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Stubborn old goat was right.
The most painful realization for Spiros was that he wasn’t entirely sure he could be as strong as he needed to.
He’d asked…begged…Phoebe to forget the kiss. But he never would. He never could. He would never forget her taste, or the passion that lay secreted in her untried body.
He should never have tasted that passion before his brother. He should never have tasted it at all.
He was not like his mother. He was not morally weak. He did not let his libido dictate his actions, nor did he convince himself he was in love with everybody he wanted to sample.
He was not like his father either—willing to compromise his own personal sense of integrity for the love of a woman.
Timothy Petronides had lost his life for the sake of an obsessive love. Spiros was determined never to succumb to anything of the like. The affection he had for Phoebe had never fallen into that realm. It had always brought out the best in him, made him strive to be a better boy and then a better man. Until now.
This hiding from her was only another indication of a moral weakness he refused to harbor within himself.
He straightened his shoulders, buzzed his secretary, and told her to show Phoebe in.
A few seconds later the door slammed open, revealing a distraught-looking Phoebe sans his secretary.
“Where is Ismeme?”
For a second Phoebe looked confused by the question. Then she shrugged her fine-boned shoulders. “I showed myself in. I knew the way.”
He waited for Phoebe to tell him why she was there. His hands curled into fists as his body tensed with conflicting emotions.
She stared at him, her dark brown eyes worried. “Is everything all right, Spiros?”
“Yes, of course. By your dramatic entrance, I would say that you appear to be the one with the problem.”
“Yes, I do…I am. I just…This isn’t like you.”
“What, exactly?” As if he did not know.
She started to speak. Stopped. Then started again. “You know me so well.” She paused and started pacing, wringing her hands as she walked a path to his window and back again. “Better than anyone else, I think. Even my parents.”
“That is possible.” Before the kiss he would have assured her that, yes, she was right, but he had to distance himself from her, taper off the level of their intimate friendship.
He owed it to Dimitri. He owed it to his grandfather, the one constant in his life. He owed it to his own honor.
She stopped pacing and stared at him again.
“There you go…doing it again.”
“Perhaps you should get to the point of your visit?” he said, not asking again what “it” was. Safety lay in maintaining surface ignorance.
“No…not if you’re upset about something.” She looked around, obviously distracted, her expression so troubled he was tempted to pull her into his arms for comfort. But he was smart enough to withstand the urge. She seemed to notice the still open door and moved to close it. Then she turned to face him again. “Maybe we’re worried about the same things.”
“Perhaps we are.” She was trustworthy and very loyal. She wouldn’t want to betray Dimitri or their two families any more than he did.
“I…it’s just…usually when I’m upset you know.”
“Yes.”
“But then I guess you did notice. So that’s normal. Only this isn’t.” She frowned at him.
Again he refrained from asking what “this” was. He knew. She knew. The way he was holding himself back from asking what was wrong. The way he was holding himself back, period. He could not fix it. To do so would be to invite further intimacy—intimacy they could no longer afford.
She chewed on her bottom lip for a count of four seconds. Yes, he kept track. That lip tasted like ambrosia, and he had to force himself to stay on his side of the desk.
