LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

wanted was to be left in peace with her research.

      But that wasn’t an option.

      Staring at him now, she decided that he was every bit as cold and intimidating as his reputation suggested and suddenly all she wanted to do was run. But then she remembered her sister as a child, so blonde and perfect, always smiling. And she remembered her mother’s limp, sobbing form—remembered all the things she’d resolved to say to Nikos Kyriacou if she ever met him face to face.

      Why should she be afraid of being alone with him? What could he do to her family that he hadn’t already done?

      His dark, disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face as he waited for the echo of Helen’s footsteps to recede.

      He had nerve, she had to give him that. To be able to look her in the eye and not appear to feel even the slightest shred of remorse.

      Only when he was sure that Helen Knightly had moved out of earshot did he speak. ‘First, I wish to offer my condolences on the death of your sister.’

      His directness shocked her almost as much as the hypocrisy of his statement. The words might have meant more had they been spoken with the slightest softening of the voice but his tone was hard. The coldness injected into that statement somehow turned sympathy to insult.

      She inhaled sharply and pain lanced through her body. ‘Your condolences?’ Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak the words. ‘Next time you’re offering your condolences, at least try and look as though you mean it. In the circumstances, your sympathy is rather out of place, don’t you think? In fact, I think you have a complete nerve coming here and offering “condolences” after what you did!’ It was the first time she’d ever spoken to anyone in such a way and she reached out a hand and held on to the table, needing the support.

      A frown touched his proud, handsome face, as if he were unaccustomed to being questioned or criticised. ‘Your sister’s death at my villa was extremely unfortunate, but—’

      ‘Extremely unfortunate?’ She, who never raised her voice, who always preferred logic and reasoned argument to mindless aggression, raised it now. A vision of her sister flew into her mind. The sister she’d never be able to hug and laugh with again. ‘Unfortunate? Is that how you justify it to yourself, Mr Kyriacou? Is that how you appease your conscience? How you manage to sleep at night…’

      Something dangerous flared in those dark eyes. ‘I have no trouble sleeping at night.’

      She was suddenly aware of her pounding heartbeat and the dampness of her palms. An instinctive urge of violent aggression swarmed through her and she must have betrayed that urge in some way because the two men in the doorway suddenly stepped forward, ready to intervene.

      Angie realised that she’d actually forgotten their presence. ‘Who are they?’

      ‘My security team.’ Nikos Kyriacou dismissed them with an impatient gesture and they melted into the background, leaving Angie alone with the one man in the world she would have preferred never to meet in person.

      ‘I can understand why a man like you would need a security team if you treat everyone the way you treated my sister! Clearly you have no conscience!’ She placed both hands on her desk. It was that or punch him hard. ‘My sister died in a fall from your balcony and you’re standing there telling me that your conscience is clear?’

      Fine lines of tension appeared around his hard, sculpted mouth. ‘There was a full police investigation and a post mortem. The verdict was accidental death.’ His flat, factual statement held not a trace of emotion and her anger rose to dangerous levels. She’d had no idea that she was capable of feeling such undiluted fury. It was because she hadn’t been given the chance to express her feelings, she told herself. She’d been so busy caring for her mother. It was only at night when she was given the chance to stop and think and then her head was crowded with thoughts of her sister. Her little sister. The person she’d loved most in the world.

      Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘Accidental death. Of course. What else?’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘You’re a very important person, are you not, Mr Kyriacou?’

      His powerful body stilled. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, Miss Littlewood, but I should warn you to be careful.’

      There was something in his tone that made her shiver although she didn’t understand exactly what because he still hadn’t raised his voice or displayed anything other than the utmost control.

      She remembered reading a business article that had described Nikos Kyriacou as cold, ruthless and intimidating and suddenly she could understand why a journalist might have come to that conclusion. His unsmiling, icy calm was in direct contrast to her boiling emotions.

      Normally she would also have described herself as calm but she was fast discovering that grief did funny things to a person. She was discovering parts of her personality that she hadn’t been aware existed—basic urges that had never before revealed themselves—like the desire to wipe that superior expression from his indecently handsome face.

      ‘It’s Dr Littlewood.’ She lifted her chin and corrected him in the tone she reserved for the most arrogant students that she lectured at the university. ‘And you don’t frighten me.’

       ‘Doctor, of course. Dr Angelina Littlewood. And the purpose of my visit is not to scare you.’ He gave a faint smile that implied that if he’d wanted to frighten her it would have been an easy task. She curled her fingers into her palms.

      ‘I don’t use the name Angelina.’ In her opinion it was a ridiculous name. A name suited to an entirely different sort of woman—a beautiful, glamorous woman, not a studious, plain archaeologist. ‘I prefer to be called Angie, as you would be aware if you knew the first thing about me.’

      His hard gaze didn’t shift from her face. ‘I know a great deal about you. You have a diploma in classical archaeology, a PhD in Mediterranean archaeology and you specialise in the art and pottery of the classical Greeks. Quite an impressive academic record for someone as young as you. Tell me, Dr Littlewood—’ his gentle emphasis on her title was impossible to ignore ‘—do you often find it necessary to hide behind your qualifications?’

      Still recovering from the shock of discovering that he knew so much about her, Angie tightened her grip on the desk. ‘Only when I believe I’m being patronised.’

      ‘Is that what you think?’ He studied her closely, his eyes sweeping the white coat, the glasses and the fiery hair tortured into a neat coil at the back of her head. ‘You’re nothing like your sister, are you?’

      Intentionally or not, he had used the weapon designed to create the most serious wound.

      She turned away then, unwilling to reveal the agony that his words caused. She knew she was nothing like Tiffany—had long ago accepted that they were entirely different in virtually every way. But those differences hadn’t affected the bond they’d shared. Even as Tiffany had moved from caring child to wayward, moody teenager, Angie had still loved her deeply. Knowing that they had little in common had done nothing to ease the pain of her sister’s death. If anything it made it slightly worse because Angie felt a continuous gnawing guilt that she hadn’t tried harder to influence her younger sister. To persuade her to modify her behaviour. And that guilt wasn’t helped by her mother’s constant obsession with ‘what if’s. What if Angie hadn’t been so disapproving of Tiffany’s desire for fun? What if Angie hadn’t been so boring and obsessed with work? What if she’d flown out to Greece and kept Tiffany company? What if she’d been with her sister the night of the accident?

      Tortured by those recurring thoughts, Angie raised a hand and rubbed at her brow, trying to relieve the ache. She was almost beginning to believe that she’d played a part in Tiffany’s death—by allowing her sister to continue down the path of self-destruction. By not trying to keep her away from men like Nikos Kyriacou.

      ‘Did you read the report?’ Cold and relentless, his voice continued

Скачать книгу