Dark Apollo Read online

  She was too aware of him, of his proximity, the sheen of his bronze skin, the damp tendrils of hair curling on his forehead and at the nape of his neck, and above all his own unique male scent commingling with the tang of salt. Although he was no longer touching her, she felt as if she was being tied in knots. Fool, she castigated herself inwardly.

  'I don't save a woman from drowning merely to watch her starve in front of me.’ He was implacable.

  Mutely, she bit into the roll, the slices of lamb were thick and juicy, enhanced by a sprinkling of salt, and there were big, firm-fleshed tom­atoes as an accompaniment, with sharp black olives, and more of the wine. It was one of the simplest meals she'd ever eaten, and she would remember it, she thought, for the whole of her life.

  She wiped her hands on a paper napkin. 'Thank you.’ she said stiltedly.

  'The thanks are due to Hara's mother,’ he said with a shrug. 'She packed the basket and put it on the boat for me.’ He slanted a smile at her. 'She says you are too thin. That I should look after you better.’ He paused. 'God knows what she would say about the events of the past half-hour.’

  Camilla sat up straight. 'Nothing, I hope. I'm grateful for what you did, of course.’ She steadied her voice. 'But it's not your business to look after me at all, and you should have told her so.’

  'No.’ he said. 'Because she would not under­stand. In her world, a woman belongs to a man. Her father first, then her husband.’

  ‘How cosy.’ Camilla lifted her chin. 'The twentieth century has clearly passed Karthos by.’

  'Not all of it.’ His voice was cool, and the firm mouth seemed to tighten in momentary bitterness.

  She knew he was thinking of his wife. There were a hundred questions teeming in her brain, but she resisted them, lying back on her straw mat? and pretending to close her eyes.

  "Don't fall asleep in the sun.’ he advised drily. 'Or you could have third-degree burns to add to your other problems.’

  Camilla grimaced swiftly, then rummaged for the protective lotion she used. She said lightly. ‘I seem to be a walking disaster today.’

  'Not just today.’ The contradiction was flat, with an underlying note of anger. 'You have caused difficulties ever since you arrived here.’

  'You're not so easy to deal with yourself.’ Camilla began to apply the lotion to her arms and legs, glad to bend her head and let her damp hair form a curtain against the brooding intensity of his gaze.

  ‘I did not intend to be,’ he reminded her. 'Yet here we are.’ He paused. 'Shall nego­tiations begin?'

  'Yes.’ She was smoothing the lotion over the swell of her breasts above the brief bikini cups, and across the flatness of her abdomen, acutely aware that he was following every movement, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. There was reminiscence in that smile, and something altogether more edged and dangerous that she preferred not to analyse. 'At least, I—I suppose so.'

  The smile widened. He held out his hand. 'Turn over, matia mou, and I will oil your back.’

  'No, thank you, Kyrios Nicos.’ She replaced the cap on the bottle very precisely. The last thing in the world she could afford was to feel his hands on her again, she thought, a sharp tremor running through her senses. 'As you've reminded me, I'm not here to sunbathe.'

  'Such formality,’ he mocked.

  'A business meeting is a formal occasion.’ She gave him a direct look. 'Although today you've let me see how kind you can be—to all sorts of people. I only wish you could spate some kindness for Katie, and Spiro.’

  He shrugged. 'Sometimes the great kindness lies in cruelty. I'm sure you've heard that.’

  'Yes,’ she said. 'But I'm not sure I believe it.’

  ‘Then you should,’ he said softly. 'Also that you should not let your heart rule your head. That can lead only to—disaster.'

  Camilla looked up at the fierce blue arc of the sky. She heard herself say, 'Was it here that you met her—your wife?' and braced herself for an icy snub, or, at worst, an explosion.

  'Yes, it was here.' He looked away at the horizon. 'They used the north of the island as location for a film—a thriller.' His smile was wintry. 'Not a very good one. It never went on general release. And she was afraid, I think, that her career would never amount to more than films like that.' He shrugged slightly. 'She was ready for a change of direction—which I provided.’

  Camilla's breath caught in her throat. She said, 'There must have been more to it than that.'

