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The composting bag full, Grace tied it and placed it in a corner. He, meanwhile, had taken over the scooping of the leaves.
She moved next to him, her bare legs inches from where he crouched down. If he reached out, his fingers could follow a lazy path over her creamy skin. He could learn at what point her eyes would glaze over as his fingers traced her sensitive spots. The desire to pull her down onto the mound of leaves and kiss that beautiful mouth raged inside him.
‘There’s no need for you to help.’
She sounded weary.
He stood. His gut tightened when he saw the exhaustion in her eyes. ‘You need a break. Have some lunch. I’ll finish here.’
She hesitated, but then walked over to the tray. The deep aroma of Greek coffee filled the workshop but she immediately went back to work, carrying a fresh box over to the table. In between opening the box and sorting through the flowers she hurriedly gulped down some coffee and took quick, small bites of a triangular-shaped parcel of spinach and feta cheese pie—spanakopita.
He gathered up the tray, ignoring her confused expression, and took it to a bench outside. When Grace joined him he said, ‘You shouldn’t work and eat at the same time.’
‘I’m too busy.’
‘Let’s make a deal. If you agree to take a ten-minute break, I’ll stay a while and unpack some of the supplies for you.’
She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Are you sure?’
He needed to make clear his reasons for doing this. ‘You’re my guest—it’s my duty to take care of you.’
She paused for a moment and considered his words before giving a faint nod. ‘I’d appreciate your help, but I must warn you that it might prove to be a tedious job because the suppliers haven’t labelled the boxes. I need you to find the glass vases for me first, as I have to prep them today. There’s a box-cutter you can use on the table next to the boxes.’
He went back inside and started opening boxes. She rejoined him within five minutes. A five-minute break that had included her answering a phone call from someone called Lizzie.
A begrudging respect for her work ethic toyed with his annoyance that she hadn’t adhered to her side of the bargain. He wasn’t used to people going against his orders.
They both worked in silence, but the air was charged with an uncomfortable tension.
Eventually she spoke. ‘What were these workshops originally used for?’
Sadness tugged in his chest at her question. He swallowed hard before he spoke. ‘My uncle was a ceramicist and he built these workshops for his work.’
She rested her hands on the workbench and leaned forward. ‘I noticed some ceramic pieces in your house—are they your uncle’s?’
‘Yes. He created them in these workshops; there’s a kiln in the end room.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
Thrown by the admiration and excitement in her voice, he pressed his thumb against the sharp blade of the box cutter. ‘He died two years ago.’
For a long while the only sound was the whistle of the light sea breeze as it swirled into the workshop.
She walked around the bench to where he was working. ‘I’m sorry.’
He glanced away from the tender sincerity in her eyes. It tugged much too painfully at the empty pit in his stomach.
‘What was he like?’
The centre of my world.
He went back to work, barely registering the rows of candles inside the box he had just opened.
‘He was quiet, thoughtful. He loved this island. When I was a small boy the island belonged to my grandparents. They used it as their summer retreat. My uncle lived here permanently. Christos and I used to spend our summers here, free to explore without anyone telling us what to do and when to be home. That freedom was paradise. We’d swim and climb all day, and at night we’d grill fish on the beach with our uncle. He would tell us stories late into the night, trying his best to scare us with tales of sea monsters.’
‘There’s a gorgeous ceramic pot in the living room, with images of sea monsters and children...did he create that?’
He was taken aback that she had already noticed his single most treasured possession, and it was a while before he answered. ‘Yes, the children are Christos and me.’
‘What wonderful memories you both must have.’
He turned away from the beguiling softness in her violet eyes. He closed the lid of the box, still having been unable to locate the vases. It was strange to talk to someone about his uncle. Usually he closed off any conversation about him, but being here, in one of his workshops, with this quietly spoken empathetic woman, had him wanting to speak about him.
‘He always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when they were unconventional or high risk. He even funded my first ever property acquisition when I was nineteen. Thankfully I was able to pay him back with interest within a year. He believed in me, trusted me when others didn’t.’
