Athens, 1890. Seeking one last night of passion before entering into a loveless marriage, Honey DeHaviland finds much more in the arms of Nick Stamos—the very man tasked with delivering Honey to her betrothed. Although it is in Nick's embrace that Honey finally discovers the love she longs for, she knows that marrying a penniless man would mean her father's financial ruin.
When Honey discovers that Nick is indeed wealthy beyond comparison, she knows that acting on her true feelings would only seem shallow and mercenary. But when Nick learns the reason for Honey's arranged marriage, he vows to win her back. All he has to do is convince her that his heart is as true as hers.
Athens, 1890. Seeking one last night of passion before entering into a loveless marriage, Honey DeHaviland finds much more in the arms of Nick Stamos—the very man tasked with delivering Honey to her betrothed. Although it is in Nick's embrace that Honey finally discovers the love she longs for, she knows that marrying a penniless man would mean her father's financial ruin.
When Honey discovers that Nick is indeed wealthy beyond comparison, she knows that acting on her true feelings would only seem shallow and mercenary. But when Nick learns the reason for Honey's arranged marriage, he vows to win her back. All he has to do is convince her that his heart is as true as hers.
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Overview
Athens, 1890. Seeking one last night of passion before entering into a loveless marriage, Honey DeHaviland finds much more in the arms of Nick Stamos—the very man tasked with delivering Honey to her betrothed. Although it is in Nick's embrace that Honey finally discovers the love she longs for, she knows that marrying a penniless man would mean her father's financial ruin.
When Honey discovers that Nick is indeed wealthy beyond comparison, she knows that acting on her true feelings would only seem shallow and mercenary. But when Nick learns the reason for Honey's arranged marriage, he vows to win her back. All he has to do is convince her that his heart is as true as hers.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626817586 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Publishing |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 126 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Athens, May 1890
She was dying inside!
Honey shook herself, took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate on her lessons; her mind was anywhere but on the dry, dusty Greek alphabet and the unpronounceable words.
The part of her that she had forced into dormancy so many years ago had become as succulent as a ripe peach, ready to release its juices at the slightest touch. She shifted in her chair, hoping her feelings didn't show as she glanced across the room at her maid and companion, Effie, who was nimbly mending one of Honey's father's shirts. She was perhaps thirty- five, certainly not yet forty, Honey thought, but didn't know for certain.
Effie's hair, pulled tight against the back of her neck and so black it often appeared blue in the sunlight, held not a hint of gray. Only once had Honey seen it down, and the dark, heavy tresses had fallen nearly to Effie's waist. It was glorious.
Honey believed that by Greek standards, her maid was handsome. Her olive skin showed not a hint of age, and her eyes were timeless, wise, and oftentimes held depths of anger.
"Effie, was there any news at the market today?" Sometimes Honey missed the gossip of London so badly, she wanted to scream.
Effie eyed her slyly. "You mean news from Crete?"
Honey exhaled and smoothed her palms over her dark skirt. "Well, if they continue to fight against the Ottomans, I certainly won't feel safe traveling there, much less staying permanently."
"And you could postpone your wedding," Effie added with a crafty smile.
"The wedding be damned. It's nearly the twentieth century, Effie, why can't men sit down and talk things over instead of fighting like children over a new toy? It's as if death means nothing to them, and lives are no more important than animals to be hunted and slaughtered."
Effie's dark eyes shone with emotion. "They fight for their freedom. If I could, I would fight, too." With a huff, she dropped her mending on the chair and left the room. If there was one thing Effie was not, it was subservient.
Honey should have known better; any derogatory remark about Greece or its people made Effie bristle.
Honey sighed, shifted, and glanced into the courtyard outside her window, where purple and blue morning glories spilled over the walls, plummeting toward the ground with the exuberance of school children anticipating holiday. Giant pink orchids poked through the wild brush at the far end of the yard and Honey imagined she could smell their nectar from where she sat.
