Irresistible Greeks: Unsuitable and Unforgettable. Jane Porter

His answering remark came easily. And it was welcome as it served to mask the intense need that gripped him. “I’ll bet there are a few one-word commands I could get you to respond to.”

      She sat quickly and picked up the glass of white wine that was waiting for her, taking a long drink before setting it down and saying, far too brightly, “I found this dress at a charity shop.”

      He rounded the table and sat across from her, keeping the chair pushed out a bit. He didn’t trust himself to get too close. And clearly, Jessica didn’t, either. Her change of topic had been about as clumsy and obvious as they came.

      She’d picked up the meaning of his words. And he’d driven her to drink. That was an ego boost.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “It’s from the late forties or early fifties. Sort of business attire.”

      “That was business attire?” It was a wonder any work got done.

      “Clothing then was so feminine. It didn’t have to be obvious to be sexy, and it didn’t have to be boxy to be respectable. That’s one reason I like it.”

      It was certainly that. But then, Jessica would look feminine in a man’s suit. She had curves that simply couldn’t be ignored or concealed.

      “It suits you,” he said.

      “I’m glad you think so. You looked at me like I had two heads the first couple of days we were together.”

      “Did I?”

      “Yes.”

      “I hope you like fish,” he said, indicating the plate of food. He always opted for simple when he was at the villa. Something from the sea, vegetables from the garden on the property and a basket of bread and olive oil. He had all the formal he could handle in Kyonos. Ceremony and heavy custom, though he’d been born into it, had never seemed to fit him. Just one reason he was always skirting the edge of respectability.

      That and a desire—no, a need—to control something about his life.

      “I do,” she said. “I didn’t always, but as we’ve discussed, my home state is landlocked, so seafood wasn’t that fresh. And fish out of the river just tastes like a river and it’s not a good experience. Not for me, anyway. Traveling has expanded my horizons in a lot of ways.”

      “Was your husband from North Dakota?”

      A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes.”

      “Is that why you aren’t with him anymore?”

      Her mouth dropped open. “No. What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Nothing,” he said. But he had wondered, when she spoke of travel, of not spending time at her home, if her ambitions had grown bigger than the life of a housewife.

      “Are you asking if I traded my husband in for—” she waved her fork over her plate “—for fresh seafood?”

      “Not in so many words.”

      “Well, I didn’t.” She released a heavy breath. “If only it were that simple.”

      “It’s not simple?”

      “It is now,” she said, stabbing at the white flesh of the fish on her plate. “Because we’re divorced, and he’s my ex-husband, not my husband. So whatever happened between us doesn’t really matter. That’s the beauty of divorce.”

      An unfamiliar twinge of guilt stabbed at him. “You wouldn’t be the first person to run from an unhappy situation. To try and find peace somewhere else.” He thought of Xander when he spoke those words. Xander, who had been so miserable. Who had been blamed for the death of their mother. By their father, by their people. And sadly, in the end, by Stavros himself.

      “I’m the one who left, if that’s what you want to know,” she said, her voice cold.

      His stomach tightened. She’d walked away. He didn’t know the story, he didn’t know her pain. But still, it was so easy for him to judge her. It was his gut reaction. Because he knew what happened when people walked away just because it was too hard.

      “Did he mistreat you?” Stavros asked.

      She met his gaze, her green eyes glittering. “That’s a loaded question.”

      “Seems simple to me.”

      “All right, I think he was an ass, but then, I’m his ex-wife.” She looked down. “Really? He’s a moral paragon. You know, he could have taken a lot of money from me. I was the main breadwinner. And he didn’t. He didn’t want it. He just wanted to be free of me. He took the out I gave him and ran.” She pushed her plate back. “I’m not hungry.” She stood and put her napkin on the table. “Thanks, but I’m going to go to bed now.” She turned and walked away, her shoulders stiff.

      Stavros wanted to go after her. To grab her arm like he’d done earlier. To soothe her. With a touch. A kiss.

      He sucked in long breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. To kiss those ruby lips … they would be so soft.

      He wanted to offer comfort. To hold her in his arms.

      He couldn’t do any of those things.

      So he let her go, while his body bitterly regretted every step she took away from him.

      Jessica flopped onto the bed and growled fiercely into the empty room. “Way to spill your guts there, Jess,” she scolded herself.

      Why had she told him that? Any of that. Yes, he’d pushed the subject of Gil. And yes, it had gotten her hackles up because she didn’t want any judgment from him about her marriage.

      But it was hard to talk about it without talking about everything. About the reason things had crumbled. About the pain, the embarrassment. About the bitterness and disappointment laced into every word. About how going to bed at night had been something she’d dreaded. To have to share a bed with someone, maybe even make love with someone, when they were distant at best, disdainful at worst.

      About how in the end she’d had to face the hardest, scariest thing she’d ever endured on her own. About how her husband had let her have major surgery without his support, without him there. She’d had to just lie by herself in a hospital bed. Her body had hurt so bad, and her heart had been crumbling into pieces, the victory over her chronic condition costing her her dearest dreams.

      And that was when she’d called a lawyer. She hated that. That he’d made her do that. She honestly believed if she hadn’t he would have stayed. Would have punished her by making her live with a man who had grown to hate her.

      She closed her eyes and blocked out the memory. As much as she could, she just tried to pretend those moments were a part of someone else’s life. Sometimes it worked. Just not right now.

      She stood up and started pacing the length of the room. She was pathetic. And pitiful. And where was her armor when she needed it?

      There was a knock on the door and she paused midstride. “Yes?” she asked.

      “It’s me.”

      The very masculine voice was unmistakable. As was the shiver of excitement that raced through her.

      She turned and flung the door open, putting her hand on her hip and shifting her weight so that her hip stuck out, exaggerating the roundness of her curves. “What?”

      He only looked at her, his dark eyes glittering. A muscle in his jaw ticked, his shoulders flexed.

      They stood for a moment and simply looked at each other.

      Then Stavros moved, quickly, decisively, and pulled her up against the hard wall of his chest. He dipped his head and his lips met hers. Hot. Hungry.

      So good.

      She clung to the door with one hand, her other hand extended next to her,