Blackmailed By The Greek's Vows. Tara Pammi

he was going to tease and torment her for three months, then she would earn his respect, his regard. She was Valentina Conti Constantinou and she would have her own form of revenge by succeeding beyond his wildest dreams.

      She would rub his face in what he was giving up. And only then, only when she had brought him to his knees, would Valentina walk away. Even her Machiavellian grandfather Antonio, who’d only ever accepted her under pressure from Leandro, couldn’t deny that she was any less of a scheming Conti now.

      She turned around and faced Kairos. “I have been thinking of our deal since last night.” Steady, flat, her voice cooperated. “I have a few conditions.”

      His nostrils flared. “You don’t get to negotiate.”

      That she had shocked him snapped her spine into place.

      She let a smile curve her mouth. She hadn’t been born a Conti, but her proud, powerful brothers had raised her to be one. “I might be vain and vapid but I’m not stupido, Kairos. You came to me last night because you need me. So, si, I will negotiate and you will listen.”

      “What are your conditions?”

      “You were right about the industry being a bitch. I didn’t get anywhere in nine months. I want word spread that we’re back together again. I want the names and numbers of everyone you do business with. And I want your backing.”

      “I’m a respected businessman, Valentina. I will not give the weight of my name to any harebrained scheme of yours that is sure to embarrass me and sink in a few months. If you want my money, you have to wait until the divorce is final to get your hands on it.”

      “Non! Not money. I want access to your rich friends and their wives. Or their mistresses. I don’t care how you put it forward. Tell them your juvenile, impulsive bratty wife is putting together a shoot and you’re indulging her. Tell them it’s the way I’m whiling away my useless life. Tell them it’s your way of indulging my tantrums. I don’t care what you tell them. I need to put together a portfolio and a shoot. I need to get word of mouth going that I’m offering my services as a personal stylist to anyone who’s got reputation, status and money.”

      “A personal stylist?”

      “Si.” She raised her hand, cutting him off. “If you’re going to use me, Kairos, I will use you, too. At least, we’re finally speaking the same language.”

      “And what language is that, Valentina?”

      “The language of transactions. You never do anything without some advantage to yourself. Our marriage has taught me one useful thing at least.”

      “You’re playing a dangerous game, pethi mou, hurling accusations at me. You can only push me so far.”

      “I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but I’m not doing anything to provoke you, Kairos. For the first time in my life, I’m thinking with my head. I’ve looked past the surface and not liked what I see in myself.

      You have made me face reality. And for that, I shall always be grateful to you.”

      “You want a divorce because you’re grateful to me?” The stony mask of his face belied how angry he was with her again. No, not anger. But he was affected by her decision.

      “Just because I’ve realized what was wrong with me doesn’t mean you were right, does it? I will never give you power over me again.”

      For all her brazen confidence, she’d never stripped before him, because she had thought her body imperfect, not made to his specifications and preferences.

      Or maybe because she had always wanted to be perfect to please him—perfect straight hair, perfect dress, perfect posture.

      It had got her exactly nowhere with him.

      Without waiting for his response, her breath suspended in her throat, she picked some underwear. Her back to him, she dropped the towel. The soft exhale behind her pulled her nerves taut. Somehow, she managed to pull her panties up the right way and hooked her bra on.

      The intensity of his gaze on her body burned over her skin, as if he was stroking it with those clever fingers. But she was determined to see this through, to prove to him that he wouldn’t always have the upper hand.

      With barely a glance in his direction, she pulled on a pair of capri pants and a white silk top.

      And then, head held high, she walked out to the main cabin, her heart a deafening roar in her chest.

      She was tweaking the tiger’s tail, true. But she had to do this. She had to prove to him that she was made of stronger stuff. And then, when the three months were up, she would have his respect and then she would walk away.