Her thumb rubbed against the corner of a box. He noticed that her nails, cut short, were varnish-free. A plaster was wrapped around her index finger and he had to stop himself from taking it in his hand.
She inhaled before she spoke. ‘You were lucky to have someone like that in your life.’
Taken aback by the loneliness in her voice, he could only agree. ‘Yes.’
She gave him a sad smile. ‘Kasas is a very special place...you’re lucky to have a house somewhere so magical.’
Old memories came back with a vengeance. ‘Some people would hate it.’
‘Hate this island? I think it’s the most beautiful place I have ever visited.’
Andreas watched her, disarmed by the passion in her voice. He wanted to believe everything she said was heartfelt and genuine. That he wasn’t being manipulated by a woman again. But cold logic told him not to buy any of it.
It was time to move this conversation on. It was getting way too personal.
‘The vases aren’t here.’
Her mouth dropped open and she visibly paled. ‘They have to be.’
‘I’ve double-checked each box—they’re not.’
She gave a low groan and rushed over to the boxes, while frantically pushing buttons on her phone. As she ransacked the boxes she spoke to someone called Jan.
Andreas walked away and into the adjoining room. Once again he tried to ignore the loneliness crowding his chest at being in these workshops for the first time since his uncle had died.
A few minutes later Grace followed him into the end room, where the kiln was located. She stopped at the doorway and clenched her phone tight in her palm. Her paleness had now been replaced by a slash of red on her cheeks.
She spoke in a low voice, her eyes wary. ‘The vases were never despatched by the suppliers in Amsterdam; they won’t get here before Saturday.’
He had guessed as much. He gestured to the vast array of white porcelain pots on the bench beside the kiln. ‘You can use these instead.’
Her eyes grew wide and she went and picked one up. And then another. Her fingers traced over the smooth delicate ceramic. ‘Are you sure?’
‘He had moved back to working predominantly with porcelain in the year before he died. I’ve never known what to do with all his work, I didn’t want to sell it...’ Unexpected emotion cut off the rest of what he had been about to say.
Soft violet eyes held his. ‘This can’t be easy for you.’
He glanced away. ‘He would like it that his work is being used for Christos’s wedding.’
With that he walked back to the main workshop, wanting to put some distance between him and this woman who kept unbalancing his equilibrium. Frustration rolled through him. What was it about Grace that made him break all his own rules?
He had another ten minutes before he had to leave. There were a few small boxes yet to open.
He unwrapped a small rectangular parcel first, and found inside, wrapped in a soft cloth, a pair of silver sandals. ‘These are unusual florist’s supplies.’
‘My sandals!’ She dropped the flowers she was working on and took the slender sexy heels from him.
Imagining Grace’s enticing legs in the sandals, he felt his blood pressure skyrocket. In need of distraction, he went back to opening the next box.
‘The shop didn’t have them in my size so I had them delivered here...’ Her voice trailed off and then she said in a low, desperate voice, ‘Don’t open that box.’
But she was too late. His fingers were already looped around two pale pink silk straps. He lifted the material to reveal a sheer lace bustier.
With an expression of absolute mortification Grace stared at the bustier, and then down at the scrap of erotic pink lace still left in the box, sitting on a bed of black tissue paper. Odds on it was the matching panties. Red-hot blood coursed through his body.
‘Yours, I take it?’
For a moment her mouth opened and closed, but then she grabbed the bustier and the box and walked away.
She kept her back to him as she bundled the bustier back into its box. ‘It’s for the wedding, but I’m not sure I’ll wear it.’
Time for him to leave—before he burst a blood vessel. ‘I have afternoon calls I have to get back to.’ He made it as far as the door before he turned back. ‘Grace?’
She turned around towards him.
‘Wear it.’
He walked away as her lips parted in surprise. He had never wanted to grab a woman and kiss her senseless more in all his life.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b18da7e7-2a59-55c6-8953-3b99c1035913)
GRACE REACHED FOR the bell clapper, feeling the ladder wobbling beneath her.
‘What in the name of the devil are you doing?’
She jerked at the sound of Andreas’s irate voice beneath her and the precarious ladder swayed wildly. A startled yelp from deep within her shot out into the evening air, but mercifully the ladder was steadied before it toppled to the ground.
