the books. She moved towards the shelves with that same sense of angry frustration she’d felt as a teenager and stared at the inanimate objects that could so easily bring her to tears.
Absentmindedly, she reached for one, turning it to a random page and staring at the black marks on white paper.
She could make out some of the words, the very small ones, but not many. She tried to remember the lessons her headmistress had taught her, the tricks that had been supposed to help her improve her literacy. But Claudia’s dyslexia was unusually severe – ironic given that her father had been a world-renowned novelist of horror stories.
She pushed the book back in the shelf angrily.
What did it matter?
She had other skills. Reading wasn’t everything.
Only it had been to Christopher. He’d never understood how his own daughter hadn’t wanted to sit with him and pore through books, laughing at the jokes contained within their pages, experiencing emotional hardships in line with the characters.
She’d pretended for a while, but then it had been easier to feign disinterest than to admit the truth to her dad.
That she was stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She abandoned the thought, knowing that it would lead to a sense of feeling sorry for oneself and that she didn’t want to do that. She wasn’t little Claudia La Roche anymore, alone and afraid.
She was, simply, Claudia. She could barely read and she rarely attempted writing for the sake of her spelling, but she had made a name for herself in other ways. And she’d be damned if she was going to let Stavros make her feel ashamed of that.
She strode through the enormous bedroom – more of a suite, really – into the bathroom. Another enormous space with white and green tiles and brass fittings and a spa bath that overlooked the same view of the river that she adored. She stopped in front of the mirror and stared at herself, barely recognizing the timid woman who stared back. With determination, she reached into the top drawer and pulled out a hair brush. She moved it through the length of her hair, returning order to the windswept mop, then replaced the brush. It was then that she noticed a bag of cosmetics. Curiously, she lifted it out, unzipping it and marveling at the full range of Estee Lauder products within.
For a moment she wondered if some other occupant had left the bag behind, but they were all brand-new. She pressed some bronzer to her cheeks and a little gloss to her lips. A cursory inspection showed there were also several bottles of perfume, a toothbrush and toothpaste, shower gels and hair products.
Curiosity pushed her into the walk-in robe and she shook her head as she stepped inside. It was not a fully stocked wardrobe, but there was enough here. Hangers lined one wall, full of clothes still with their tags in place. Jeans, skirts, jumpers, a couple of dresses. She shook her head, retrieving a fresh sweater from a hanger and changing into it. She pulled a beige pashmina from another spot and wrapped it around her neck, then moved to the drawers opposite the clothes. She opened the top one and gasped as colourful silk filled her vision. Her fingers rifled through the assortment of underwear, all unmistakably upmarket and incredibly sexy.
Her cheeks flushed bright pink as she wondered if Stavros had selected it.
Of course he hadn’t. This was a job he’d most definitely given to an assistant. Or to Marta. Which begged the question: how long had he been planning this little kidnapping for?
She moved to the next drawer and discovered something far more pedestrian than the lace and silk contained above.
Socks. Bright socks which made her smile even as she knew she should feel angry at all of this. She stepped out of her ballet slippers and pulled a pair of bright-pink fluffy socks onto her feet, then opened the last drawer.
And wished she hadn’t.
Negligees. Folded neatly, but each of them as sexy as the underwear. Long and silky with lace in the cups, so that when she wore them her breasts would be on display.
It was proof that Stavros hadn’t been behind the selection of her clothes. No way would he have encouraged what he saw as her morally lax decisions.
It was strange, given that these were not her clothes, but the simple act of changing into something fresh and putting a little make up on had left her feeling more like herself. More in control.
She gave herself one last inspection in the mirror contained within the door of the wardrobe. Claudia La Roche, socialite heiress, stared back. And it was a reminder she badly needed.
She had carefully cultivated this image because it was so much better than anyone learning the truth about her – she didn’t want people to think she was dumb and disappointing. She wanted them to see her as strong and beautiful and confident – and she needed Stavros to see her that way, too. He thought she was a money-wasting, spoiled, indulged child? Well, she’d prove him right.
She straightened her spine as her eyes narrowed.
Yes. She’d act the part he expected her to play, and he’d be glad to see the back of her.
With one final inspection of her outfit, she moved back into the hallway and then down the stairs, into the formal entrance to the mansion. And something glaring caught her attention.
She frowned, looking around more slowly, but still it was missing.
Where were the decorations?
Christmas was only two weeks away. Shouldn’t there have been swags of ivy decorating the stairs? Baubles glistening over picture frames? And a tree?
She moved down the hallway, peering in rooms as she went. Not a hint of festive spirit anywhere.
Her frown deepened as she made her way to the large drawing room at the end of the house – where they’d dined most of the time on her previous visit. There was an overwhelming number of drawing and dining rooms, libraries and lounges, and this was the least intimidating of them all. It was somewhat shabbily decorated, compared to the rest of the house, with old lounge suites and a pool table, and best of all, there were no books.
None.
She moved towards the table, a rustic timber turned-leg that could accommodate six people at most. It had been set for two.
Them.
“Ah, Claudia!” Though Claudia hadn’t seen Marta in years, she recognized her voice instantly, her thick Polish accent just as robust as it had been six years earlier. “Oh, look at you!” The older woman grinned, her eyes sparkling as they met Claudia’s. “What a beauty you have become!”