All of that lushness mirrored her inner succulence. For so many years she had ignored her needs, refusing to acknowledge their existence. With an arranged, loveless marriage looming on the horizon, she could ignore them no longer. They reared up inside her like rose buds reaching for sunshine and rain, aching to be fed, needing to flower.
A hand on her shoulder startled her.
"I'm sorry, Honey," her father apologized. "I didn't mean to break your concentration." He glanced at her book and sighed. "Is it I who have driven you to attempt to learn the cursed Greek language?"
Honey looked up at her father, dressed as always in his clerical collar and black shirt no matter how hot it was. She patted his hand. "We've been over this before, Papa. If I can make your life debt-free, I will be happy."
The Reverend Roland DeHaviland sighed again. "But to marry a man you don't know. It was a suggestion, my dear, and if you had balked I would not have forced it." His voice drifted off, for there was so much else to say, yet so little that needed repeating.
"Apollo and his mother are certainly anxious for you to join them on Crete," her father mused, his voice edged with hope.
"Yes, but it would have been nice to at least meet him before we marry."
As if just now realizing what she was giving up for him, her father pressed a fist against his eye and uttered a mild curse. "I wish I could accompany you. And, for God's sake, I should perform the ceremony of my only child's marriage."
"You'll be there in spirit, Papa. Your journey to Patmos is most important. Please don't fret so."
Her father, a former Anglican missionary, was studying St. John the Divine. He was scheduled to go to Patmos for further research, and God only knew how long he would be gone. Knowing her father and his love for antiquity, Honey knew it could be months.
"I know you'll join us on holiday when you can," she encouraged. "At least once our debts are paid, you can concentrate more heavily on your work."
"You know I would wish a happier life for you, don't you?"
"Papa, let's not go into that again. I'm doing this of my own free will. I'm not a child. Actually," she continued, forcing a lilt of humor into her voice, "pushing thirty without a husband is grounds for spinsterhood. I suppose I should be grateful Apollo will have me."
Her father bent and kissed her cheek. "Oh, my dear, to do this for me — "
Honey caught the tears in his voice and knew how vulnerable he was. She brought his hand to her cheek. "Go, or I'll never learn to greet my new husband in this 'cursed language'."
He smiled and turned to leave. "Yasou means hello."
Answering his smile, she waited until he left the room, and then glanced back out into the courtyard. Two lean, long-eared cats lazed in the shade of a magenta-flowered Judas tree until a disturbance in the grass caught their attention. They moved off to investigate with the grace of dancers.
Tonight, she thought, closing her book and resisting the urge to toss it across the room. Tonight she would do it. Have one final fling, one last adventure before she gave up the contented life she'd known. She was no fool and she wasn't naïve, and the purchase of that special item prepared her to venture into a bit of debauchery without the worry of becoming pregnant.
She had realized years ago that she had an entirely different view on life and morality than her father, bless his gentle heart.
To go out into the dark Athens night was foolhardy, at best, but what was an adventure if not a reckless escapade? An indiscretion? A wild longing to have the memory of doing something that she would never forget, long after she began a life she would prefer not to remember?
What rankled was that men did this sort of thing all the time. Some men slept with women indiscriminately, visited brothels with regularity, even had mistresses after they married, and no one thought the worse of them.
But a woman was not supposed to have needs and urges that required satisfying. If anyone were to discover what she was about to do, they would paint her with the blackest of brushes. Were she at home in London, she would be ruined.
Perhaps it was the sultry, fertile Mediterranean air that gave her the courage to flaunt discretion. Whatever the reason, she was about to do it.
Nick Stamos settled into a comfortable chair in the cabin on his boat, The Athena, at the Athens harbor, opened The Last Days of Pompeii, leaned toward the kerosene lamp that sat on the table beside him, and started to read. His interest waned immediately. He threw the book onto his bed.
Damn! This was to be his summer in the pursuit of pleasure, and here he was, sitting alone, attempting to dredge up interest in a depressing novel about death and destruction.
He wanted a woman. He wanted a hot, willing, juicy piece that would ask no questions and spread her thighs for him, allowing him to do what he pleased to attain his pleasure.
