What the Greek's Money Can't Buy(25)

                Sucking in a deep breath, she stepped forward, clutched the sink and struggled to regulate her breathing.

                She stared hard at the tattoo on her shoulder. I refuse to sink. It was the mantra she’d recited second by second in her darkest days. And one she’d tapped from whenever she needed strength or self-belief...anything to get her through a tough day. It was a reminder of what she’d survived as a child and as an adult. A reminder that depending on anyone for her happiness or wellbeing was asking to be devastated. She’d made that mistake once and look where she’d ended up.

                The tattoo was a reminder never to forget. To keep swimming. Never to sink.

                And yet it was exactly what she was doing; sinking into Sakis’s eyes, into the miasma of erotic sensations that had reduced her control to nothing. Sensation that had grown with each look, each careless touch, and was now threatening to choke all common sense out of her.

                Her hand settled over her heart as if she could stem its chaotic beating. Then she slowly traced it down, past the scar on her hip to the top of her panties and the heat pooling just below.

                The urge to touch herself was strong, almost supernatural. The urge to have stronger, more powerful hands touch her there was even more visceral.

                Gritting her teeth, she traced her fingers back up to the scar.

                Slowly, strength and purpose returned.

                Between the tattoo and the scar, she had vivid reminders of why she could never let her guard down again, never trust another human being again. She intended to cling to them with everything she had. Because the purpose she’d seen in Sakis’s eyes had scared her.

                A determined Sakis was a formidable Sakis.

                She would need all the strength she could muster. Because she had a feeling this crisis was far from over; that Sakis would demand more from her than he ever had.

                She whirled from the sink and entered the shower. By the time she’d washed the grime off her body, a semblance of calm had returned.

                She dried herself and dressed quickly in a T-shirt and the short leggings she used for the gym that—thank God—she’d had the forethought to pack. If she’d been alone, the T-shirt would’ve sufficed but there was no way she was going out there, sharing a room with Sakis Pantelides, with a thigh-skimming T-shirt and bare legs.

                The fiery sensation she’d managed to bank threatened to rise again. Quickly, she brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into its no-nonsense bun and left the bathroom.

                Sakis stood outside on the tiny balcony that served the room, a drink in his hand, staring out into the sultry, humid night. His other hand was braced on the iron railing.

                She paused and stared as he turned his head. His commanding profile caught and held her attention. His full lower lip was now drawn in a tight line as he stared into the contents of his glass. A wave of bleakness passed over his face and she wondered if he was replaying the journalist’s question about his father.

                Sakis didn’t often display emotion, but she’d seen the way he’d reacted to that personal question. And his answer had been a revelation in itself. He bore no loving memories of his father but he certainly bore scars from his father’s legacy.

                Unbidden, the earlier wave of protectiveness resurged.

                He lifted his glass and swallowed half its contents. Mesmerised, she watched his throat as he swallowed, then her gaze moved to his well-defined chest as he heaved in a huge breath.