She dared a quick glance down. A livid Andreas was gripping the side bars, one foot on the bottom rung.
She swallowed hard, uncertain as to what was more daunting: this fury, or the heat in his eyes earlier when he had lifted up her bustier. Heat that had ignited a yearning in her that had left her breathless and just plain exasperated. They didn’t even particularly like each other. Why, then, did she feel as though she was about to combust any time she came into contact with him?
‘I’ve decided that the chapel needs some extra decoration in addition to what I’d planned, so I’m making a garland that will hang from the bell tower down to the ground. I need to measure the exact length.’
‘Aman! You are breaking my nerves! You shouldn’t be doing this alone; the flagstones are too uneven.’
He was right, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘I’m fine—it’s a quick job.’ To prove her point she knotted twine around the bell clapper and then dropped the twine spool to the ground before climbing down the ladder. She avoided looking at him and instead pulled the twine out to the angle she wanted the garland positioned at on the wedding day. Cutting it to the desired length, she ignored his infuriated expression. ‘I need to climb back up and untie the other end.’
He gave an exasperated sigh and scaled the ladder himself, dropping the twine when he’d untied it. Back on the ground, he unlocked the extension ladder she had borrowed from Ioannis and collapsed it down.
Then he studied her with incensed eyes, his mouth a thin line. ‘Don’t try that again.’
Of course she would. But she wasn’t going to get into an argument with him. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
His gaze narrowed. The uncomfortable sensation that he could see right through her had her grabbing the twine off the ground and asking, ‘Is it okay if I use some of the rosemary and bay growing on the terraces for the garland?’
He considered the long length of twine sceptically. ‘Is it really necessary? I thought you were under pressure timewise?’
She was, but it was these final touches that would make her work stand apart. ‘I’ll find the time.’ She paused and gestured around her. ‘I want the flowers to do justice to this setting.’
Set on a rocky promenade beyond the golden sandy beach, the tiny whitewashed chapel with its blue dome had a dramatic backdrop of endless deep blue seas and skies.
His jaw hardened even more, and she winced to think about the pressure his poor teeth must be under.
‘My guess is that Sofia would prefer her bridesmaid not to be in a plaster cast on her wedding day for the sake of a few flowers.’
Wow, that was a low blow. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I need to finalise my plans for the chapel’s bespoke floral arrangements—or, as you call them, “a few flowers”.’
His mouth twisted at her barbed comment. ‘It will be dark soon.’
‘I won’t be long.’ When he didn’t move, she added, ‘You don’t need to wait for me.’
‘And have you getting lost on the way back? No, thanks. I don’t want to have to spend a second night rescuing you.’
With that he turned and went and sat on the low whitewashed wall that surrounded the chapel terrace.
Behind him the deep blue sea met the purple evening sky; it was a postcard-perfect image of the Greek Islands but for the scowling man who dominated the frame.
* * *
Grace circled the terrace outside the chapel, all the while taking notes, scribbling into her notebook. Every now and again she would glance in his direction and throw him a dirty glare. Which he was just fine with. Because he was in a pretty dirty mood himself. In every sense.
All afternoon he had been plagued with images of her wearing that sexy lingerie. The bustier hugging her small waist, lifting her breasts to a height and plumpness that demanded a man taste them. Those skimpy panties moulded to her pert bottom... Hell, he couldn’t go there again. His call to the Cayman Island planners had been a washout as a result.
She had already put in a twelve-hour day, with less than five minutes taken for lunch. Did it really matter this much what the flowers looked like? Did anyone even notice the flowers on a wedding day?
‘Why does this wedding mean so much to you?’
She turned to him in surprise, her notebook falling to her side. The long length of her golden ponytail curled over one shoulder and his fingers tingled in remembrance of its softness and her delicate sensual scent last night. His gut tightened. Those legs were once again driving him crazy with images of the chief bridesmaid that he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of.
He dated some of the most beautiful women in Athens. Why was he so drawn to this out-of-bounds woman?
Eventually she walked over and sat on the wall beside him. She left a significant gap between them.
