The Kyriakos Virgin Bride by Tessa Radley Page B

shadows at the top of a set of stone stairs that spiralled down into the heart of some kind of tower where wall sconces lit the whitewashed walls. Zac was already two levels down, his footfalls ringing against the hard stone.
    â€œWhat about my luggage?” she called down.
    â€œGeorgios will attend to it,” Zac tossed over his shoulder without slowing his pace.
    â€œI hate you.”
    The staccato beat of his shoes against the stairs drummed the horrible words into a crazy kind of rhythm inside Zac’s head and left him reeling.
    I hate you. I hate you. The echo grew louder and louder until he wanted to bang his forehead against the curving walls of the tower that surrounded him and watch the stone to crumble into dust…the way his dreams had.
    But he couldn’t. He was Zac Kyriakos. That kind of behaviour did not become him. So he squared his shoulders like the man he was, the man he’d been born and raised to be, and tried to convince himself that it wasn’t relief that coursed through him when at last Pandora’s footfalls sounded on the stone stair treads far above.
    Good, she was following.
    He slowed his pace a fraction. There’d been a moment after they’d disembarked from the helicopter when he’d wondered if she would. But she’d given in. He told himself that he’d never expected any other outcome, never doubted she would do exactly as he wanted.
    Even though she hated him.
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    Zac was waiting when Pandora finally exited the stairwell onto a wide terra-cotta-tiled landing that branched off to a narrow kitchen on one side and a huge sitting area to the other. Pandora caught a glimpse of stainless steel and pale marble bench tops in the unexpectedly modern galley-style kitchen before Zac gestured her forward.
    â€œThis way.” He spoke in a cold, distant tone, and nerves balled her stomach in a tight knot.
    She followed him into a large, airy space—and gasped at the sight of the sunset-streaked sky. Glassed on three sides, the space gave an impression of height and light and freedom, of seeing the world from the perspective of a gull in the sky. A rapid scan of her surroundings revealed a pair of long ivory leather couches separated by a heavy bleached-wood coffee table. An immense cream flokati rug added softness to the room without breaking the monochromatic colour scheme. Like the stairwell, the walls in here were covered with rough plaster and washed with white. And nothing detracted from the incredible impact of the sky and sea turned gold by the setting sun.
    Except the brooding man standing an arm’s length from her.
    Pandora gave him a quick glance and looked away, a frown pleating her brow. So he was affronted because she didn’t want him near her? Because she’d lashed out that she hated him? What the hell did he expect given the way he’d behaved?
    Kidnapping her.
    Thrusting her into that flying monster.
    Agitated, she brushed back the tendrils of hair that the buffeting wind on the rooftop had tousled. “You know, I haven’t been up in a helicopter for years.” Her voice shook with a mixture of anguish and rage and long-suppressed emotion.
    He swivelled on his heel, arrogance in every line of that hard, lean body, and balled his hands on his hips, watching her from behind inscrutable eyes. “I really don’t care about the last time you went joyriding.”
    â€œGod, I hate you!”
    Pandora itched to smack that insolent, cold-as-marble mask. But her hands were trembling so much she doubted she would succeed. Where had she ever gotten the idea that his eyes were tender, loving? That the hard slash of his mouth revealed passion and humour? That this stranger loved her?
    The urge for straight talk that had raised its head less than ten minutes ago vanished. He didn’t deserve any explanation of her terror. He didn’t deserve to hear about…about…about the other stuff she needed to tell