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‘Two,’ she said. ‘Maybe three, I wasn’t really concentrating. But not enough to OD, since that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘And what else did you take with the pills?’ His voice was sharp, accusing.
‘Nothing. I don’t do drugs.’ Sophie shrugged against his hold and this time he released her. But he didn’t move away, just stood there, arms akimbo, blocking the exit. He looked solid, strong, all taut muscle and unyielding bone. His expression was even harder. It made her shudder.
She swayed without him to prop her up. She could still feel the imprint of his large hands on her upper arms and guessed she’d have bruises there later.
She counted to ten, then, when she managed to dredge up some strength, she turned and twisted the taps closed.
In the sudden silence she could hear his breathing. And the thunder of her own pulse in her ears.
‘I didn’t have anything else,’ she repeated. ‘No drugs, no alcohol. This is just a reaction to the pills.’
And to the unrelenting stress of the past weeks.
Slowly she turned back to face him. He looked about as understanding as Ares, god of war, with his flinty gaze and his wide, battle-ready stance.
‘I’m sorry you were worried,’ she said as she pulled her hair back from her face and looked past his shoulder at the steamy mirror. Anything to avoid staring at the vast expanse of taut masculine skin that scented the damp air with its hot, musky aroma. ‘I appreciate your help, really. But I’m OK.’ Or as OK as she was likely to be for a long, long time.
For a moment she thought he didn’t believe her. Those penetrating eyes surveyed her slowly, clinically and comprehensively. If she’d been capable of feeling embarrassment she’d have shrivelled under that look.
But right now she was strangely detached, felt little except the welling ache deep inside.
At last he nodded tersely and stepped out of the shower. Immediately she sagged, relief slackening her exhausted muscles. He crossed to the cupboard and dragged out a couple of clean towels.
Dumbly Sophie watched him, her brain processing the series of images. The arrogant jut of his uncompromising jaw. His broad shoulders and sleek back: all gleaming-wet, toned muscle. The taut curve of his backside in briefs that clung now like a second skin. Heavy, powerful thighs.
She shivered and dragged in an unsteady breath.
He turned, scooped up his gear and thrust a towel at her. ‘I’ll get changed in another room.’ His deep voice was devoid of emotion.
Was there anything soft about this man?
She watched him stride out the door. No, she decided. He was all adamantine hardness. From the steely strength of his body to his brooding face and cold eyes.
Sure, he had enough humanity to help her when he thought she needed it. Had gone to great lengths, in fact. But not because of kindness, or fellow feeling, she knew instinctively. He’d simply believed it necessary. He’d done what he thought had to be done—kept her conscious before calling medical aid.
She trembled, still holding the towel against her chest. The tremor grew to a shudder and, despite her flushed skin and the steamy fug of the bathroom, that bone-deep chill invaded her body once more.
Sophie stumbled out of the shower cubicle, wrapped the towel around her body and another round her hair, and escaped to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, dressed in old jeans and a comfortable, loose shirt, she went in search of the stranger who’d invaded her house.
Costas stood in the kitchen, sipping strong black coffee. Something to restore normality after his encounter with the girl who looked so much like Fotini.
At first the similarity had been stunning. Even now it was remarkable, despite the obvious differences. This girl was slightly built, more slender. Her face was less round and her cheekbones more pronounced.
He stared blindly into the back yard and swallowed another mouthful of searing liquid. He barely registered the heat. Instead he concentrated on the images that played alternately in his mind. First the sight of her opening the door, so like Fotini that he’d simply gawped in shock.
And second, the picture of her slumped in his hands. Water streaming down, accentuating her seductive curves. His mouth dried as he remembered the narrowness of her waist, the sensuous flare of her hips. Her lacy bra and briefs had been saturated. They had left nothing to his imagination, not the upward tilt of her breasts nor the invitation of her nipples, revealed by the delicate fabric. Nor the evocative shadow of feminine secrecy between her legs.
He’d held her in his hands and immediately he’d wanted her, desired her with a raw, aching hunger that told him he’d been far too long without a woman. Just the feel of her supple, smooth skin against his and he’d known an overwhelming compulsion to have her naked beneath him.
He’d stood there, oblivious to the drenching spray, and wished the circumstances completely different, just for an hour, or two. For long enough to lose himself in the sweet temptation of her. To forget his responsibilities and worries in the mindless bliss he knew he could find in her siren’s body.
Costas sipped the scalding coffee and tried to ignore the heavy tension in his lower body. His mission was too urgent. No matter how delicious the enticement, he wouldn’t be distracted from his purpose.
The sound of a shuffling footstep made him spin round. She stood in the doorway, apparently steady now on her own two feet. She looked about sixteen in those clothes, and with her hair combed down to her shoulders. But her eyes and the purple shadows beneath them belied that illusion.
Costas frowned as his mind superimposed an image of her, almost naked in her sexy, pristine lace underwear. The baggy shirt failed miserably as camouflage. He’d stripped her, touched her bare skin with his hands. The experience was printed indelibly on his brain.
