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Figuratively gathering the tatters of my pride, I lifted my head high. “I understand now. It’s a relief, to be honest,” I tossed out, hoping I didn’t sound shrill or whiny. I wanted to be calm, or at least seem to be. “Now that we understand all the terms, it should be a relatively easy three years, everything considered.” Without waiting for a reply, I stepped into the other bedroom of the master suite, finding its Queen Anne furniture and light purple accents much more to my tastes than his room. The king-size bed was so comfortable as to be almost sinful, I discovered seconds later, after throwing myself on the plush surface and burying my face into the pillow to sob out all of the humiliation and hurt.

His words from that night imprinted on my brain and still haunt me from time to time. It’s true he never said he didn’t want me, but it wasn’t that hard to figure out what he was trying to say in his politely remote way. It took months, but I eventually recovered from my “love” for Jayson, and finally dismissed it as a stupid and lingering adolescent crush. The indifference which I displayed toward him after that night started out forced, but I mastered my reactions and eventually managed to feel true detachment from Jayson.

In one moment of weakness, I’ve undone all my hard work. My body still aches for him, though my mind recoils at the thought of sleeping with him now. He hadn’t wanted me three years ago, and I refuse to be used because I’m convenient now. I have no doubt sex with my husband would be amazing, and my hands dream of touching him, but it’s not worth the cost to my pride or my emotional stability.

I can’t risk falling in love with him again.

Chapter 8

Jayson

The study is the place where men in my family found solace from the time my father first built the villa. And it is where I find myself now. A finger of whiskey remains untouched in the crystal glass, though I remember to swirl it from time to time.

I fucked up everything.

I set aside the glass to wipe a hand across my face, then through my hair. Three years ago, I was determined to make Harper understand I didn’t want anything physical to happen with her. She was beautiful, standing in front of me in a white negligee that made my fingers itch to pull off the scrap of fabric and explore the skin beneath. She was more than simply desirable; she was everything. And, less experienced than I was accustomed to in a lover. I exerted every ounce of willpower not to accept her shy invitation.

At the time, I was thankful that my wits quickly conquered my… shall we say, baser urges, and I was able to resist. I tried to be gentle with the rejection, but still get the point across. After that night, she acted like nothing more than a roommate that I saw in passing a couple of times per day. She hadn’t shown any sign of distress that I refused her attempt to consummate the marriage, so I just assumed all was well, and that she had reached the same conclusion I had — that sex was strictly off-limits if we both wanted to avoid developing deeper emotions.

With a wry tilt of my lips, I acknowledge those assumptions certainly made an ass of me. Harper obviously took the message to heart. Shaking my head at my own blindness, I mutter a few curse words. How could I have been near Harper for the past three years and not taken her to bed? The idea of losing her now is completely unacceptable. At thirty-eight, I don’t want to give up the comfort of having a wife, nor take on the task of finding another when I have the perfect wife already. Harper is an ideal partner and I’m used to her habits. It’s silly to end our marriage. I just have to convince her of that.

As I relive holding her earlier, I can feel my cock spring to life. Her mouth devouring mine while our bodies strained to get closer. Harper was willing and responsive. With just a little perseverance, I could seduce her. I’m sure of it. But would that be enough to make her stay?

A conversation from the party replays in my head, and the seed of an idea germinates. Harper said it herself. “Children need both parents, particularly when they are young. In that situation, I think you have to set aside what you want and think of your child, at least during the formative years.”

If she were to get pregnant, she would have to stay. It isn’t the ideal way to convince her, but at least it gives me an option if she stubbornly wants to leave.

Imagining my child in Harper’s arms, nursing at her breast, makes me happy. I catch myself in the mirror as I get up, and see a goofy smile on my face.

But she’s maternal and kind, for certain. There isn’t a better woman to be the mother of my children.

Chapter 9

Harper

Thank heaven Jayson’s gone from the bedroom when I emerge from the nursery late the next morning. Another restless night of tossing and turning, and the little sleep I finally managed has left me flat. Grimacing at the tender redness around my eyes, several minutes later I stand in front of the mirror after a hot shower. His sharp eyes won’t miss the proof of my distress, and I have no desire to show him any more of my innermost feelings. Setting my lips in a grim line, I reach for my rarely-used cosmetics bag to conceal the signs of last night’s insomnia.

A little concealer, some highlighter, and no more redness. It’s not difficult, but I have lots of experience masking sadness from three years ago. To be back in the same spot years later almost makes me want to dissolve into tears again. But that would ruin my makeup so I try to concentrate on other things.

I pad from the bathroom, wrapped from head to toe in a thick bathrobe. He’s nowhere in sight, so I risk dressing in the dressing room, pulling on shorts and a shirt.

If Irina brought breakfast this morning, I must have slept right through her knocking. My stomach growls as I descend the stairs and go in the direction of the kitchen.

Irina clicks her tongue when I come in and go straight to the fridge. “I will cook for you, Kyria Harper. Tell me what you’d like. Eggs? Oatmeal? Brioche?”

With

a smile, I hold up a bottle of water after closing the refrigerator door. “I’m fine.” I scoop up a juicy orange, likely grown in the Satyros’s orchard, from a bowl on the counter. Ignoring Irina’s admonishments about needing a substantial breakfast, I leave the villa through the servants’ entrance.

Heading for the gardens and orchard, I’m eager to reacquaint myself with the foliage of the island. Soon enough, I find a stone bench in the center of a small arrangement of various plants. It’s one of the six garden areas set up on the Satyros land. Six years ago, I knew them all well by the end of my stay having retreated into them many times for their solace.

As I peel the orange, I scuff my foot along the cobblestone bricks. The small heart I found long ago is still there, with the initials K.A. + J.A. — the initials of Jayson’s parents.

I remember Kostas vaguely — he was a remote, serious man, so it’s nice to see proof that he had a softer side. At some point on one of our vacations, he took time to make this little monument to the love he had for Jacinth. I can see Jayson doing the same someday, though my heart misses a beat when my mind’s eye sees M.P. with the N.A. — Maia Papadas. It had almost been a reality once, and it could be again, once he’s free from our marriage. And me.

The orange is perfectly ripe and delicious, but I’ve lost my appetite. With a sigh, I throw it into the discreet garbage can under the bench and rinse my hands with the bottle of water. Truth be told, I’m stalling. I’m trying to avoid returning to the villa just yet. It’s the last place I want to be, since I don’t know when Jayson might turn up. If he keeps trying to seduce me, I’m honestly not sure I can continue to resist.

And then where will I be when it all ends?