Wendy Rosnau - Merrick's Eleventh Hour

The stark white card was pierced on a rose thorn like a dagger. He bent down and pulled the card free. The rain had smeared the ink, but it was still legible.

Four words scribbled in red ink. Four words that would send Merrick back to Greece.

Game on. Your move.

“Kipler has just sent word that the Starina has been spotted, Callia. Your husband is home.”

Cyrus’s long-standing housekeeper, Zeta Poulos, stood in the bedroom doorway, her pretty island features accented by her smile.

The sun was setting. Callia had just showered and slipped on a white caftan. With no time to dress, she tucked her asthma inhaler in the nightstand drawer along with her nebulizer, then stepped out onto the veranda.

The view from the second-story bedroom was picture-perfect. A vision of paradise that would easily sell a dream vacation to Corfu.

Three months ago Cyrus had moved her and Erik into a villa on the island. She was used to being uprooted. Survival came with a price, and that price had required a new address every couple of years.

The cove was normally quiet, but now six guards scrambled toward the dock as the Starina glided into the harbor. Cyrus came ashore quickly. He spoke to Timon Kipler, the man in charge when her husband was away, and the exchange sent Kipler hurrying back to the yacht.

The warm island breeze blew Callia’s black hair into her eyes and she reached up. Holding her hair in place, she watched Cyrus begin the long climb up the stone steps that wrapped the sharp, rocky face where the villa was perched like an eagle’s nest high above the Ionian Sea.

Her movement must have caught his attention, and he stopped and looked up. He was still a hundred yards away, but she knew he was smiling. He gave her a thumbs-up—the signal that all was well, and she waved in relief.

He never spoke about business. It was an old rule that had come into play long ago. A rule she never challenged. As long as he came back, she was content. And he always came back. It was the one constant in her life. That, and Erik.

In the beginning she’d felt only gratitude, indebted to him for saving her life. But over the years her gratitude had slowly turned into love. Not the kind born out of burning passion. This was a safe and secure love bred out of loyalty and trust.

When he disappeared from sight, she remained on the veranda. She heard him speaking to Zeta. The fifty-year-old housekeeper spoke softly in return. Cyrus never let the smallest detail of their lives go unchecked. Whether it had to do with his business affairs or mundane household trivia, he required an accounting from everyone he employed.

She heard his footsteps on the stone tiles that were polished like a mirror. Caught the scent of sweet tobacco, but she didn’t turn around. Then a pair of strong arms captured her around the waist.

He lowered his head, said softly, “Although I have no sympathy for the weaknesses of men, I confess you are mine.”

Callia smiled. “Have you taken to reciting poetry after all these years?”

“Poetry? I know nothing about poetry,” he muttered close to her ears. “Greek mythology, perhaps. Inspired by your goddesslike beauty.”

He hugged her tighter, drew her back against his hard body, and she knew his eyes had drifted shut. Knew that she held some odd power over him, that she was his weakness. And although he had no sympathy for men with such flaws, she had become her husband’s debility.

“It’s hard to believe that you could have grown more beautiful. Have you and Zeta cooked up some fountain of youth potion you’ve neglected to tell me about? Something we could bottle and sell to the islanders?”

Still smiling, Callia turned in his arms. “If you’re trying to get me in bed, you don’t need to use flattery.”

“Is that what I’m doing, trying to get you in bed?”

“That’s usually where you want me when you first come home. A new routine tonight?”

“No. I like the old routine.”

“That’s why you’re staring at my mouth?”

“You always kiss me right about now. Da, I like the old routine. So where is my welcome-home kiss, wife?”

Callia went up on her tiptoes, one hand curling around his neck as she offered him a warm kiss. When she would have pulled away, he slid his hands over her backside and pulled her into him, lengthening the kiss.

She was naked beneath the flimsy caftan. He released a primal moan, then let her go.

“Give me a quick update on Erik so I can concentrate on my wife.”

“He’s still opposing college,” she said, giving way to her disappointment and frustration over her most recent argument with her son. “He wants to work with you.”

“And that frightens you?”

“Shouldn’t it?”

“You know I would never let anything happen to our son.”

“Can you please talk to him.”

“You mean change his mind?”

“Please?”

“I’ll speak to him. I see you’ve already started working your magic on decorating the villa. Not overdoing it are you?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Fine isn’t wonderful. Zeta told me you had an asthma attack a few days ago.”

“Spring pollen,” she said to dismiss the incident that had put her on her back for two days. She still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent—it would take days—but she would deal with it as she always had, without complaint. “So you like what I’m doing with the house?”

“I like whatever you like. The villa is adequate. Soon to be beautiful. Whatever you want.”

“You spoil me.”

“I have an ulterior motive. A spoilt wife is happy and content.” He cupped her face and kissed her again. “A man would have to be crazy not to give you whatever you wanted, just to be in the company of that smile. Now then, what were you saying about our routine?”

He liked it when she made the first move. Dutifully, she reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Three buttons open and she spotted an angry red scar that hadn’t yet healed completely. “What happened?”

“A minor accident. A careless mistake.”

“You’re never careless.” She stepped away from him, reluctant to ask him what had happened, but needing some kind of assurance that nothing had changed. That they were still safe. “Who did that to you?”

She saw his eyebrows furrow. “You know the rules, and you know by now that I’m indestructible.”

He left her standing on the veranda and walked back into the bedroom. He removed his shirt, and she saw more scars overlapping the old ones that had ravaged his body years ago. Some horrible injustice—a betrayal before they had met—is how he’d explained what had to have been a near death experience.

Callia understood betrayal. Her own had left her scarred, and although the wounds weren’t visible, she’d been cut deeply and forever changed.

She stepped into the bedroom, still watching him. Naked, he tossed the gold coverlet off the bed and stretched out on the blue satin sheets.

“Show me, Callia. Show your husband how beautiful you are. I want to feast my eyes on every inch of you. I’ve thought of nothing else the entire time I’ve been away.”

She slid the caftan off her slender shoulders and let it fall to the floor. For a woman in her forties, she was still trim, her breasts high and firm, her curvy body and slender legs toned like an athlete from years of long walks on the guarded beaches of Greece.

His eyes moved slowly over her as she came to him and curled up beside him. She knew he liked to be touched, and again she made the first move, gliding her fingers gently over his bare chest. Then lower.

A moan of pleasure made his eyes drift shut. “That’s it, work your magic.”