  'Ohs at first, yes. There was certainly passion.’ His voice slowed to a drawl. 'She was a beautiful, radiant creature, my Rachelle. To make love with her was to taste paradise. Every day was filled with sunshine. It was easy to forget that winter must follow.'

  He looked down at the glass he held, its stem in his lean, strong fingers. Hands that could crush, if they chose, Camilla thought, as well as rescue—and caress. His words were like bruises on her mind. ‘A beautiful, radiant creature’. Quite the opposite to ordinary Camilla Dryden.

  To her surprise, his voice went on. ‘At first, she loved it here.’ His tone was quiet, almost reflective. 'She thought it quaint. That should have warned me. It was the view of a tourist— someone passing through, who looks but does not see. She knew that I had other homes in other places, but this was my island—the place to which I would always return. She seemed to accept that. She seemed also to want, as I did, a settled life—children.’

  His mouth twisted. 'I forgot, of course, that she was an actress. For a while it suited her to play the part of my wife—docile and devoted. Then she began to want more—always more. Whenever I went away, she insisted on going too, even though I'd warned her it would not always be possible—that there were times when I had to travel light and fast. Rachelle needed her entourage—her maid, a major domo to ensure fresh flowers and champagne in every suite, her personal chef. She needed to be centre-stage, but with me there were times when work had to come first, when I could not be there at the restaurants—the theatres— the parties.’

  His voice was weary. 'She was like a child robbed of its toys. She was lonely—I neglected her. She was young and she would enjoy -with me or without me—'

  Camilla broke in urgently. 'You don't have to tell me this.'

  ‘Ah, but I do.' For a moment the dark eyes glittered at her. His voice deepened. 'You asked the question, you must listen to the answer-ail of it, if you wish to understand.’ He looked away again, his brows drawing together as if he was in pain. 'It was at one of those parties I could not attend that Rachelle began to ex­periment seriously with the drug that eventually killed her.'

  He sighed. ‘I knew there had been earlier ex­periences, but she'd sworn her involvement had been minimal—that it was behind her. I was caught up in a deal, working day and night. I—missed the warning signs.' He tossed back the remains of his wine, and replaced the glass in the basket.

  'Perhaps I didn't want to see them. When I realised what was going on, I arranged for her to have treatment. She wept, clung to me, swore it would never happen again. She was just so bored...’

  He flung his head back, the muscles in his throat taut. 'I wanted so badly to believe her. I blamed myself for leaving her so much to herself. I had realised, of course, by then that our expectations of marriage were completely opposed. But I still thought a child might heal the breach - give som purpose to our lives.’

  He paused, 'Then she agent had been in touch—that she had the chance of a major role.’ His voice was hard as stone, and Camilla felt her heart twist in pity at the starkness in his face. "I had my life, she said; she should be allowed to have hers. There would be plenty of time in the future for children, if we wanted them. In the meantime, she had been advised to play down our marriage altogether.’

  He laughed bitterly. "She could have said nothing more damaging to my pride—to my sense of family. I was angry. We quarrelled, and I left. I think I expected her to follow. But she did not. For a while she had all the success she had dreamed of. But it wa
s never enough. She always wanted a new sensation—a new high—and there was one sure way to provide it.’

  'She continued to be treated for addiction. Although we were apart, almost completely estranged, I paid at first. Later it was the studio, until she became totally unreliable and they sacked her.’

  He cleared his throat. 'She called me—told me she was going underground—renting a cabin in the hills while she tried to get her head together. That she needed to be alone.’ He made a small sound in his throat. 'She was found in the motel room a week later. She had not been there alone—far from it—but none of her—companions ever came forward.'

  'Oh, God.’ Camilla forced the words from a dry throat.

  He turned his head slowly and looked at her. ‘You wonder why I have told you this—spoken of things I hoped were buried forever? It is to make you understand at last why I must protect my family—stop them from making the same mistakes as I did.’ His shrug was cynical. ‘Oh, you will tell me that Catherine is not Rachelle, That my wife carried within her the seeds of her own destruction. But it is not that simple.’

