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Anastasios’ face paled beneath his tan. “What?”
“Landscapes. They weren’t particularly good,” she said with a soft laugh. “But that didn’t stop him. Would you like to see one?”
His lips formed a gash in his face. “By all means.”
If she’d known Anastasios any better, she might have heard the dark danger lurking in the words, but she was too caught up in pleasant memories of Kon, too filled with reminiscences to take heed.
“Here,” she padded through the small entrance way and into the tiny living room, gesturing to the painting that hung beside the window.
His eyes flew to it, tracing the over-bright shapes—almost bordering on abstract—before dropping lower, to the statue on the shelves.
The noise that erupted from his throat was barely human. “How the hell did you get this?”
Phoebe began to shake all over, and all she could do was watch, as Anastasios moved to the bronze statue and lifted it in his palm, staring at it in shock.
“Did hegivethis to you?”
Goosebumps lifted across her skin, but she wasn’t afraid. Her father had taught her about violence and abuse, and she could tell the difference between anger and violent rage.
“Yes,” because, why lie?
“This was my sister’s.”
The words were raw. Sympathy swallowed Phoebe. “I know.”
He swore under his breath. “He told you about her?”
“Yes.”
He cursed then, in Greek. “He loved you.”
Phoebe’s heart soared, because she really, really hoped that was true. But she wisely said nothing of that to this man.
“I told you, we were friends.”
“My father didn’t speak about Val. Ever. It was as though she’d been erased from the family for him.”
“I think he felt—,”
“Don’t.”
And now Anastasios was moving closer to her, closing the distance between them, staring down at her with a wild mix of emotions tangling in his eyes. “Don’t tell me how my father felt. I knew him. All my life. I’m his oldest son and you’re—,”
“His friend,” she supplied, meeting his gaze head on, refusing to be cowered by his proximity and obvious physical strength.
“Damn you,” he groaned, but he stayed where he was, so close, and something sparked in the air around them, so Phoebe’s senses kicked into overdrive and the anger she’d been feeling, the frustration, changed gear, and unfamiliar sensations throttled her, rolling her, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.
“Anastasios,” she said helplessly, needing him to rescue her, to help her at least, to control this situation that was threatening to burn wildly out of control.
“You are far too beautiful,” he said with condemnation, but he didn’t pull back, and nor did she. In fact, she leaned closer, or perhaps he did, because a moment later, their bodies were cleaved together and each ragged breath she drew forced them together.
Hell.
“How can this be happening?” He asked, fiercely, angrily, but an anger that was directed all at himself.
“What?” She looked up, losing herself in the depths of his eyes.
His answer was to swoop down and kiss her, claiming her mouth with the desperate hunger of a starving man, his lips parting hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, punishing her at first then slowing, deepening into addictive inspection, understanding, need.
