6 Santorini

6

SANTORINI

COSMIN

When Klaus told me about the planned trip to Santorini, outwardly I was all scorn, but inside, I was jumping like a kid at a funfair.

I excel at hiding my emotions, though Phaedra sees me as a heart-on-my-sleeve extrovert. Everyone does, aside from Viorica, who understands all too well how we had to perfect the skill of constructing a seamless costume, growing up with Uncle Andrei. I’d have chosen one better fitting, given a choice, but life necessitated the one I wear—like a magician’s cloak, made for misdirection.

We step off the plane, and I clothe myself in the carefree fa?ade. When I insist on carrying her bag, Phaedra is annoyed and attempts to snatch it back. I swing my duffel bag over a shoulder and switch the handle of her rolling suitcase to my other side. With my free hand I tap her nose with my forefinger, as if she’s a sulky child to be cheered.

“Let me be a gentleman.” I head for the building, and Phaedra strides to catch up.

“Yeah, so, suggestion? Don’t boop my nose again, ever. You won’t be able to shift as well, driving with half a finger.”

She has on a pale blue tunic that compliments the red glints in her hair. The neck is untied, strings flipping in the breeze. From this angle I spy her freckled chest and one smooth collarbone. She catches me looking and ties the strings. I open the door for her grandly, and she pauses, scowling, before walking through.

“Let’s please keep a low profile and avoid any press, like Klaus said,” she tells me. “I know it doesn’t come naturally to you. But seriously, none of your usual swanning about like you’re the second coming of Sex Jesus. Try being somebody else.”

“The point of this trip is for us to get to know each other.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve already seen everything a person needs to know about you.”

A rattle of pain vibrates in my chest like clipping the rumble strip on track. On its heels, anger. Fine—I will remain a caricature. I was a fool to think this might ever be more.

Still, I want her.

I’ve wanted Phaedra Morgan for months. Her volatile nature inflames me, her intellect captivates me, and her seeming imperviousness to my charm is an irresistible challenge. I cannot resist pushing her buttons, trying to spy the cracks in her fa?ade. She wears a mask as much as I do, for her own reasons. I suspect we are more alike than she thinks—connected, yet invisible to each other, like the hot and cold sides of Venus.

If she’s close enough for me to smell her skin and hair, my lust is ungovernable. And not in my usual easygoing, hedonistic way. Instead, it is an agony-colored, thwarted lust the likes of which I’ve not felt since I was fourteen—a boy wanting every woman but allowed none.

Now I can have every woman, but want only one.

I crave those plump lips sliding against mine. I long to pick her up and plant myself deep, holding that round ass and pulling her against me. I’m greedy to hear the sounds she’d make. Her voice snaps me to attention like a dog.

Sometimes she’ll emit a small moan—out of frustration, or on the tail of rare laughter—and I imagine the sound is a result of something I’m doing… a vocalization escaping her iron control as my tongue teases her.

I push the thought away, lifting her suitcase to clasp it in front of me, trying to make the move look natural while I order my cock to stand down.

A tall, unsmiling woman with salt-and-pepper hair approaches us.

“I am Elena. I have your car.” She turns and walks toward the parking lot. Phaedra and I exchange a look.

“She’s apparently a great cook,” she tells me in a loud whisper.

“Hopefully more of a cook than a conversationalist.”

Mutual conspiratory smiles thaw the air between us, and my heart lifts. Elena marches toward a blue Alfa Romeo Spider.

She hands me the keys. “It belongs to Herr Franke and has only two seats. My sister will pick me up here. I will visit with her and return to the cottage in three hours to prepare dinner.” She takes a sheet of paper from a wicker handbag and passes it to Phaedra. “The directions.”

“Oh! Huh.” Phaedra unfolds the page. “Paper directions.” She glances at me and lifts one corner of her mouth. “I didn’t know that was still a thing.”

Elena gives a curt nod before returning to the airport building.

I put our bags in the boot and offer Phaedra the keys. “Would you drive?”

Her coppery eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“You’re an excellent engineer—I assume you drive well too.”

A smile twitches on her lips. “Oh, quit sucking up.” She takes the keys from me, turning back the cuffs on her shirt while walking to the driver’s side. “Buckle in, pretty boy.”

It’s meant as mockery. But I’ll take it.

The cottage is seashell white with low, rustic archways, stained-glass windows, and mosaic tile floors. Upon arrival, we chose bedrooms, Phaedra placing her bag in the smallest because it’s farthest from mine. She napped for a few hours, and I recharged in my own way—changing into workout clothes and running on the three hundred steps from Ammoudi to Oia.

After that, I took a long shower during which I admit to a certain amount of reflection on Miss Morgan’s charms, imagining her hand rather than my own.

The flinty Elena proved to be an unparalleled cook. Phaedra and I filled ourselves with spanakopita, stuffed grape leaves, htipiti and bread, olives, dates, and shared a bottle of pinot noir on the back patio, which overlooks the Aegean.

The sunset is breathtaking, and I admire it now while lounging on a chaise, watching the candy colors melt into the sea. I’ve almost nodded off, lulled by the music of the waves, when Phaedra returns from her room, where she went to change after dinner.

I straighten when I see her outfit: the shirt is the same, but she now wears an ankle-length orange skirt. A loosely woven blanket is draped over her shoulders, serving as a shawl in the evening chill. Her feet are bare, and I can’t help staring at them.

“What?” She drags the other chaise farther from mine before sitting. “Don’t gawk like a weirdo.”

