Page 21 of Virgin's Night with the Greek

‘You didn’t miss anything. Honestly.’

‘I should have been more considerate. More patient.’

‘You were everything I’d hoped for.’

Even she could hear the sincerity and urgency in her voice, but he obviously wasn’t listening to her. It was as if he’d retreated into his own world, a world of misconception and, perhaps, guilt, which she suddenly felt the pressing need to address, whether he heard her or not, because she was not having him thinking he was to blame for this. This washerfault.

The pain that had crucified her earlier had dulled to a bearable ache and she uncurled herself, sat up and took a deep breath. ‘What just happened is nothing to do with you, Leo,’ she said, actually rather glad he had his back to her for the very personal and potentially mortifying explanation she was going to have to give. ‘It really isn’t. It’s me. I have endometriosis. It’s a condition where tissue similar to the lining of the womb grows in other places, like the ovaries and things. A nightmare. Anyway. One of the many hideous side effects can be painful sex. That’s one of the reasons why I’m—or at least,was—a virgin. I already experience quite a bit of pain every month and the risk of more never appealed. But then you kissed me on that dance floor and suddenly none of that seemed relevant. I’ve never met anyone who turns me on the way you do. You just have to look at me to make me melt. You short-circuit my brain with the slightest of touches. I really had hoped that with you it would be OK. I really wanted it to be and maybe if I’d had more experience it would have been. I’m devastated beyond belief it wasn’t.’

She stopped to give him the chance to respond. To perhaps accept her apology and thank her for her explanation. He might request more information and assure her he understood. More likely, he’d renew his offer to call her a cab and send her on her way, which would also be acceptable, if disappointing. But he didn’t do anything. He just sat there in the silvery moonlit silence that tautened and thickened with every passing second, and it was every bit as awful as she’d feared.

What was he thinking? That she was a freak? A tease? An object of pity? She didn’t want to know. In fact, right now, all she wanted was to go. She was feeling cold and embarrassed and horribly vulnerable. The loss of her virginity and the stunning orgasm she’d had now counted for nothing. Fire had turned to ash. Leo was still utterly frozen, apparently oblivious to her, his head in his hands, and it was excruciating.

‘I realise this isn’t what you signed up for,’ she said, swallowing down the lump in her throat with difficulty. ‘This wasn’t the deal we made. If anyone should apologise, it’s me. I didn’t think it would be an issue, but I should have at least warned you it could be. I’m really sorry I didn’t. I’m really sorry this happened.’

Gutted, disappointed and humiliated at the way the night had ended, but also deeply relieved she’d never have to see him and face this again, Willow eased off the bed and slipped on her dress.

‘Have a good trip,’ she said, and without looking back, she fled.

Generally speaking, Leo had little time for regret. He wasn’t rash. Every decision he made was deliberately and lengthily considered, so he knew beyond doubt that it was the right one to take at the time. Therefore, he rarely looked back to contemplate whether he could or should have done something differently, even on the extremely rare occasion he made the wrong call.

However, over the course of the next few days, whether discussing the merger in New York, sitting through the series of interminable board meetings in London or ignoring Zander’s puerile texts about the dance floor kiss and his siblings’ interest in his premature exit from the wedding, he came to deeply regret the way the night with Willow had ended.

He had not handled it well. That he’d been so stunned and horrified at the thought he’d hurt her he hadn’t been able to even think straight, let alone respond to what she’d told him—most of which had been muffled by the white noise in his head anyway—was no excuse. He should have found a way through the chaos. He should have asked her to repeat what she’d told him and explain it in more detail.

How he could have allowed her to leave like that, to emerge onto the dark city streets and make her way back to wherever she was staying, alone and in pain, he had no idea. That wasn’t him. He took care of those around him. He did everything in his power to prevent anguish. Or so he’d always believed.

Whenever he thought of the events of that night—which was pretty much 24-7—he broke out into a cold sweat. He couldn’t get the memory of Willow begging him to stop out of his head. The desperation in her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. How had he not noticed her discomfort? How long had she put up with it before becoming unable to take any more and pushing him off? What madness had driven him to such, well,madness? Chemistry? Genetics? What?