It wasn't as if there weren't brothels in abundance within blocks of the marina; he'd been to most of them and had left feeling damned unsatisfied. Perhaps it was because he knew they were performing, and the better the performance, the more money they would get. But, too, some of them were downright strange. Particularly the thin one with the black pubic hair that grew nearly to her navel who wanted him to screw her with his big toe — or with as many toes as he could get inside her. Odd duck.
No, what he needed was a woman who had compassion. He needed a woman who had enough wits to know when to speak and when to stay silent. He needed a woman who was willing to take his cock inside her and let it simmer in her sweet juices for as long as he wanted to leave it there.
What he needed was the perfect woman.
He shook off the image and closed his eyes, allowing the sounds and smells of the marina to join him in the cabin. God, but he loved the way the boat creaked and groaned as the water slapped against it. And each day as he drew the salty air into his lungs, he knew he could live nowhere but near the sea.
A woman's cry split the night air, and his reverie was broken. He raced topside, scanning the shore for the cause. Two men held a struggling woman between them, attempting to cajole her into submission.
A prostitute, no doubt. Nevertheless, he couldn't stand by and do nothing, for she continued to struggle against the men, crying out, obviously unwilling to do whatever it was they wanted of her.
With a curse, Nick sprinted onto the dock and raced toward the trio, shouting at the men in Greek to release her. In their drunken state, they slurred vulgarities at him as they attempted to tame the spirited, unwilling tart.
Nick flung one of the men away, tossing him into the water. He turned to take care of the other, but the fellow's fist collided with Nick's jaw. As he shook his head to clear it, he saw the woman grab a hank of the drunk's hair, briefly pulling him backwards, off balance. Nick returned the punch, and then pitched the scoundrel off the dock into the water, where he flailed about with his friend.
Nick turned to the woman. "Are you all right?" he asked in Greek.
She inhaled sharply, smoothed back her hair, and answered, "I'm fine. Thank you."
Surprised that she spoke English, he said, "Are you certain?"
She attempted to put her disheveled appearance back together by smoothing her clothing and fussing with her hair. "I assure you, I'm fine." Her voice shook; she was not as calm as she claimed.
The sailors drunkenly waded to shore and stumbled off, shouting curses as they went. Nick scanned the harbor; there was no one else around.
"Surely you're not out here alone."
She glanced about nervously. "I ... became separated from my friends."
Her speech held quality, perhaps rank. "Will they come searching for you?"
She rubbed her arms, an obvious nervous gesture. "I'm not sure they would know where to look."
There was little else he could do; she could very easily go into shock. "Would you like to come aboard and rest a while?"
She eyed the boat, and then shifted her gaze to him, tilting her head to one side as she scrutinized him. "Yes," she said after a minute. "I would like that."
Once aboard, Nick poured her a small glass of ouzo and studied her as she sipped it. She was no prostitute. Her clothing was conservative, her manner educated and refined. But her hair, undoubtedly normally tugged into a bun at the base of her neck, had made its escape during the tussle, and now most of it hung in long, dark tawny curls over her shoulders.
And, he realized, trying not to stare, her blouse and underclothing were torn, exposing a very pretty and plump, pale-nippled breast. He shifted his gaze sharply as a stab of desire stirred him, and he remembered his musings just minutes earlier.
He turned to his own condition, examining the burgeoning lump on his chin in the mirror over the built-in wash stand. There was also a rip in his shirt, and as he pulled it off over his head, he heard the woman gasp behind him.
He turned and found her staring at him. Suddenly realizing his faux pas he said, "I'm sorry. I'll take you home immediately."
She shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed. "No."
"No?"
Her gaze roamed his chest. She was breathing quickly, almost erratically, and then she began to remove her own torn clothing. "No," she said again, this time with confidence.
Honey was on fire with determination. "Make love to me." This was exactly what she wanted: a tall, handsome stranger to give her a night she would always remember. It couldn't be more perfect if she'd planned it.