I emit a small, helpless laugh. “I’ve just never seen you in a skirt.”

She yanks the fabric down to cover her legs. “Blame Elena—this is the only thing I have with an elastic waist.”

“What about pajamas?”

“I don’t wear pajamas.” Her eyes are closed when she says it, but fly open as she realizes what she’s let slip.

“I don’t either.” My voice comes out lower than I expected.

She peeks at me before fussing with the skirt, drawing up her legs.

“I, uh, talked to Mo,” she says, clearly reaching to change the subject rather than lingering on the point of our respective sleep-nudity. “He’s gonna be in Switzerland a few more days. He’s—” She chews at her lower lip. “Meeting with someone.”

I’m unsure why she’s telling me this. I assumed Ed Morgan was away on business, but there’s a tension to Phaedra’s tone. I sense she wants me to ask for details.

“Yes? New sponsor?”

“No, no.” She flips one hand, as if I’m badgering her. “It’s nothing.”

In the shadows of a fading sunset, I covertly study her expression. Her brows are pinched, and it may be a trick of the ruddy light, but she looks teary.

The awareness falls around me, weighty and frightening, that she could easily have stayed in her room after the meal. But she’s come out to sit with me, the man she hates, and is angling to confide something.

The responsibility feels overwhelming. Every week I climb into a twelve-million-dollar car and feel less pressure, even knowing I may put it into the wall. Phaedra’s trust seems more fragile and valuable.

“The meeting,” I venture. “Not business?”

She shakes her head, watching the sea, twisting one of the ties on her shirt around her finger tightly. She unwinds it and her hand drops, dangling alongside the chaise.

“It’s… it’s a d-doctor,” she falters, just above a whisper.

I pause as I contemplate what this could mean, then capture her hand and lean in to place a kiss on her knuckles.

“Your father will be all right, drag?. He’s well cared for.”

She pulls away—though gradually—before meeting my eye. “I hope. Mo says Dr. Brunner is one of the best.”

“Of that I am certain.” I offer a reassuring smile. “But I meant he is well cared for by you.”

When I come downstairs at nine the next morning, Phaedra is in the kitchen, pouring out the last cup of coffee. She’s wearing khaki shorts and a strappy tank top that shows off the curve of her shoulder blades. Her feet are bare, and her hair is twisted up, secured with a gold clip shaped like a leaf.

“Is there more coffee?” I ask, coming up beside her.

She smells like soap, but her hair is dry and has the pleasant sugary-musky scent of being unwashed. I ache to slide my arms around her, our bodies parallel as I stroke her narrow little waist.

“There is if you make it,” she says with a playful smirk.

It encourages me enough that as she walks away, I catch her hand and reel her back.

“Cruel woman, stealing the last cup.”

She tries to hold it away and my hand sweeps up her bare arm.

“Quit!” she commands with a laugh. She sidesteps and bumps the counter. “Oh my God, Ardelean, let go…”

I wonder if she doesn’t mind the way we’re pressed close. Her color is high, pupils wide in their halo of green.

“Let me have this cup,” I coax. “I’ll make more for you.”

“Maybe don’t roll out of bed at nine if you’re desperate for caffeine. I’ve been up since six, you lazy schmuck. Besides, I already drank out of this one. It’s officially mine. Claimed.”

We both go still, and I’m looking down at her from a foot above, our bodies aligned. She’s breathing fast, and my gaze drops to the curve of her breasts. Her full lips are rosy, and she moistens them. A dart of concern folds between her brows.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I shift my hips. “Admiring you.” I gently manacle her wrist and draw it closer. Her fingers are around the mug, and I cover them with my own. Our hands joined, I lift the mug and take a sip. “Officially mine. Claimed ,” I echo.

Her direct nature regains control of our moment of runaway lust. She shakes her head.

“This isn’t a romantic getaway, Ardelean. It’s like an extended conference room meeting, minus the headsets.”

“I know.” I allow a hint of teasing in my tone.

“We’re just supposed to, y’know, chitchat. Get comfortable.”

“I’m very comfortable.” An electric surge of blood flow moves my cock, and I suspect she feels it.

“Cosmin,” she whispers. “ This ”—and to my shock, she pushes her hips against me to illustrate her point—“can’t be what we bring back to the team. It’s not what Klaus intended.”

I lightly run a knuckle down her upper arm. “We are supposed to build trust. What better way?”

“The nonfraternization guidelines exist for a reason: no dating team members, journalists, investors, or sponsors. The rules are clear.”

She pauses, searching my eyes, and I think she’s going to step back, but she remains pressed close.

“You weren’t there when it happened,” she continues, “but three years ago when Reece started dating her wife, who was an Emerald systems tech at the time, Colette had to quit her job , for fuck’s sake.”

I sigh. “Yes, but—”

“We stick to the program, got it?” She lifts the coffee mug, resting it against her lower lip for a moment, but doesn’t take a drink. I wonder if it’s to make sure I don’t initiate the kiss we can both feel.

“No flirting—it’s too risky,” she insists. “We’re supposed to, like, just talk about movies we love, watch Premier League over beers, tell each other our favorite colors. Friendly shit like that.”

She edges away from me, and my body is in mourning. I caress her shoulder, a ghost of a touch. She freezes.

“I told you, drag?. My favorite color is white.”

I’m afraid the moment will be lost forever if I don’t give her something by which to remember it. I brush my lips along the curve of her shoulder.

“And some day, when you admit you wore that white shirt for me… I will reward you.”