Page 9 of The Billionaire's Seduction Revenge

She was no match for his size but even if she had been, it wouldn’t have mattered; Emma didn’t put up even the smallest of fights. She turned into Vasilios and stared up at his face as though he was a magnet, drawing her to him, holding her there.

“I—there’s nothing to tell.”

“You are a very bad liar,” he said thoughtfully, frowning. “And yet I cannot say I think a single word you have spoken to me is honest.”

“I don’t know why you would think that.”

He lifted his other hand to her face, pressing his palm to her cheek. Emma’s brain shouted at her to pull away, but his proximity was hypnotic and mesmerising; she stayed where she was.

“Because you have obfuscated at every opportunity.”

“You are a stranger,” she hotly denied. “You’re no one to me. Why should I bare my soul to you?”

“If you were not existing as an evidently essential adjunct to my grandfather’s existence, I would not have cared at all who you are. But you’re here. In my home, in my pool house, with your things and your secrets taking up all the space.” His nostrils flared warningly. “I deserve the truth.”

“The truth is that I work for your grandfather, and that I’m good for him. If you want more than that, you can fire me.” She wrenched her hand free, and though it was belated, Emma couldn’t help feeling relief at having made a stand—even when it was immediately followed by a betraying sense of remorse.

Human contact was an essential part of life and Emma had done without for a long time. His touch, though unasked for, had sparked something in her blood, had made her aware for the first time in many months, what it was like to feel flesh brush flesh.

She waited for the axe to fall, for him to agree that yes, he would fire her, but he held his face in the same enigmatic mask, so she sighed.

This wasn’t like Emma.

She didn’t fight with people. She didn’t argue. She was generally liked, by those she knew, though she admittedly hadn’t known many people that well. Keeping everyone at a distance was an art form Emma had perfected. Once, she’d let those guardrails down, and ended up married six weeks later. And again, with Costa, she’d allowed the old man to work his way through her cold façade, to ingratiate himself in the simplest of ways—by bringing her ice cream each afternoon, as she sat on the bench overlooking the sea, absorbing the beauty of the setting sun on a soul deep level. It had been when she’d first arrived in Puglia and the anonymity had been essential. She’d even adored the otherness of the language, that she couldn’t comprehend any of the conversations swirling around her meant she was existing in her own little bubble, with no expectation of interaction or reaction.

At first he’d simply come to sit beside her. Each afternoon for a week, without speaking more than a perfunctory greeting as he sat down, and then, the following week, a few words would follow, just enough for Emma to know that he was grappling with something—his own mortality, it transpired. Was it sympathy that had softened her resolve?

A week after that, there’d been gelato, and at that point, Emma’s accommodation—in the home of some friends of her aunt’s—had been about to become unavailable, as they were returning from their own vacation. Emma faced the possibility of flying home to Sydney, but the thought made her feel as though a thousand spiders had been set loose on her naked flesh.

Sydney was full of memories and for the moment, none of them were good.

One thing had simply led to another and somehow, Costa had become her knight in shining armour, as she had become his.

“Your grandfather was lonely,” she said, quietly, surprised by the admission, because she didn’t owe Vasilios anything. Except her condemnation? Yes, she felt that for him. After all, why leave a sweet old man on his own for so much of the time? She had gleamed enough to know that Vasilios was wealthy beyond compare and had a host of resources at his disposal: how easy it would have been for him to fly back to Puglia regularly, to spend time with Costa, particularly as his health deteriorated.

“And you saw an opportunity,” he responded, arms crossed over his chest. The quick-fire reply was so like him, so scathingly judgemental, that she wanted to scream.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded tartly. “Exactly. Enticing eighty-seven-year-olds into bed is my favourite hobby.”

Vasilios’s eyes cracked to hers; his expression was thunder. “If you would answer me simply about the job you do for him, I would not have to fill in the gaps with my own suppositions.”

Emma ground her teeth. “It’s really not a big deal.” She turned her back on Vasilios, glad to have her eyes filled with something other than him. He was simply too big and broad and fascinating. “I’m his companion. I hang out with him.”

“Hang out,” Vasilios repeated sceptically.

“We keep each other company. He’s lonely and afraid, Vasilios.” She admitted as much and then wondered if she shouldn’t—Costa’s feelings were his own, and it wasn’t really Emma’s place to share them. But maybe by explaining to Vasilios she could convince the grandson to be more involved in Costa’s life? “In that huge house all on his own, with nothing but his worsening health prognosis for company, your grandfather was miserable.”

She didn’t turn to look at Vasilios so didn’t see the way his eyes darkened, his skin paling slightly beneath his dark tan.

Having started explaining, Emma found she couldn’t stop. “We do this,” she said, gesturing ahead, to where Costa had stopped to prop against a large rock, legs planted wide on the ground, feet bare in the sand. “Walk, talk, admire the view. We play cards in the afternoons, and I read the newspaper to him. He’s a voracious consumer of news, you know, and particularly likes it when you are mentioned in the business sections.” She angled her face to Vasilios’s then, wondering if that would stroke his ego, or feed his pride, but he looked almost distracted, staring straight ahead, features stone-like in his face that was, objectively speaking, incredibly handsome.

“And you dine together?” Vasilios asked, after a small pause. Did he really still think this was about sex? That they were having a relationship?

“Sometimes,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “Breakfasts, yes, but he tires early. Generally, Costa has dinner just after sunset, and retires to his room to fall asleep listening to his favourite podcasts.”

“Podcasts?” The word was rich with disbelief.

“A doctor suggested it,” she said with a small smile. “I was surprised too, but he’s actually really savvy with all things technology. At least, with the things he wants to master.”

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