The Savakis Mistress

Callie slid her hands into her trouser pockets lest she be tempted to do something insane like touch him.

‘Yesterday is over.’

‘But what we had needn’t be.’ His low, seductive voice pierced her brittle façade. He made her yearn again for the delicious torment of his touch.

That terrified her.

‘It’s over,’ she repeated, wishing she believed it.

‘And if I’m not ready to end it?’ His look was arrogant.

‘There was nothing to end.’ The words tumbled out. She had to concentrate on slowing down, maintaining her calm. ‘We had sex. That’s all.’

‘Just sex.’ His brows winged up and she thought she saw fury blaze in his eyes. Then the moment was gone and his face was unreadable. ‘Is that what you specialise in, Callie? Hot sex with strangers you forget the next day?’

Her skin crawled with embarrassment and rage. Yet she knew better than to show it. She let her gaze drop to his shoulders, his wide chest, the powerful length of his arms and legs, then slowly up as if she were used to inspecting the finer points of a sexy male body.

‘I could say the same for you,’ she said, silently cursing the dry mouth that made the words come out too husky. ‘You got what you wanted yesterday. End of story.’

‘You’re wrong, my fine lady. It’s not the end at all.’

A tremor ran through her body, drawing each muscle tight with…anticipation? Excitement?

No! She refused to play his games of seduction and temptation. Yesterday had been a terrible error of judgement. She’d broken every precept, her own moral code, for a few hours’ passion. It had been momentary insanity.

She should have guessed nothing was as pure and simple as it had seemed at the time.

‘Believe me, Kyrie Savakis, it’s over. Why not move on?’ Callie had no doubt by nightfall he’d find another woman eager to become a notch on his bedpost. As she had been yesterday. Her chest constricted painfully.

‘Because I’m a man who gets what he wants, glikia mou. You’ve whetted my appetite and I want more.’

His lips curved in a hungry smile that sent fear trickling down her spine.

‘I want you, Callie. And I intend to have you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

WHAT the hell had got into him? Even as the words emerged from his mouth, Damon questioned his sanity.

She wasn’t the sort of woman he wanted in his life.

Nothing he’d learned about her was positive.

Except for the ecstatic, uninhibited way she responded to sex. In that department she packed enough punch to flatten even his formidable self-control.

The unvarnished truth was once with Callie Manolis wasn’t enough. Despite his scruples and his anger he wanted her. Still. More. Again.

He cursed his weakness but couldn’t pull back. His need was primal, stronger than reason.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth sagged and he fantasised about plundering it with an urgent kiss that would lead to other, more satisfying activities.

‘Your threats don’t frighten me.’ Yet her voice was husky. She was frightened.

Or turned on. Damon’s body tensed on the thought.

‘No threat. A promise.’

‘You have no hold over me.’ She lifted her head and bestowed a blazing look, like an Amazon queen, defiant and proud. ‘I run my own life. No man tells me what to do.’

She gestured to the bungalow at the end of the path. ‘I’m sure you can find your own way, Kyrie Savakis.’ Then she turned and left him. She strolled easily as if she’d done no more than dismiss a servant.

No one dismissed Damon Savakis.

Yet he silently applauded her nerve. Not many people stood up to Damon.

She fascinated him. He wanted to smash past her poise and warm her body with his till the heat consumed them both.

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans rather than haul her into his arms and force her submission with a direct, passionate assault.

That would be too easy, too crude. He wanted the satisfaction of her coming to him, begging for his attention.

In twenty-four hours Callista had become more than a challenge. She was fast becoming an obsession. Despite her disdain. Despite who she was. Or perhaps because of it.

Old anger stirred. His grandfather and his father had slaved for the Manolis family, wrecking their health for little pay. His grandfather had worked himself into an early grave. When Damon’s father died in an industrial accident in the Manolis shipyards his mother had received condolences, a company representative at the funeral and none of the compensation she was entitled to. Lawyers had exploited a loophole to absolve the company of responsibility. As if it wasn’t a matter of conscience and honour. As if his father’s death had been another entry in a ledger.

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