“Hello, Marta,” Claudia smiled, and accepted the housekeeper’s embrace. “How are you?”
“Oh, a beauty, but you need some of my cooking, eh?” Marta reached down and pinched Claudia’s hip. “You are all bone!”
“Not quite,” Claudia said with a rueful shake of her head, and as she did so, her eyes landed on a dark figure standing in the door frame, watching the interaction.
His eyes were unmistakably carrying out their own surveillance of her body and the world seemed to stop spinning. Time stood still.
“You’ve been well? You are so famous! I cannot open the paper without seeing your picture. And always so beautiful in those dresses you wear.” Marta clucked her approval but it brought colour to Claudia’s cheeks and lifted Stavros’s eyes to hers, his gaze glowering with disapproval.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Claudia is a natural when it comes to drawing attention to herself.”
Marta sent her boss a look of frustration. “Ignore him. He is a bear with a sore head at the moment.”
“More so than usual?” Claudia responded archly.
“Oh, of course…”
“Thank you, Marta,” Stavros interrupted.
Marta grinned, without any indication that she cared she’d just been dismissed. “Dinner will be right out.”
She moved quickly, her wiry frame spry despite the fact she must have been in her seventies at least.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks you’re an unreasonable bastard,” Claudia simpered with false amusement.
His eyes flashed warning to hers. “You’re not. And nor is Marta. That seems to be a popular opinion.”
Curiosity flared inside Claudia. Was something going on with her guardian? Something in his own life that was making him act so overbearing and unreasonable?
“Drink?” He prompted.
Contrary to Claudia’s carefully cultivated image, she didn’t actually drink a lot at all. Not since that night of her eighteenth birthday when her world had come crumbling down around her ears, anyway.
“Yes,” she said, instinctively shying away from Stavros realizing that she was nothing like ‘Claudia’ from the papers. “A martini,” she added for good measure.
His eyes drew together for a brief moment and then he nodded, moving to the bar at the side of the room. It was fully stocked with just about every liquor bottle Claudia could imagine.
Dyslexia was a funny thing. She found reading almost impossible but she loved shopping for groceries because she could pick items based solely on their packaging. She had become adept at recognizing key words like ‘low-fat’ or ‘sugar free’, and the rest worked itself out.
“You found your room?”
“Yes.” Her eyes held his for a moment. “And the clothes you bought for me.”
He said nothing, and her heart trembled in her chest. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Planning what?”
“To bring me to Barnwell?”
“Not long.” He shook a stainless steel container from one hand to the other then popped the lid and poured the contents into two martini glasses.
“Long enough to arrange a wardrobe for me.”
“That was the work of a day. My assistant brought those things out yesterday.”
“Ah. So you didn’t browse the shelves of Selfridges for my clothes?” She pushed, and then, because she was somewhat enjoying playing the part, “You didn’t run your fingers over the silk underwear, selecting which you thought might suit me?”
Surprise at her boldness was throbbing in her gut, but it was dwarfed by the satisfaction she had of seeing colour slash his cheekbones.
“I have no interest in your underwear,” he said sardonically. “A fact I believe I’ve made abundantly clear to you in the past.”
Ouch.
What had she expected? That she could play with fire and not get burned?
Besides, he was right. He had rejected her attempts at seduction with embarrassing ease. And yet, something like intuition made her wonder. Did he not look at her now and see the woman she’d become?
Was he not curious about the waves of desire that were washing over them?
He handed her drink over and she took it gratefully, sipping it on autopilot. The strength of the alcohol burned her mouth. But she didn’t give into the cough that was threatening.
“Would you like to think of me doing something so intimate?” He turned the conversation back on her, moving away from behind the bar, staring down at her from his considerably greater height. “Did you fantasize about me hand-selecting your underwear, imagining it on your body as I did so?”
He’d turned the tables with offensive ease.
She glared at him. “I was just curious,” she mumbled and look away.
“Careful, asteraki,” he surprised her by reaching for her chin and lifting her face to his. “You think you are experienced with men but believe me, you have never known a man like me.” He brought his face closer to hers, so that their eyes were only inches apart. “Do not flirt with me for sport or I might take you up on what you’re offering so freely.”
She gasped, drawing in an angry breath. Or was it a breath of need and desire, of hope? Of acceptance?
“I thought you weren’t interested in me?” She murmured silkily, narrowing her caramel-coloured eyes as they roamed his body. “I thought I was a stupid little girl who’d had too much to drink?” She tossed back another generous sip of her liquor, letting it disappear all the way down her throat and into her body, spreading warmth into paralysed nerve centres.
“You were eighteen years old then. You were a stupid little girl.”
The answer hurt her. But the flipside didn’t. “And now?” She asked huskily.
His eyes narrowed. “You are not innocent anymore.”
Colour flared in Claudia’s cheeks. If only he knew! If only he knew that she was completely untouched. That beyond a few fumbling kisses at nightclubs – kisses that had been caught on camera and published in gossip rags, admittedly – she had no experience with men. And certainly not men like Stavros.
She had to get control of this situation. She was way out of her depth. “No, I’m not,” she muttered, stepping away from him. Everything in her body screamed at her for being so stupid, for removing his touch.
“So do not bait me,” he growled. “By asking me about your lingerie. Do not bait me, or you might find you get what you’re asking for.”