Page 30 of Reaper's Desire

"Isabelle."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman." The line is cheesy, delivered with the confidence of someone who's used it a hundred times before, but there's something disarming abouthis directness. He's not trying to be subtle or mysterious. He's just a man who saw a pretty girl sitting alone and decided to shoot his shot. It's refreshing, in a way. Simple. I could use simple after the way my encounter with the stranger got out of hand.

"Do you use that line on all the tourists?" I ask, and he laughs.

"Only the ones who look like they need a distraction."

The waiter returns with my wine and a beer for Nikos, and I take a sip, letting the cool liquid ease some of the tension in my throat. "What makes you think I need a distraction?"

"You've been sitting here for twenty minutes staring at the sunset, all alone, and you look like you're in your head." He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, his eyes warm. "Either you're running from something, or you're trying very hard not to think about something. Either way, I thought I could help. I'm an excellent distraction."

I should be offended by his presumption. I should tell him he's wrong, that I'm perfectly fine, that I don't need help from some random Greek man who thinks a few compliments will get him into my bed. If I were in New York, I probably would.

But I'm on vacation, and I want to get laid. And the attention feels good. Flattering. Normal. Less intense than the stranger, but that's probably a good thing. Too much of that might kill me.

"Maybe I am," I admit, taking another sip of wine. "Running from something, I mean."

"Boyfriend?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Husband?"

"God, no." I wince, taking a bigger sip.

"Family?"

I hesitate, then nod. "Something like that."

He doesn't press for details, which I appreciate. Instead, he shifts the conversation to lighter topics—how long I've been in Santorini, where I'm staying, what I think of the island so far. He's easy to talk to, his questions just personal enough to feel like he's at least a little interested in me without being invasive, and I find myself relaxing despite the knot of anxiety still lodged in my chest.

He tells me he grew up here, that he works at his family's restaurant during the summer, and spends winters in Athens. He asks if I've tried the local specialties yet, recommends a few places I should visit before I leave. His hand brushes mine when he reaches for his beer, and the touch lingers just a moment too long to be accidental. I don't pull away.

The wine is going to my head, warm and pleasant, dulling the sharp edges of my anxiety. The sky is darkening now, the sunset fading into twilight, and the strings of lights overhead glow brighter. Music drifts from somewhere inside the bar, the kind of song that makes you want to dance. I sway in my seat to it, feeling my inhibitions and worries drift away, exactly like I hoped. Like I wanted.

Nikos leans forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're too beautiful to be sitting here looking so anxious." His hand moves to my arm, his fingers warm against my skin. "You should be dancing. Laughing. Enjoying yourself."

The touch sends a small shiver through me, but it's not the electric jolt I felt with the stranger from Ibiza. It's pleasant. Safe. Forgettable. But I could use forgettable right now.

"Maybe you're right," I say, and his smile widens.

"I'm always right." He leans in closer, his voice dropping. "Stay here with me tonight. Let me show you the real Santorini. Not the tourist version—the places locals go. I promise you won'tregret it. Maybe we'll make a day of it tomorrow, another night, if you enjoy yourself. And then you can go on your way with the real local… flavor." He winks charmingly at me.

His confidence is almost endearing. He's so sure of himself, so certain that I'll say yes, and I think I want to. I want to let this charming stranger distract me from the anxiety and confusion and fear that's been eating at me since I left Ibiza. But before I can answer, something shifts.

The air changes. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. And I know—with a certainty that makes my stomach drop—that I'm being watched.

I turn my head slowly, scanning the bar, and my heart stops.

He's here. The stranger from Ibiza. The man whose name I don't know, whose hands were around my throat, who made me come harder than anyone else ever has before. And heshouldn't be here.

Why the fuck is he here?

He's standing at the far end of the patio, partially hidden in the shadows near the entrance, and his eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes my blood run cold. He's not approaching. Just watching. And the look on his face is terrifying.