here!" Andros shouted to Jessica above the roar of the helicopter blades. "That is Zenas."

She leaned forward to watch eagerly as the small dot in the blue of the Aegean began to grow bigger, then it was rushing toward them and they were no longer over the sea but over the stark, barren hills with the shadow of the helicopter flitting along below them like a giant mosquito. Jessica glanced at Nikolas, who was at the controls, but he didn't acknowledge her presence by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. She wanted him to smile at her, to point out the landmarks on his island, but it was only Andros who touched her arm and directed her attention to the house they were approaching.

It was a vast, sprawling house, built on the cliffside with a flagstone terrace enclosing three sides of the house. The roof was of red tile; the house itself was white and cool amid the shade of orange and lemon trees. Looking down, she could see small figures leaving the house and walking up to the helipad, which was built off to the right of the house on the crest of a small hill. A paved drive connected the house to the helipad, but Andros had told her that there was only one vehicle on the island, an old army jeep owned by the mayor of the village.

Nikolas set the helicopter down so lightly that she didn't even feel a bump, then he killed the engine and pulled off his headset. He turned a grim, unsmiling face to Jessica. "Come," he said in French. "I will introduce you to Maman—and remember, Jessica, you're not to upset her."

He slid open the door and got out, ducking his head against the wind whipped up by the still-whirling rotors. Jessica drew a deep breath to steady her pounding heart and Andros said quietly, "Not to worry. My aunt is a gentle woman; Nikolas is not at all like her. He is the image of his father, and like his father before him he is protective of my aunt."

She gave him a grateful smile, then Nikolas beckoned impatiently and she clambered out of the helicopter, holding desperately to the hand Nikolas had extended to help her. He frowned a little at the coldness of her fingers, then he drew her forward to the group that had gathered at the edge of the helipad.

A small woman with the erect bearing of a queen stepped forward. She was still beautiful despite her white hair, which she wore in an elegant Gibson Girl style, and her soft, clear blue eyes were as direct as a child's. She gave Jessica a piercing look straight into her eyes, then she looked swiftly at her son.

Nikolas bent down and pressed a loving kiss on the delicately pink cheek, then another on her lips. "Maman, I've missed you," he said, hugging her to him.

"And I've missed you," she replied in a sweet voice. "I'm so glad you're back."

With his arm still about his mother, Nikolas beckoned to Jessica, and the look he gave her as she stepped closer warned her to behave. "Maman, I'd like you to meet my fiancee, Jessica Stanton. Jessica, my mother, Madelon Constantinos."

"I'm happy to meet you at last," Jessica murmured, meeting that clear gaze as bravely as possible, and she discovered to her astonishment that she and Madame Constantinos were nearly the same size. The older woman looked so fragile that Jessica had felt like an Amazon, but now she found their eyes on the same level and it was a distinct shock.

"And I'm happy to meet you," Madame Constantinos said, moving out of Nikolas's embrace to put her own arms around Jessica and kiss her on the cheek. "I was certainly surprised to receive Niko's phone call announcing his intentions! It was…unexpected."

"Yes, it was a sudden decision," Jessica agreed, but her heart sank at the coolness of the old woman's tone. It was obvious that she was less than happy over her son's choice of a bride. Nevertheless, Jessica managed a tremulous smile, and Madame Constantinos's manners were too good to permit her to exhibit her displeasure any more openly. She had spoken in English, very good English with a slight drawl that she could only have picked up from Nikolas, but as she turned to introduce Jessica to the other people she switched to French and Greek. Jessica didn't understand any Greek, but all of the people spoke some French.

There was Petra, a tall, heavyset woman with black hair and eyes and the classic Greek nose, and laughter shining in her face. She was the housekeeper and her employer's personal companion, for they had been together since Madame Constantinos had come to the island. There was a natural grace and pride about the big woman that made her beautiful despite her almost manly proportions, and a motherly light gleamed in her eyes at the barely concealed fear and nervousness on Jessica's face.

The other woman was short and plump, her round face as gentle as any Jessica could remember. She was Sophia, the cook, and she patted Jessica's arm with open affection, ready to accept immediately any woman that Kyrios Nikolas brought home to be his bride.

Sophia's husband, Jason Kavakis, was a short, slender man with solemn dark eyes, and he was the groundskeeper. He and Sophia lived in their own cottage in the village, but Petra was a widow and she had her own room in the villa. These three were the only staff at the villa, though the women from the village were all helping with the preparations for the wedding.