From time to time over the years, Leo had wondered what the fallout might be if he ever lost control. He’d assumed that once the spinning plates had smashed on the ground he’d be exposed for the fraud he suspected he was. He’d imagined that as before, the emotions he kept such a tight lid on would burst free and the resentment he still bore deep down would surge up. Mistakes with regard to the business would once again be made and the family’s fortunes would flounder. But he’d never imagined that he could be capable of causing someone pain—all his adult life he’d striven to do the opposite—and the resultant guilt at having done so was unbearable.

So if he had any sense at all, he’d track Willow down and apologise properly for both what he’d done and how he’d dealt with it. He’d throw himself on her mercy and beg her for forgiveness, and then he might finally get some peace.

But he didn’t.

Because, despite all that, drawing a line under everything and consigning her to history didn’t feel right. He still dreamed of her. He still wanted her. The fact that she’d chosen him over anyone else to relieve her of her virginity burned a trail through his brain, along with the revelation that he melted her with a look and frazzled her thoughts with a touch.

He didn’t like the notion that a passionate vibrant woman like her was unable to experience the heady delights of great sex. He didn’t appreciate the feeling of failure or the fact that the impression she had of him now had to be less than favourable. Their business felt unfinished, the mistakes he’d made clawed at his gut, and all he could think about was reparation.

So he wouldn’t be banning the unveiling event that he’d learned from Atticus his mother was planning. In fact, he’d be attending it. It would provide the perfect opportunity to talk to Willow, which he might not get otherwise. And quite frankly, a couple of hours of discomfort at having to come face-to-face with the work that had given him sleepless nights was a small price to pay for the chance to right so many wrongs.

CHAPTER SIX

FORTHEUNVEILINGof her portrait—which, to Willow’s surprise and relief, had gone ahead without any intervention—Selene had commandeered the top floor of an exclusive Athens nightclub and rustled up two hundred of her closest friends. Willow had no clue how she’d achieved either with such short notice but presumably those were the perks of being rich and infamous.

Eight days had passed since the disastrous night she’d spent with Leo. It had taken her some time and a concerted effort to be able to think of it without squirming with embarrassment and overheating, but keeping busy had helped. There’d been this evening to prepare for and the contacts she’d made at the party to follow up on.

Going home to her studio in London when there was so much to do here and so little time in which to do it hadn’t made sense, but the downsides of staying in Athens in the interim, of course, were the constant reminders of the society wedding of the year. The newsstands were filled with magazines that bore official photos of the bride and groom on the cover. It was only through sheer willpower that Willow had managed to resist the temptation to buy one. She had no desire to see if Leo featured within. She had business and a career to attend to and a night of regret and humiliation to cast into oblivion for good.

Fortunately for that goal, there was no danger of him showing up here tonight and bringing it all back up again. The portrait was huge, spotlit and centre stage. She’d been interviewed and photographed for half a dozen international publications already and one person after another had come up to compliment her on her work. But while she was practically bursting with pride and delight at the response, tonight’s unveiling had to be Leo’s worst nightmare made real. Which was a shame, really, because no one was gossiping, no one was sniggering, and if only he could get over his issues with it, he’d see that the portrait truly was a—

‘So this is it.’

At the sound of the deep, gravelly voice a foot to her right, Willow nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped round, her heart pounding as if she’d run a hundred metres in ten seconds, to find the man who’d made no bones about his distaste for the portrait, the man she’d assumed would be a million miles away on a night like this, standing beside her and staring straight at it.

One glance at his strong, stern profile and tall muscled body clad in blue jeans and a loose white linen shirt and the memory of the two of them wrapped around each other on his sheets, him blowing her mind before everything went horribly wrong, flew into her head, blurring her vision and crushing the breath from her lungs.

But she forced it out and blinked and breathed and willed her heartbeat to slow. This was a professional event for her. She had to focus on that. She would not dwell on what had happened in his bedroom or allow a return of the mortification she’d worked so hard to eradicate. She didn’t need to know what he’d been doing lately or if he’d thought about her at all and in what context. She was all about looking forwards, and not just at the portrait.

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