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Their affair, if in fact there had been one, had been brief. Eighteen months, no children. The damage was not lasting. And given their age difference, it was difficult to think either had serious plans. She clearly knew about his family, his marriage, and even Anna, which unfortunately only underscored, for Anastasios, how transactional their situation must have been. What kind of woman would accept this from their lover?
Panic beaded sweat on his brow. He didn’t want to think of his father and Phoebe in that way. Was it possible Phoebe was telling the truth?
Of course it was possible, it just wasn’t likely, given the evidence.
He moved quickly up the stairs, onto the deck rail, walking the length of the boat and switching on a small light at the bow. The air smelled like salt and a little way in the distance, lights bobbed on the surface of the water—he could just make out the fishing trawlers, dragging in their nets after a night’s work.
He rested his arms on the edge of the railing, staring out, trying to blot Phoebe from his thoughts—as he’d been trying to do since that evening in London, almost a month earlier. What was it about her?
She was beautiful and graceful, smart and quick, but it was more than that. There was something indefinable that had caught at him from the first moment, and wouldn’t let go.
He had wondered, in the intervening weeks, if it was because she represented a connection to his father. No matter how much he hated the fact Konstantinos had engaged in affairs, there was no denying the fact that Phoebe knew a part of Kon that had been hidden from Anastasios. In his grief, he wanted to understand that part, to understand why his father had cheated. Why they hadn’t been enough. His hands gripped the railing tighter as the thought unfurled in his brain. Was that it? Was that the key to understanding the hold she had on him?
“Good morning, sir.”
He turned at the unwelcome introduction. One of the deckhands—hastily dressed, if her messy hair was anything to go by—stood just to the side.
He nodded his greeting.
“Would you like anything to drink? Eat?”
He was sure he was getting close to understanding himself, and with relief, recognized that his obsession had less to do with Phoebe than it did his father’s psychology.
“Coffee,” he dismissed curtly, renewed vigour in his frame. She was just a woman, and when the threat of this news story was in the past, he’d drop her at the nearest port and sail into the sunset, happily forgetting all about her for good.
Phoebe hadn’t expected to sleep at all well, after their charged stoush the evening before. She’d showered furiously, scrubbing her skin until it was pink all over then pulling on an oversized t-shirt and climbing into bed. She’d stared at the ceiling, replaying every barb, insult and jibe, the scathing cynicism that had twisted his handsome face into a mask of mockery.
But at some point, the repeating performance in her mind had faded and she’d flipped onto her side, hearing only the soft waves and the gentle hum of the boat’s unfamiliar sounds—some mechanics, and occasionally, footsteps, as the crew moved around. When she did fall asleep, it was with visions of vines scrambling up old houses in Cinque Terre, and she smiled softly in her dreams.
She hadn’t expected to fall asleep, nor to sleep easily, but when she woke, the sun was high in the sky and the day was already warm. She sat upright with a start, looking around almost guiltily.
As a child, her father had berated them for sleeping in. She had far too many memories of him storming into the small room she shared with Dale, slamming open the door until it hit the wall and the cheap, magazine covers hung in dollar store frames would jangle against the fibro walls. “Get up,” he’d roar, spittle at the sides of his mouth, and Phoebe had always known that if they weren’t quick, he’d have the paddle ready.
The training of childhood rarely receded as an adult, and she struggled to shake that morning alarm, even now.
Pushing her feet over the edge of the bed, heart racing, it took several gulps of clean sea air to calm her nerves and to remind herself that those memories were more than a decade old. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. He couldn’t touch her.
When her eyes landed on a glass clock with fine gold hands, and she saw it was almost ten, she even felt a little rush of triumph. Her father would have been so furious, and she couldn’t resist the pleasure she took from that knowledge. She’d been too afraid to defy him when she’d been living at home, and it was silly to feel that she’d defied him now, as a twenty four year old, who’d run away from home almost ten years ago and now lived on the other side of the world, but she felt pleased with herself, regardless.
Until she remembered the other tyrant in her life.
Showered and dressed, and changing into a simple cotton dress, Phoebe had delayed for as long as she reasonably could. There were no books in her cabin, nor was there a TV, and she could only watch the rippling ocean for so long.
Besides, she was ravenously hungry after only a light dinner the evening before.
Nonetheless, she moved with care, looking left and right before stepping out, eager to avoid Anastasios for as long as possible. She should have known she wouldn’t be so lucky on that score.
When she emerged into the kitchen, he was right there, naked from the waist up, and bottom half-clad only in a pair of navy blue shorts. Her mouth went dry at this totally unfair display of masculinity. His physique was unfairly beautiful. She tried to look away, but her eyes were locked to his chest, to the delineations of his abdominals, the sparse covering of hair, the depth of his tan, the sheer, rugged masculinity embodied in his frame.
“You slept well?” The gruff question was a sign of civility, perhaps even a show of hostilities being ceased, but it took Phoebe several seconds to drag her recalcitrant eyes to his face, to home in on his own eyes and nod jerkily.
“Like a rock. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been so comfortable.”
“The bed in your accommodation looks half made of rocks.”
It brought back memories that seared her for their intensity. Not only had he seen her bed, he’d been on it, on her. She forced her legs to work, bringing her towards the kitchen but then, with consternation, she stopped. It was large and spacious, but somehow, didn’t feel big enough for both of them to occupy at the same time. Anastasios simply took up too much space—not physically, but in every other way. Her awareness of him was making her mind and heart move discordantly.
“Coffee?”
