Page 18 of Greek's Temporary "I Do"

‘Helena, what the hell have you brought me to?’ he whispered the moment he regained the ability to speak.

‘It is called art, Lee—Leander,’ she managed, spinning his name into his brother’s in case anyone was listening.

‘That,’ he spat, ‘is pornography.’ It didn’t seem to matter that he’d glanced at the photograph for less than a second—the image was indelibly inked on his brain. But, what was worse, it was now irrevocably linked to Helena.

Gamóto.

The last thing he wanted, or needed, was to be thinking of Helena in any correlation to the image of a pair of lips utterly encasing a rather turgid part of the male anatomy, in such close proximity that the photographer made the viewer feel less observer and more participant.

One quick glance around the other images adorning clean white gallery walls confirmed his fears. They were everywhere. Every possible sexual act imaginable seemed to be blown up in extreme detail and pasted all over every wall. He could turn a corner and fall headfirst into a ménage à trois if he wasn’t careful.

‘I didn’t take you for such a prude.’

‘I’m not,’ he assured her. ‘In the privacy of my own bedroom.’

And suddenly the air thickened between them, heavy with the implication of what did happen in his bedroom. Helena’s teasing lips wobbled a little. Lips that he had swiped with the pad of his thumb. Lips that he now associated with the large photograph directly behind her. And it was as if that thought lit the touchpaper that had been the last barrier of his restraint.

Helena broke the connection between them, taking slow steps from one large canvas to another. Amongst the black and white images on display and the monochromatic style of the other guests, she stood out like a shard of jade. He followed behind her, stalking her, past pictures of increasingly detailed sexual acts that merged with his earlier fantasies about the woman mere inches away from him. It was a very fine line and he was hovering dangerously close.

‘You look like you’re angry with me,’ she said, her gaze in a reflection of glass covering a sculpture of twisting limbs in marble.

‘How do you want me to look at you?’ he asked before he could stop himself, the question unspooling a dangerous arousal between them.

She stilled, the pulse flickering at her throat daring him to push further, the tremble of her fingers on the stem of the champagne flute urging him beyond his usual self-control.

‘Like I’m your newly married husband?’ he pressed, leaning over her shoulder to whisper into the shell of her ear, unable to help himself. ‘Like I want to do these things to you?’

The sharp inhalation of her shock was both a warning and a temptation, but when she stepped away from the heat of his body he let her go. He took a mouthful of the champagne but it did nothing to cool the ardent heat coursing across his skin.

What was wrong with him?

There was too much at stake to play silly games like that. He blamed it on his body’s primal reaction to her as a woman, the shocking difference between the girl he’d once known and the incredibly beautiful adult before him. He then spent the next twenty minutes wandering the gallery as far from her as possible while he struggled for the control that he was so famous for.

By the time he’d reined himself in he found Helena standing by the window that looked over a stunning Greek nightscape.

‘When can we leave?’ he asked, clearing his throat.

‘Soon,’ she said without looking at him. And he was thankful that at least one of them had sense enough to maintain the barriers between them.

He took another careful sip of his champagne, searching for something safe for them to discuss, rather than the dangerously sensual play they should most definitely not be engaging in.

‘What is Incendia?’ he asked, expecting her to respond with some bland explanation of her day job.

He knew Helena well enough that the evasive shoulder shrug and moue she made with her lips was as red a flag as any.

He nodded to himself and pulled out his phone.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, turning her attention finally away from the view from the gallery window.

‘Looking up Incendia.’

She pushed down his phone with a sharp slap of her hand, catching him completely by surprise, red slashes on her cheekbones, and not through pleasure but anger.

‘What do you want to know?’ she demanded in a low voice.

‘What you’re trying to hide,’ he returned, just as low, sliding his phone back into his suit pocket.

Helena had never been one for deceit and, on reflection, even the idea that she would actually marry Leander to access money was so uncharacteristic he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

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