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Home. I’ve come home at last.
Something warm and tender, a stunning new sensation, curved tight in his chest as he looked at her. It held him spellbound for one long moment.
Then common sense reasserted itself and he breathed again.
Lust. That was what he felt. Simple. Uncomplicated. Easily assuaged.
Her hair fanned round her shoulders as she spun to face him.
He remembered the scent of those tresses, the impossibly soft texture of them sliding through his hands, teasing his flesh.
His automatic step towards her ended abruptly and he pulled up short, surveying her drawn face. His hand dropped to his side and a different sort of tension clamped his body into immobility.
Her face was a rigid mask. Her mouth clamped hard as if in pain. And her eyes—they were huge and shadowed.
‘Sophie? What’s wrong?’ A piercing shard of fear sliced into him as he looked into her eyes. She was hurting, surely. He could barely believe it was the same woman he’d left warm, willing and satisfied in his bed.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Her voice was light and high, but brittle as glass.
She opened her wardrobe door and bent to deposit a pair of sandals inside. When she turned round there was a wash of colour high on her cheekbones. It only accentuated the unusual pallor of her face.
What on earth was going on?
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. Something must have happened in his absence.
‘Just down to the beach.’ She spun on her foot and headed for the bathroom, a bundle of clothes in her arms.
He’d taken just two paces when she came back, her hands empty this time.
‘I was collecting my clothes from last night.’
Now the sweep of colour extended down her throat. She didn’t meet his eyes but stood alone, staring blankly over his shoulder as if the sight of him pained her.
He frowned, trying to ignore the urgent clamour of his senses that urged him to march over and sweep her into his arms. He wanted to comfort her, for something was clearly, awfully wrong. Yet the way she held herself, as if a single touch might shatter her, held him back.
‘You’re back early,’ she said at last and he heard the faintest echo of something—sarcasm—in her tone.
Ah, that was it. She objected to being left alone all day—was feeling neglected.
Costas brushed aside the voice of his conscience—the voice that agreed with her. That insisted he’d behaved appallingly.
This was no hard-edged business rival he faced, nor was it the immature, self-centred woman he’d made the mistake of marrying. This was Sophie: sweet, honest and caring.
But that didn’t matter, he told himself again. He’d done the right thing. He didn’t have time for emotional entanglements. He was simply being honest with her, making sure she didn’t read too much into their intimacy.
Perhaps in his haste to get away, to put the situation in perspective and make sense of his intense reaction to her, he’d been brutal. But that could be remedied.
His pulse quickened at the prospect of soothing her ruffled ego.
‘I had a lot to do,’ he began.
‘Of course.’ She nodded. ‘The hospital. And your business. You must have work to catch up on after all the time you’ve spent away from it.’
His brows pulled together in a frown as he tried to read her blank expression. An uncomfortable sensation clawed at him.
Guilt? After all, he’d manufactured those meetings this afternoon—seeking an excuse to keep away. He didn’t do business personally in Heraklion any more. He worked from offices in Athens and New York, or here at home, where the latest telecommunications equipment allowed him to keep in touch with his worldwide enterprises.
He wasn’t accustomed to using subterfuge. The feeling made him uncomfortable.