The open, unrestrained welcome that she received from the staff helped Jessica to relax and she smiled more naturally as Madame Constantinos linked arms with Nikolas and began organizing the transfer of their luggage to the villa. "Andros, please help Jason carry the bags down." Then she removed her arm and gave Nikolas a little push. "And you, too! Why should you not help? I will take Mrs. Stanton to her room; she is probably half-dead with fatigue. You've never learned to take a trip in easy stages."

"Yes, Maman," he called to her retreating back, but his dark eyes looked a warning at Jessica.

Despite the coolness of her welcome from Madame Constantinos, Jessica felt better. The old lady was not an autocratic matriarch, and Jessica sensed that beneath her restraint she was a pert, gentle old woman who treated her son as if he was simply her son, rather than a billionaire. And Nikolas himself had immediately softened, becoming the Niko who had grown up here and who had known these people since babyhood. She couldn't imagine him intimidating Petra, who had probably diapered him and watched his first toddling steps, hard as it was for Jessica to picture Nikolas as an infant or a toddler. Surely he had always been tall and strong, with that fierce light in his dark eyes.

The villa was cool, with the thickness of its white walls keeping out most of the brutal Greek sun, but the quiet hum of central air-conditioning told her that Nikolas made certain his home was always at a comfortable temperature.

She had already realized that Nikolas's tastes were Greek, and the villa bore that out. The furnishings were sparse, with vast amounts of open floor space, but everything was of the highest quality and built to last for years. The colors were of the earth, soft brick tones for the tiles of the floor, over which were scattered priceless Persian rugs, muted greens and natural linen for the furniture upholstery. Small statues in different shades of marble were set in niches, and here and there were vases of incredible delicacy, sitting comfortably in the same room with pottery that had surely been produced by the villagers.

"Your bedroom," said Madame Constantinos, opening the door of a square white room with graceful arched windows and furnishings done in shades of rose and gold. "It has its own bath attached," she continued, crossing the room to open a door and indicate a tiled bath. "Ah, Niko, you must show Jessica about the villa while Petra unpacks for her," she said without pause when Nikolas appeared with Jessica's luggage and set it in the middle of the floor.

Nikolas smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Jessica would probably like a bath instead; I know I would! Well, darling?" he asked, turning to Jessica with the smile still lingering in his eyes. "You have your choice, shall it be a guided tour or a bath?"

"Both," she said promptly. "Bath first, though."

He nodded and left the room with a careless "I'll be along in half an hour, then," thrown over his shoulder. Madame Constantinos took her leave soon after, leaving Jessica standing in the middle of the floor looking about the charming room and feeling deserted. She pulled off her travel-worn clothing and took a leisurely bath, returning to the room to find that Petra had efficiently unpacked for her in the meantime. She dressed in a cool sun dress and waited for Nikolas, but the time passed and after a while she realized that he didn't mean to return for her. He had simply offered to give her a tour to please his mother; he had no intention of spending that much time in her company. She sat quietly on the bed and wondered if she had a prayer of ever winning his love.

It was much later, after a light dinner of fish and soupa avgolemono, which was a lemon-flavored chicken soup Jessica found delicious, that Nikolas approached her as she stood on the terrace watching the waves roll onto the beach so far below. She would have liked to avoid him, but that would have looked odd, so she remained at the wall of the terrace. His hard fingers clasped her shoulders and drew her back against him; his head bent down to hers and it must have looked as though he was whispering sweet nothings in her ear, but what he said was, "Have you said anything to Maman to upset her?"

"Of course not," she whispered vehemently, giving in to the force of those fingers and leaning against his chest. "I haven't seen her at all from the time she took me to my room until dinner. She doesn't like me, of course. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"No," he said, his mouth curving bitterly. "I didn't want you here at all, Jessica."

Her chin rose proudly. "Then send me away," she dared him.

"You know I can't do that, either," he snapped. "I'm living in torment, and I'll either crawl out of it or I'll pull you down with me." Then he released her and walked away, and she was left with the bitter knowledge of his hatred.

The day of her wedding dawned clear and bright with the remarkable clarity that only Greece had. She stood in the window and looked out at the barren hills, every detail as sharp and clear as if she had only to reach out her hand to touch them. The crystalline sunlight made her feel that if she could only open her eyes wide enough she would be able to see forever. She felt at home here, on this rocky island with its bare hills and the silent company of thousands of years of history, the warm and unquestioning welcome of the dark-eyed people who embraced her as one of their own. And today she would marry the man who owned all this.

