Sara Craven - Her Greek Groom

‘I thought you knew and approved, Miss Fielding,’ the consultant had told her, frowning. ‘He described himself as a close friend of the family.’

‘Yes,’ she’d said, dry-mouthed. ‘Yes, of course.’

It seemed there was not a part of her life that Draco didn’t control. And the fact that in this instance his influence was totally benign somehow made it no better.

Oh, God, she thought. It’s all such a mess.

And began, soundlessly and uncontrollably, to cry until she had no more tears left.

It was the sudden chill of the evening breeze across the lake and the clang of the bell announcing that the grounds were closing that eventually roused her from her unhappy reverie.

It was more than time she was getting back. Berry would have dinner waiting for her and would be worried about her non-appearance, she thought, sighing, as she returned reluctantly to her car.

The hall lights were on when she let herself into the house, but there was no sign of the housekeeper—or of dinner either. No place laid in the dining room or welcoming aroma of food in the air. Just—silence.

She called, ‘Berry—I’m home,’ and waited, but there was no response.

Maybe she’d gone into the garden, to pick some last-minute fruit for dessert or bring in some washing, Cressy thought, subduing an unwelcome tingle of apprehension.

She walked to the drawing room door, twisted the handle, and went in.

Draco was standing beside the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelshelf as he stared down at the empty grate. He turned slightly, the dark eyes narrowing as Cressy paused in the doorway, her hand going to her throat in shock.

He said softly, ‘So here you are at last, agapi mou. I have been waiting for you.’

She said shakily, ‘So I see. Where’s Berry? What’s happened to her?’

His brows lifted. ‘Naturally, I have murdered her and buried her body under the lawn,’ he returned caustically. ‘Or so you seem to think.’

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think anything of the kind,’ she denied curtly, aware that her heart was hammering in a totally unwelcome way at the sight of him. But then he’d startled her—hadn’t he?

‘I was just a little anxious about her,’ she added defensively.

‘So many anxieties about so many people.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘What a caring heart you have, my golden girl. The truth is that I gave your Mrs Berryman the evening off. I believe she means to go to a cinema.’

‘You gave Berry the evening off?’ She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘And she agreed?’

His mouth twisted. ‘She was a little reluctant at first, but I can be very persuasive.’

‘To hell with your powers of persuasion,’ Cressy lifted her chin. ‘You had no right to do anything of the sort.’

‘I have all kinds of rights, Cressida mou.’ His tone hardened. ‘And I mean to enjoy all of them.’ He held out a hand. ‘Now come and welcome me properly.’

Mutinously, she walked forward and stood in front of him. When he kissed her she stood unmoving, un-responding to the warm, sensuous pressure of his lips on hers.

After a moment, he drew back.

‘Sulking?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter? Did I hurt you, perhaps, this morning?’

Colour rushed into her face. She stared down at the carpet. ‘I don’t know.’

He said, ‘Look at me, matia mou. Look at me and say that.’

Cressy raised her eyes unwillingly to him. His smile was faintly mocking, but there was an odd watchfulness in his gaze which she found unnerving.

She said, ‘No—no, you didn’t. As you know quite well.’

‘Where you are concerned, my beautiful one, I suspect I know very little.’ His tone was dry. ‘But I am glad you did not find your first surrender too much of an ordeal.’

She threw her head back defiantly. ‘Your words, kyrie. Not mine. And now perhaps you’d tell me what you’re doing here.’

‘I thought I should pay a visit,’ he said. ‘To make sure that all was well with my property.’ He paused. ‘But I see it is not.’ He took her chin in his hand, studying her, ignoring her gasp of outrage. ‘You have been crying, pethi mou. Why?’

‘Do you really need to ask that?’ She freed herself stormily and stepped back. ‘Or did you imagine I’d be turning cartwheels for joy because the mighty Draco Viannis had sex with me today.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Would you have wept if Draco the fisherman had taken you that day on Myros?’

‘He didn’t exist,’ she said. ‘So how can I know?’

‘You could always—pretend.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s been too much pretence already. Now we have a business arrangement.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said softly. He removed his jacket, tossed it over the arm of one of the sofas and sat down, loosening his tie.

He smiled at her. ‘Then perhaps you would take off your dress—strictly in the line of business.’

Her skin warmed again, hectically. ‘My—dress?’

‘To begin with.’ His tie followed the jacket, and he began, unhurriedly, to unbutton his shirt.

She said, ‘You—you actually expect me to strip for you?’

‘It is hardly a novelty.’ His tone was dry. ‘After all, Cressida mou, the first time I saw your beautiful breasts it was your own idea.’

Her voice trembled. ‘I—hate you.’

He laughed. ‘That should add an extra dimension to the way you remove your clothes, my lovely one. I cannot wait.’

She said, ‘But someone might come…’

He grinned at her. ‘More than one, I hope, agapi mou.’

To her fury, she realised she was blushing again. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And why do you think I gave the housekeeper leave of absence? Precisely so we should not be disturbed. Now, will you take off your dress, or do you wish me to do it for you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a thread. ‘I’ll do it.’

She unfastened the long zip, slid the dress from her shoulders and let it pool round her feet.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘If we’d been married, would you have degraded me like this?’

‘And if we’d been on our honeymoon, Cressida mou, would you have expected either of us to remain fully clothed for very long?’

‘You,’ she said bitterly, ‘have an answer for everything.’

‘And you, my lovely one, talk too much.’ Draco leaned back, watching her through half-closed eyes. ‘Now take off the rest—but slowly.’

They lay together on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, his hands making a long, lingering voyage of rediscovery.

This time, she thought fiercely, she wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t become some mindless—thing, subject to his every sexual whim. She had a will of her own and she would use it.

But it wasn’t easy. Not when he was kissing her slowly and deeply, his tongue a flame against her own. Not when her breasts were in his hands and the tight buds of her nipples were unfurling slowly under his caress. Or when he was stroking her flanks, cupping the roundness of her buttocks in his palms.

And not when she needed him so desperately, so crazily, to touch her—there—at the very core of her womanhood.

He whispered against her lips. ‘This time you have to ask, agapi mou. You have to tell me what you want.’

Her voice cracked. ‘Draco—please…’

‘Not good enough, my sweet one. Is it this?’ He kissed her breasts, taking each soft, scented mound into his mouth in turn.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No. Oh, God…’

‘Or this?’ His fingertips brushed her intimately, as lightly as a butterfly kiss and as fleeting.

Her only answer was a soft, involuntary whimper of yearning.

‘Or even—this?’ His voice sank to a whisper as he bent his head and his mouth found her.