  He beat a clenched fist into the palm of his hand. 'When you are young, you think love can solve everything—that it can tear down the barriers of background and culture. Overcome all difficulties and misunderstandings.' He shook his head. 'I know that is a fallacy. I had money, and power, but I could not offer Rachelle what she wanted, or save her from what she ultimately chose.’

  'And I will not have Spiro hurt as I was— constantly reaching for your sister across a widening abyss of bitterness and estrangement.’

  It was all there in his voice—the anger, the regret, the underlying sense of desolation.

  There was a loneliness, an isolation in the tense, dark figure beside her that caught Camilla by the throat. Although the things he'd spoken of were light-years from her own ex­perience, the instinct to offer some kind of comfort, however inadequate, was overwhelming.

  Kneeling beside him, she said his name. Put a hand tentatively on the smooth skin of his shoulder. Felt the hard muscle clench beneath her touch, and the harsh tremor which seemed to shake his whole body.

  He turned to her swiftly, almost savagely, a dark flame in his eyes and burning on his mouth as it possessed hers. Camilla kissed him back, her lips parting to allow the urgent aching dart of his tongue, her first shy restraint fell away. Nic's arms went round her hard, tightening almost convulsively as if he was trying to ruse their bodies into a single entity, as the kiss went on, blurring reality into a fevered awareness only of themselves, and a need that could not be denied.

  Camilla was breathing his breath, absorbed into the fierce hurry of his heartbeat. When his weight carried her backwards, downwards on to the straw mat, she had no thought of re­sistance. Her hands went up to hold him—to claim him as her man. To offer herself as his woman.

  For a moment, he reared above her, his breathing ragged, his eyes searching her face. Then he said hoarsely, 'Matia mou,' and bent to her.

  Impatiently, he wrenched the fragile bikini-top apart, then cupped her bare breasts in his hands, lifting them so that his lips could explore their delicate roundness more fully. She felt her nipples harden in sensuous response, the joy of this remembered intimacy invading her like a warm tide. His mouth closed over one rosy tumescent peak, tugging persuasively at first, then more compellingly, forcing a husky moan of pleasure from her taut throat.

  He laughed softly against her skin. 'Is that good, pedhi mou—my little one?'

  Her voice cracked. 'Oh, God, you must know…’

  'Yes.’ he said on a breath of satisfaction. 'Now i know.' He began to kiss her again, his mouth feathering against hers, demanding, yet withholding, in a teasing but wholly inexorable arousal.

  'Touch me, agape mou,’ he whispered hoarsely. 'I need to feel your hands on me.'

  She reached for him, hands framing his face, feeling the faint roughness along his jawline, then clung to his shoulders, her body arching like a cat's as his own fingers moved slowly down her body in soft, stroking exploration, tracing the gentle valley between her breasts, the fragile shell of her ribcage? the tender flesh inside her elbows, and down to the pulses flut­tering like humming birds in her wrists, and across to the flat plane of her stomach, and the delicate thrust of her hipbones.

  Where his hands moved, his mouth followed like sweet, dangerous fire, tasting her as if she were some exquisite banquet arrayed for his delectation.

  Camilla moved restlessly, little helpless sounds breaking from her throat as she strayed down her own tactile paths, her hands gliding over the strength of bone and fierce tension of muscle. There was a warmth inside her as potent as the great brazen sun above them, and an ache as deep as the restless sea. For the first time in her life, she was totally at the mercy of needs she had never imagined. The carefully structured barriers of control and reserve had splintered into sensation and earning.

  She was hardly aware that the caressing hands had stripped away her bikini briefs, until he touched her at the silken, molten core of her womanhood, the lean fingers stroking her, lifting her on to a dizzying spiral of blind, moaning acceptance.

  Through half-closed eyes she saw him rear over her, head and shoulders gilded by an aura like flame. He was naked too now, a god of bronze and copper.

  Apollo, she thought dazedly, whose sun was around her, and within her, devouring her— consuming her.

  She felt the sleek velvet hardness of him be­tween her thighs, seeking her. His hands were beneath her, raising her—challenging her to meet his urgency with her own.