Though Nikolas's hostility was still a barrier between them, she felt more optimistic today, for today the terrible waiting was over. The traditional ceremony and the exuberant celebrations that followed would soften him; he would have to listen to her tonight, when they were alone in his bedroom, and he would know the final truth when she gave him the unrivaled gift of her chastity. Smiling, she turned away from the window to begin the pleasant ritual of bathing and dressing her hair.

In the few days that she had been on the island she had already become steeped in the traditions of the people. She had imagined that they would be married in the small white church with its arched windows and domed roof, the sunlight pouring through the stained glass, but Petra had set her right about that. The religious ceremony was seldom performed in the church, but rather in the house of the groom's godfather, or koumbaros, who also provided the wedding entertainment. Nikolas's godfather was Angelos Palamas, a rotund man of immense, gentle dignity, his hair and eyebrows white above eyes as black as coal. An improvised altar had been set in the middle of the largest room of Kyrios Palamas's house, and she and Nikolas would stand before the altar with the priest, Father Ambrose. She and Nikolas would wear wreaths of orange blossoms on their heads, the wreaths blessed by the priest and linked by a ribbon, as their lives would be blessed and linked.

With measured, dreamy movements, she braided her hair in a fat single braid and coiled it on her head in the hairstyle that signified maidenhood. In a little while Madame Constantinos and Petra would come in to help her dress, and she went to the closet and took down the zippered white plastic bag that held her wedding gown. She hadn't looked at it before, exercising a childish delight in saving the best for last, and now her hands were tender as she laid the bag on the bed and unzipped it, being careful not to catch any of the material in the zipper.

But when she drew the delicate, lovely dress out, her heart and breathing stopped, and she dropped it as if it had turned into a serpent, turning blindly away with hot tears pouring down her cheeks. He had done it! He had countermanded her instructions while she was in the dressing room being measured, and instead of the white dress she had dreamed of, the creation that lay crumpled on the bed was a pale peach in color. She knew that the salon hadn't made a mistake; she had been too positive in her request for white for that. No, it was Nikolas's doing, and she felt as if he had torn out her heart.

Wildly she wanted to destroy the dress, and she would have if she had had anything else suitable, but she hadn't. Neither could she bring herself to pick it up; she sat in the window with the scalding tears blinding her and sticking in her throat, and that was how Petra found her.

Strong, gentle arms went about her and she was drawn against the woman's bosom and rocked tenderly. "Ah, it is always so," Petra crooned in her deep voice. "You weep, when you should laugh."

"No," Jessica managed in a strangled voice, pointing in the direction of the bed. "It's my gown."

"The wedding gown? It is torn, soiled?" Petra went over to the bed and picked up the gown, inspecting it.

"It was supposed to be white," Jessica whispered, turning her small, drowned face back to the window.

"Ah!" Petra exclaimed, and left the room. She returned in only a moment with Madame Constantinos, who went at once to Jessica and put her arm about her shoulders in the first warm gesture she'd made.

"I know you're upset, my dear, but it's still a lovely gown and you shouldn't let a mistake ruin your wedding day. You'll be beautiful in it—"

"Nikolas changed the color," Jessica explained tautly, having conquered the rush of tears. "I insisted on white—I was trying to make him understand, but he wouldn't listen. He let me think the dress would be white, but while I was in the dressing room, he changed the color."

Madame Constantinos caught her breath. "You insisted—what are you saying?"

Wearily Jessica rubbed her forehead, seeing that now she would have to explain. Perhaps it was just as well for Madame Constantinos to know the whole story. She searched for a way to begin and finally blurted out, "I want you to know, Madame—none of the things you've heard about me are true."

Slowly Madame Constantinos nodded, her blue eyes sad. "I think I had already realized that," she said softly. "A woman who had traveled as many roads and known as many lovers as have been attributed to you would have had some of that knowledge in her face, and your face is innocent of any such knowledge. I had forgotten how gossip can spread like a cancer and feed on itself, but you have reminded me and I promise I won't forget again."

Encouraged, Jessica said hesitantly, "Nikolas told me that you were a friend of Robert's."

