Page 37 of Virgin's Night with the Greek

‘Prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove anything.’

‘Then humour me.’

‘I don’t need to do that either.’

He glanced her way in time to see a triumphant spark light her eyes. ‘So youarehiding something.’

The only things he was hiding were intense irritation at being tied in knots and a rapidly growing concern about the torrent of words on the subject that were piling up in his head, demanding release. What that was about he hadn’t a clue. He had no intention of spilling his guts, which would render him exposed, vulnerable and weak. He had never sought understanding or sympathy, and he didn’t want them either, least of all from a potentially destructive force like Willow. He didn’t know why he’d started talking about his relationship with his father in this way in the first place. He never had done before, not even with his siblings.

But she was looking at him as if trying to peer into his soul and he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away, no matter how hard he tried. The longer it went on, the greater the trembling of his defences and the less he could remember why he kept his cards close to his chest. Her gaze was shimmering, bottomless and as he lost himself in it, he had the disturbing feeling that his guard wasn’t just down; he didn’t even know where it was.

‘Fine,’ he found himself saying, unease drumming through his veins as his protective shield lay shattered about him and the words poured out. ‘I might be good at it but the role doesn’t come easily to me. I don’t thrive under pressure. I don’t enjoy zigzagging continents and endlessly crossing time zones. I find the responsibility of employing tens of thousands of staff an unbearable weight and the awareness that if I’m not extremely vigilant everything for which I’m responsible will come crashing down pervades my every waking moment.’

For a moment Willow didn’t respond. When she did it was with a slightly stunned, ‘Wow.’

‘You did ask.’

‘That isnotthe image you present.’

Thank God. ‘Of course it isn’t.’

‘Is that why you’re so big on control?’

‘Yes. It’s got me through some tough times.’ His father’s death... Inheriting the business... His sister’s illness... He didn’t know how he’d have coped without it.

‘I thought it was because you feared you were too like your mother.’

‘There’s that, too,’ he admitted, now that he’d started apparently unable to stop. ‘She is wild and self-centred and people can sometimes get hurt by her thoughtlessness. Not only do I share her genes, in my teenage years, I had also had a tendency to behave like that sometimes.’

‘The boat you crashed?’

‘I’d just discovered in the press that she was having an affair with my then best friend’s father.’

‘That must have been awful.’

It had been worse than awful. It had unleashed a storm of hurt and embarrassment, frustration and fury that he hadn’t know how to handle. ‘It wasn’t just the once,’ he said, ignoring the memories trying to muscle their way into his head. ‘I lost count of the number of friends I made and lost. The boat belonged to her. I took it out on my own one morning in the summer holidays and drove onto the rocks. I was sixteen. I was angry. It worked. I’m not angry anymore.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, with a sharp nod of his head and a mouthful of beer.

It was about the only thing he was certain of at the moment. The crash, unplanned, instinctive, had shaken him up badly. In the aftermath of his rescue, he’d been told by his father—not that he’d needed a lecture, having realised it on his own—that his increasingly reckless behaviour wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t been willing to give up sailing just then, so he’d decided to give up emotion. If he allowed nothing to affect him, he wouldn’t have the urge to react. There’d be no further loss of control, no more damage. Simple.

‘It would be understandable if you were.’

‘It would. However, I’m not. I find my mother frustrating and exhausting, but that’s it.’

‘Right,’ she said dryly, with a nod that suggested she knew something he didn’t and made him feel as though the deck upon which he was sitting were made of jagged glass shards.

‘What?’ he muttered eventually, unable to stand the scrutiny and the knowingness any longer.

‘You have such a lot going on in that handsome head of yours.’

He did. And he had to keep it all in there. Enough of the soul searching and sharing. It was wholly unnecessary. He hadn’t spent years denying his emotions only to let them loose in response to one pertinent question. He would put a stop to this sightseeing nonsense. He and Willow weren’t a couple. Bed was where they functioned best and it was ridiculous to have indulged her otherwise. He’d only put her in the driving seat for the first two days they’d been on the island, but somehow she was still in it and it couldn’t continue.

‘Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?’ he said, putting their now empty bottles back in the cool box and closing the lid with a snap.

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