  For a moment, the tautness of her inner muscles resisted his penetration, and a small shocked sob rose in her throat. Nic bent his head, his mouth closing on hers, stifling the tiny sound, whispering soft words of reassurance, as, slowly and with forbearance, he coaxed her body to relax again, and yield up its last secret to him.

  Sheathed within her, he held her close for a while, his lips soothing her with gentle sensu­ality, as she accustomed herself to the reality of this, the ultimate intimacy.

  Then, still without haste, he began to move, smoothly, easily, luring her to join him to echo the eternal rhythms of passion, so strange to her, and yet, at the same time, so right and familiar.

  Pleasure began slowly to unfurl inside her like a leaf in spring, beckoning her to a deeper response. She clung to him, fingers digging into his sweat-slicked shoulders, legs locked round his waist, letting her body pulse in time with his, the sudden harshness of her breathing echoing, commingling with Nic's. All her being, mental and physical, was concentrated now—fixed, almost with bewilderment, on the flowering of these new, intense sensations deep within her.

  With every powerful thrust of Nic's loins, she seemed to be carried nearer some nameless but attainable goal, driven on by instinct, seeking blindly for some surcease from the fierce maelstrom of craving he'd created in her.

  Every nerve-ending was vibrating suddenly. She was gasping for breath, her head thrashing wildly from side to side, her mouth framing words of need—of entreaty.

  'Yes.' His voice seemed to reach her from some vast distance. ‘Yes, agape mou.'

  She felt a faint judder, down in the depths of her being, a sweet, hot, ineffable trembling that was spreading, gaining momentum, taking possession of her, forcing her into an upward spiral of sharp, half-crazy delight.

  She could hear herself moaning, her voice thick, like a stranger's, as the spiral deepened, intensified almost unbearably, keeping her on the screaming edge of some undreamed-of sensation.

  Then, as she thought she could stand no more—that she was going to die—the spiral broke, and she was free, her body convulsed by tremors as strong as the earth, her mind torn apart by the exquisite savagery of her release.

  As she fought for breath, for sanity, she heard Nic's breathing change, quicken hoarsely. She saw him fling back his head sud­denly, the muscles in his throat like whipcord, his face strained, almost anguished. Then she felt, like sil
ken fire, the molten reality of his own climax.

  She held him close, floating down with him from one plane of golden, honeyed satisfac­tion to the next, as their bodies quietened and gave them peace at last.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I LOVE you.

  Camilla pressed her mouth to the damp, heated skin of Nic's shoulder, damming back the words which rang in her head, and sang in her heart. Words, she reminded herself, that he would not want to hear from her—ever.

  The realisation chilled through the heavenly euphoria which had succeeded their love-making. Up to then, she'd been lying in his arms, head pillowed on his chest, enjoying the touch of his fingers as they lazily caressed the curve of her hip.

  Now, she moved restively as awareness flooded back, alerting other emotions. Reminding her with merciless clarity precisely how far she'd allowed herself to stray from her self-imposed guidelines of morality and common sense.

  She sat up abruptly, reaching for her bikini with hands that shook.

  'What is it?' Nic lifted himself on to an elbow and studied her, a faint frown drawing the dark brows together.

  'Nothing.’ she said, then amended swiftly, 'Just that it's getting late, that's all.'

  'Is that really all, matia mouT He took her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. 1 think I see regret in your eyes.’

  'Well, please don't worry about it.’ Her voice was brittle as she jerked herself away from his grasp. 'I can't imagine I'm the first to be swept away by your fabulous technique, and come to her senses when it's too late.’

  His gaze sharpened. 'You think I planned this? Let me remind you that you asked to come with me today.’

  'I haven't forgotten.' Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.’ I should have remembered that.’

  'Madness?' Nic shook his head. 'I think it was the hand of fate which brought us together here.’

  'I don't believe in fate.’ She'd said before—a lifetime ago. Now fate had punished her lack of faith with the cruellest of revenges. She lifted her chin. 'You said you could have me whenever you wanted. It must be won­derful to be infallible.’