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She tried to ignore the ravenous pack still shouting out questions at them.
“Mrs. Andreakos, the man who captured you is wanted by Interpol for various kidnappings and is known to sexually assault his female captors. Why were you spared?”
“The Dutch couple said you were instrumental in saving them from being killed. Do you have a saviour-complex, Mrs. Andreakos?”
“Do you believe sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good? Like say, sacrificing a bishop to save a pawn?”
She stumbled, her hand slipping from Nick’s as her words to Mwana during their last chess game slipped from the reporter’s vile lips.
Nick caught her and clamped her to his side. “What is it?”
The ice that invaded her veins made her shiver uncontrollably.
She opened her mouth but no words came out.
“Never mind. I’m getting you out of here. Now.”
At the continued barrage, Nick threw a terse “no comment” over his shoulder and led her out of the room and into the waiting elevator. Caught in a mental fog, she couldn’t register anything except Nick’s strong arms as he escorted her out of the building and into another limo.
In the car, she tried to hide her shaking hands in her lap, turning to look out of the window as they headed toward Nick’s city apartment. When he placed a firm hand over hers, she focused to find steely grey eyes on her.
“I think our conversation at the springs yesterday needs further elaboration.”
Her heart plummeted. “It was nothing, Nick. Maybe I’m just imagining things.”
“Or maybe not. I saw your reaction to that last question. As soon as we get to the apartment, I want to know, Tinkerbelle.” His tone brooked no argument. But then he added, “Please?” “Y—yes.” She nodded.
He poured a glass of water and held it out to her. Grateful for something to do, she accepted the drink.
Nick’s apartment, like everything else in his life, was top class and drowning in opulence. Housed in an exclusive hotel, the luxurious six-bedroom penthouse sat atop one of Athens’ small hills, overlooking the haunting beauty of the Acropolis.
Tastefully decorated in shades of deep reds and soft creams, the airy rooms were elegant and comfortable but furnished to highlight Nick’s wealth and success.
Their luggage had been deposited in the master bedroom, and in silence, they changed into more casual clothes before Nick led her back to the sitting room.
“Do you want another drink?” he enquired with a lift of his brow.
“Just water, thanks.”
He moved to the drinks cabinet and came back with a glass, seating himself next to her on the plush cream sofa with wine for himself.
The taut silence that ensued lasted less than a minute, but in that time, her nerves frayed with acute rawness.
When he set his glass down, untouched, on the table, she jumped at the sound.
“I know this isn’t easy to talk about, baby, but we have to deal with this. I can’t help you get past it if I don’t know what happened,” he insisted.
She looked into his eyes, drawing strength from the gentle encouragement in them.
“That reporter…what he said about sacrificing for the greater good…the reference to the bishop…I had that discussion with Mwana. Nick, there was no one else there at the time, just the two of us.”
His eyes widened and he finally stopped in front of her. “You think this reporter was another of Mwana’s men?”
“How else could he be quoting our conversation almost verbatim?”
Nick reached for his mobile and pressed one button. “Spiros, have the reporters left?”
His mouth tightened at the answer. “Get me the name of every journalist who attended the press conference. And get the security footage of the conference room ready for Jameson to hand over to the police ASAP.” He hung up and dialled Jameson, relayed the information, then ended the call.