Greek's Last Redemption

Every last damned drop.

He thought for a moment that his temper might black out the whole of the city, if not the entirety of the Iberian Peninsula, the shock of it was so intense.

“Thank you,” he growled at the porter when he was sure he could speak without punching something, dismissing the man with a handful of euros.

Only then, only when he was alone, did Theo prowl over to the table and swipe up the card that sat there next to the silver bucket.

What a perfect place to begin our divorce at last, it read in Holly’s distinctively loopy handwriting, as if she really was the madcap, innocent thing she’d fooled him into thinking she was when they’d met. How clever of you to suggest it!

And beneath it, she’d jotted down the mobile number that he’d committed to memory a long time ago, though he hadn’t dialed it of his own volition in years. He was hardly aware of doing it now, but then it was ringing and then, worse, her husky voice was there on the line. And he was still standing by himself in a room where, the last time he’d been here, he’d thrust deep inside of her on every single available surface, again and again and again, because he hadn’t known where he’d ended and she’d begun and it hadn’t mattered. It had been pure joy.

Here, in this room, he’d truly believed he would spend the rest of his life enjoying that particular pleasure.

It was as if she’d catapulted him straight back into a prison built entirely out of his past illusions and he was certain she was well aware of it.

“How do you like your suite?” she asked as confirmation. Not that he needed any. And he supposed this was his fault for picking Barcelona in the first place.

“Come see for yourself,” he suggested, and there was no hiding the fury in his voice. Or the other, darker things beneath. “You’ll have to tell me if the furnishings are as you remember them. You were the one bent over most of them, as I recall, so you’d be the better judge.”

Holly only laughed, and it wasn’t that great big laugh of hers that he’d used to feel inside him as if he’d stuck his fingers deep in an electric socket. This was her Holly Tsoukatos laugh, more restrained and significantly less joyful, suitable for charity events and polite black-tie dinners.

Only a short, dull blade, then, as it cut into him.

“What a lovely invitation,” she murmured. “I’ll pass. But I’m down in the restaurant, if you’d like to come say a little hello. After all this time. As a casual introduction to our divorce proceedings. Who says we can’t treat this like adults?”

“In public,” he noted, and it took every bit of self-control he’d taught himself over these past years to tamp down on the roaring thing inside of him that already had him moving, as if the magnetic pull of her was too strong to resist. As if it had only ever been kilometers that separated them, nothing more. Nothing worse. “Do you think that’s wise?”

Her laugh then was a throaty thing, and his hand clenched hard around his mobile even as every part of him tensed, because he remembered that sound too clearly. It dragged over him like a physical touch. Like her wicked fingers on his bare skin. He remembered her legs draped over his shoulders and her hands braced against these same windows as he’d ridden them both into wild oblivion. He remembered her laughing just like this.

He remembered too much. There were too many ghosts here, as if the walls themselves were soaked through with the happy memories he’d spent four years pretending had never happened.

“Nothing about us has ever been wise, Theo,” Holly said then, and he blinked, because that sounded far too much like sadness in her voice—but that was impossible. That was the product of too many memories merging with the soft Spanish evening outside his windows, wrapping around and contorting itself into wishful thinking.

It took him long moments to realize she’d ended the call. And Theo stopped thinking. He simply moved.

He hardly saw the polished gold elevator that whisked him back down to the grand lobby. He barely noticed the hushed elegance, the well-dressed clientele, the tourists snapping photos of the marble floors and the inviting-looking bar, as he made his way toward the attached restaurant. Nor did he pause near the maître d’—he simply strode past the station in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room. An obviously awkward date, a boisterous family dinner. A collection of laughing older women, a set of weary-looking businessmen.

Until finally—finally—he saw her.

And that was when it occurred to him to stop. To think for a moment with his head, not the much louder part of him that was threatening to take him over the way it had the first time he’d looked up in a crowded place to see her sitting there, somehow radiant, as if light found her and clung to her of its own volition.

Before it was too late all over again.

Because she was so pretty. Still. Theo couldn’t deny that and there was no particular reason that should have enraged him. And yet it did.

She looked smooth and edible in another one of those perfect little dresses that flattered her figure even as it made her look like a queen. Regal and cool and something like aristocratic, with her sweetly pointed chin propped in her delicate hand, her gaze focused out on the street beyond, and her other hand—the hand that still featured the two rings he’d put there himself, he noted, his temper beating in him like a very dark drum—toyed idly with the stem of her wineglass.

It reminded him—powerfully, almost painfully—of that too-bright afternoon on Santorini so many summers ago. He’d careened out of a strange woman’s bed at noon and staggered out into the sunlight, as was typical for him. He hadn’t headed to his family’s villa for another lecture on his responsibilities from the exasperated father he’d stopped listening to years before, when the issue of the old man’s character had been made abundantly clear. He’d walked up the hill to his favorite restaurant to charm the owner, one of his oldest friends, into plying him with good food to chase away the remains of another too-long, too-excessive night.

Instead, he’d found Holly, with her startled laughter and her bright, beckoning innocence, and his entire life had changed.

And she’d been sitting exactly like this.

