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The young woman lurched into a room towards the back of the house. Her hunched shoulders, the hand clamped over her mouth, told their own story. She’d over-indulged last night and now she faced the consequences.
For a moment he experienced that horrible sense of déjà vu once more, sparked by her startling resemblance to Fotini. But he had no sympathy to waste on a stupid young woman who didn’t respect her own body.
His senses were on the alert, ready for the confrontation with his quarry. Yet the house had an aura of emptiness. Already he sensed that he and the girl with the hangover were the only ones here. But he had to make sure.
It only took a couple of minutes to check the entire house, it was so small. The place was comfortably furnished and tidy, except for the shambles of a living room, with its litter of bottles, glasses and plates of stale food. And the kitchen, where someone had barely started on the mountain of washing-up.
It must have been some party, he decided, surveying the haphazard stack of platters and the left-over food spoiling on the counter, the glasses jammed into the sink.
And still no sign of the woman he’d come so far to find. The woman who held his future in her hands.
But there was one person who knew exactly where Christina Liakos was.
He turned and strode into the bathroom, only to pull up abruptly.
It wasn’t the awful retching sound that stopped him. Or any sense of delicacy at the thought that she might prefer privacy.
To his horror it was the sight of her trim, beautifully rounded bottom in that tight black skirt as she bent over the toilet. And the shapely length of her legs encased in sheer black stockings.
Ridiculous, he told his suddenly alert body. No woman could be sexy while she vomited into a toilet bowl. Even a woman as beautiful as this.
Sophie’s eyes streamed as she gulped another breath into her raw, aching throat. Her mouth tasted foul and she shook so hard she could barely support herself. The nausea was fading but her whole skin prickled uncomfortably in reaction. And it felt as if someone had wrapped a band around her head and constricted it till even the throb of her blood hurt. ‘Here.’
She opened her eyes to see a damp flannel thrust in front of her. A man’s hand held it. A large, square, capable-looking hand with long fingers. Olive skin. A sprinkle of silky dark hair. The sleeve of a finely woven suit. A flash of snowy white cuff. The subdued elegance of a gold cufflink.
Sophie stared but didn’t have the strength to reach out.
‘I … can’t,’ she croaked. She felt so weak that it took all her energy to stay on her feet.
There was a burst of sound behind her. Swearing, by the sound of it, but in incomprehensible Greek. And then an arm like hot steel wrapped around her waist and drew her upright till she sagged against the solid wall of his body. His intense heat was like a furnace at her back. But even that couldn’t thaw the chill that gripped her.
He swiped the blessedly wet flannel over her brow, down her cheeks, along her mouth and chin and she silently gave thanks to this man, whoever he was.
She recalled looking up into a set face. Into eyes so dark they shone like jet, revealing nothing. Or maybe that illusion was due to the barely leashed anger she’d sensed in him. Even his arrogantly angled black brows lent fierceness to his brooding countenance. He’d had an aura of edginess, of danger, that belied his tailored suavity.
He was a complete stranger. No woman would forget a man like him—all hard, arrogant male and sexy as sin.
Her head lolled against his chest as the lassitude swept her again. She yawned so wide her jaw cracked. As soon as he left she’d go back to bed, she thought dully.
But then his hand was at her shoulder, fingers digging into the tender flesh so that she winced. He shook her and her whole body flopped, unresisting.
‘I said, what did you take?’ His voice was deep, with the hint of an accent, and Sophie felt a tug of feminine response to the timbre of it. ‘Tell me!’
Hazily she realised he was speaking to her.
‘Tell you what?’ Her brain had fogged up. Now the nausea was passing she felt almost human, but everything was so vague.
Only his punishing grip on her shoulder and the way he held her in close round the waist kept her anchored in reality.
His lips were at her ear, his breath hot against her skin as her eyes fluttered shut.
‘What have you taken?’ His voice was slow and patient but it held a razor-sharp edge. ‘Was it
drugs? Pills?’
Pills. That was right. She’d taken two pills. Or was it three? She was sure they’d said two only. ‘Pills,’ she said, nodding. ‘Sleeping pills.’
Another burst of cursing. This guy really had a temper problem. She plucked at his arm, trying to free herself. Suddenly she felt trapped rather than supported by his strength.