Her rescuer lifted one black eyebrow. "What?"
"Make love to me."
He looked both puzzled and amused. "Just like that?" He snapped his fingers.
"Yes." She stood and walked toward him, her secret place between her thighs coming alive. She should feel ashamed, brazen, but she felt only a sense of heat and knew this, this was what she had longed for.
She put her hands on his chest, her fingers moving through the thick, dark pelt that all but covered his own jutting nipples. His heart slammed against her palm and she realized he was not immune to her. The idea thrilled her.
His hands cupped her breasts and when his thumbs grazed her nipples, she inhaled sharply; the intensity of his touch forged a path all the way to her toes.
"Ah," he began, "you are — "
"Shh," she interrupted, rubbing her lips against his chest, "don't speak."
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling up from deep in his chest. "But talking makes it better."
She liked his voice. It was deep and rich, and although he sounded like an American, he had a faint Greek accent. It heightened the adventure. "How?"
He pulled back briefly, studying her, his expression inquisitive and almost wary. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
She was beginning to wonder. New sensations tumbled through her and she ached with a need stronger than thirst. Perhaps she was getting in too deep, but it was too late, and what she was feeling was too good to stop. "Yes."
He urged her toward the bed until the backs of her knees touched it. He then took a chair across from her. "Then take off the rest of your clothes."
It was an order, and for some insane reason, she gladly complied. She had thought to be in control this night, but it was obvious that she'd met her match. Without taking her gaze from his, she unhooked her skirt and let it drop to the floor. She stepped out of it and kicked it away.
He studied her languidly, although his eyelids were heavy and his eyes were as black as a night with neither moon nor stars. "Now remove the rest of them."
She did as he asked and then stood before him. "These, too?" She tried to sound flippant as she swept a hand over her stockings, but her voice crackled with excitement.
"Sit on the bed and roll them off," he ordered, "but sit directly across from me. I want to watch."
Desire spun inside her and she feared she might faint from the excitement of it all, but she did as he asked.
"Do you want to know what I see?"
She lifted one leg, resting her heel on the bed, and then began rolling down her stocking. Her nether lips were already swollen, throbbing with an ache that was both pleasure and pain. "Wh ... What do you see?"
"I see curls just a shade lighter than those that are streaming over your shoulders."
A spurt of wetness escaped and she wondered if it left a spot on the bedspread. She tried to stay calm as she pulled the stocking off and tossed it onto the floor, but she was excited beyond her wildest imaginings.
He rose and came toward her. "I shall remove the other one."
She watched him, wondering if all the desire and need and wanton passion she felt was visible in her eyes for him to see. She leaned back on her elbows, vaguely questioning her sanity.
He knelt before her and moved one hand up over her calf to her thigh, then inched higher. His fingers barely grazed her and she breathed heavily, wondering how she could take any more.
"Your curls are wet." He rubbed his index finger over them, scarcely touching her skin.
She jerked as if he'd touched her more intimately and another burst of liquid escaped. "How long does this go on?" She was frantic with need.
Slowly and deliberately, he rolled the stocking down over her calf. "Until you can't stand it anymore."
She trembled; she was hot and wet and filled to the brim with a desire that screamed for release. "I can't stand it anymore."
As he pulled her stocking off her foot with one hand, he grazed the insides of her thighs with the other. "Can you stand this?"
His finger slid inside her, over her swollen wetness, over her clitoris, and she cried out. "How cruel you are!" Her voice sounded heavy and sultry in her ears.
He continued to touch her, his finger rimming her lips, dipping inside, stroking everywhere but directly on the spot that throbbed with need. "Ah, but you wouldn't want it to be over too quickly, would you? I don't; I want to watch your hunger intensify, your need soar."
Honey writhed on the bed. She felt like weeping, for there was a yearning inside her that went so deep it was like physical pain. "I can't stand it, really, I can't." They were her words, but they sounded tearful and urgent, husky and raw.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Taste of Honey"
by .
Copyright © 2011 Jane Bonander.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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