Theo finally stopped moving then, right there in the busy aisle of the intimately lit restaurant, and forced himself to breathe. To think. To note that all of this was part of the little performance she was staging for his benefit—to achieve her own ends, at his continuing expense. She’d chosen to sit at one of the tables in the open windows over the busy, popular street, and Theo understood this was all part of her plan. Not simply to meet him in public, in a restaurant like their very first meeting a lifetime ago, but to do so while visible to the entire city of Barcelona, as if that might keep her safe.

She thought she was controlling this game. She thought she was controlling him.

It was in that moment that Theo decided to play. And to win.

He walked the rest of the way to her table and then slid into the seat across from her. He helped himself to her wine once he threw himself down, since they were dealing in echoes of the past. Why not do his part? He took a long pull from her glass, the way he would have back then, his mouth pressing against the small mark her glossy lips had left behind and then eyeing her over the rim.

He couldn’t read her dark blue eyes tonight. He couldn’t see her every last thought on her face the way he could have back then. Then again, given the way she’d played him, perhaps he’d never seen what he thought he had. It didn’t matter, he told himself then. This was a new game, and this time, he knew from the start that he was playing it.

There would be no surprises here. Not this time.

“Kalispera, Holly,” he said, and when she blinked at him, he got the distinct impression she’d known he was there the whole time, despite the fact she’d been looking in the other direction. From the moment he’d entered the restaurant, even. He stretched out his legs and was instantly aware of how she shifted, to keep her own out of his reach, as if even that mild a touch might set them both on fire. She wasn’t wrong and that, too, added fuel to the anger inside of him. And to his determination to win this thing, no matter the cost. “You look well enough. Spending my money clearly suits you. Is that polite enough to start?”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0bae7fc1-4881-53bb-a559-23ececf8fbfd)

SHE’D DREAMED THIS a thousand times. More.

This is really happening, Holly told herself, trying to keep her expression blank. Or failing that, calm, which wasn’t easy with the wild and erratic dance her heart was doing inside her chest. This isn’t one of those dreams.

“Hello, Theo,” she said calmly, as if this wasn’t the first time they’d spoken face-to-face, in the actual flesh, in touching distance, in nearly four years. As if being back in Barcelona, at The Chatsfield of all places, meant nothing to her. As if she felt nothing at all—as if she really was the person she’d gone to such lengths to convince him she was. Just a little bit longer, she promised herself. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

“Of course.” He was so much more in person. She remembered the way his sheer presence had always seemed to scrape the air thin all around him, and it was worse now. As if he claimed more than his fair share of oxygen, simply because he could. Because he was Theo. “I do not maintain a private plane with my own staff for an unpleasant flight, do I?”

“I feel that way about closing down shops on Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive to make use of your black Amex card.”

“So the dizzying bills remind me each time I see them.”

His face was still so fascinating. Harsh and male and undeniably Greek, yet so intensely beautiful she wasn’t surprised to see the way women and men alike reacted to him. The double takes. The second, longer glances. And none of them, she was sure, could see that ferocity in his dark eyes. The hint of violence she knew he’d never direct at her. Not physically, anyway, not in a way that would truly hurt her.

Sex, of course, was a different story—but she couldn’t let herself think about that. About that last time, right after her “confession,” so raw and possessive and furious...

“Is this small talk?” he asked softly. She wasn’t fooled by that tone. She could feel its lethal power deep in her bones, tightening around her like a noose. “I haven’t grown any more interested in such things, Holly. I told you four years ago what we would discuss if you dared face me again. Is this really where you’d like to have that conversation?”

“Far be it from me to direct you in anything,” she replied, angling her body back so she looked far more at ease than she was, and it was harder than it should have been to remember what she was doing here, when he was right there and her instinct was to protect herself. To keep him hating her, which hurt more in the moment but was safer in the long run. Safer and colder and emptier. So much emptier. Hadn’t she spent all these years proving that to herself—in case her childhood hadn’t taught her that lesson first? “I know it’s so important to you that you remain in control.”

“I imagine that is the point of this charade, is it not?” He was stroking that wineglass the way he’d once stroked her body, and she was certain it was deliberate. That he knew exactly what that slow sweep of his tapered, too-strong fingers against the glass did inside of her. The streaks of fire. That deep, hard clench within. “The honeymoon suite, the clever little rose petals, like a forced death march down memory lane straight back into the fires of hell. And you have always done hell with such flair, have you not?” His gaze slammed into hers then. “What do you want from me?”

“I told you what I wanted.”

It was hard to keep her voice even when he was on the other side of such a tiny little table, his intense physicality, his rampant maleness, like an industrial-force magnet. Holly had forgotten that, somehow. She’d forgotten that so much of being near Theo was being utterly helpless and under his spell. In his thrall. She’d had to leave him or disappear into him, never to be seen again, and she remembered why, now. She could feel it, like a black hole, sucking her in all over again—the same way this same kind of destructive love had sucked in her father all those years ago. She’d watched how this ended before. Why did she think it could be different now?

She kept her gaze level on Theo’s and tried not to think about her parents. “A divorce.”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you one. And it has not yet been those magical four years that would release you, anyway. You shouldn’t have come to Barcelona if that was really what you wanted. This resets the clock, does it not?”