"Yes," Madame Constantinos acknowledged. "I had known Robert Stanton for most of my life; he was a dear friend of my father's, and beloved of the entire family. I should have remembered that he saw things far more clearly than the rest of us. I've thought many harsh things about you in the past, my dear, and I'm deeply ashamed of myself. Please, can you possibly forgive me?"

"Of, of course," Jessica cried, jumping to her feet to hug the older woman and wipe at the tears that welled anew. "But I want to tell you how it was, how I came to marry Robert. After all, you have a right to know, since I'm going to marry your son."

"If you'd like to tell me, please do so, but don't feel that you owe an explanation to me," Madame Constan-tinos replied. "If Niko is satisfied, then so am I."

Jessica's face fell. "But he isn't satisfied," she said bitterly. "He believes all of the tales he's heard, and he hates me almost as much as he wants me."

"Impossible," the older woman gasped. "Niko couldn't be that much of a fool; it's so plain that you're not a scheming adventuress!"

"Oh, he believes it, all right! It's partly my fault," she admitted miserably. "At first, when I wanted to hold him off, I let him think that I—I was frightened because I'd been mistreated. I've tried since then to explain to him, but he simply won't listen; he refuses to talk about my 'past affairs' and he's furious because I won't go to bed with him—" She stopped, aghast at what she had blurted out to his mother, but Madame Constantinos gave her a startled look, then burst into a peal of laughter.

"Yes, I can imagine that would make him wild, because he has his father's temperament." She chuckled. "So, you must convince my blind, stubborn son that your experience is wholly fictional. Do you have any idea how you might accomplish such a thing?"

"He'll know," Jessica said quietly. "Tonight. When he realizes that I have a right to a white wedding dress."

Madame Constantinos gasped as at last she realized the significance of the dress. "My dear! But Robert—no, of course not. Robert was not a man to wed a young girt for physical gratification. Yes, I think I must hear how this came about, after all!"

Quietly Jessica told her of how she had been young and alone and Robert had wanted to protect her, and of the vicious gossip she had endured. She left out nothing, not even how Nikolas had come to propose to her, and Madame Constantinos was deeply troubled when the tale ended.

"There are times," she said slowly, "when I would like to smash a vase over Niko's head, even if he is my son!" She looked at the wedding gown. "Have you nothing else to wear? Nothing white?"

Jessica shook her head. "No, nothing. I'll have to wear it."

Petra brought crushed ice and folded it in hand towels to make compresses for her eyes, and after half an hour all traces of her tears had gone, but she was unnaturally pale. She moved slowly, all vitality gone from her, all sparkle killed. Gently Madame Constantinos and Petra dressed her in the peach gown and set the matching veil on her head, then they led her from the room.

Nikolas wasn't there; he was already at the home of his godfather, but the villa was filled with relatives, aunts and uncles and cousins who smiled and chattered and patted her as she passed. None of her friends were there, she realized with a start, but then, there were only two: Charles and Sallie. That made her feel more alone, chilled as if she would never again be warm.

Andros was to escort her down the path that led to the village, and he waited for her now, tall and dark in a tuxedo, and momentarily looking so much like Nikolas that she gasped. Andros smiled and gave her his arm; his manner had warmed over the past few days and now he was frankly solicitous as he discovered how she trembled, how cold her hands were.

Nikolas's female relatives rushed outside to form an aisle from the top of the hill down to the village, standing on both sides of the path. As she and Andros reached them, they began to toss orange blossoms down on the path before her, and the village women were there in traditional dress, tossing small, fragrant white and pink blossoms. They began to sing, and she walked on flowers down the path to join the man she would marry, but still she felt frozen inside.

At the door of Kyrios Palamas's house Andros gave her over to the arm of Nikolas's godfather, who led her to the altar, where Nikolas and Father Ambrose waited. The altar, the entire room, danced with candles, and the sweet smell of incense made her feel as if she was having a dream. Father Ambrose blessed the wreaths of orange blossoms that were set on their heads as they knelt before the altar, and from that moment on it was all a blur. She had been coached on what to say and she must have made the proper responses; when Nikolas made his vows, his deep, dark voice reverberated inside her head and she looked around a little wildly. Then it was over, and Father Ambrose joined hands with them and they walked around the altar three times while little Kostis, one of Nikolas's innumerable cousins, walked before them waving a censer, so they progressed through clouds of incense.

Almost immediately the crowded room burst into celebration, everyone laughing and kissing each other, while cries of "The glass! The glass!" went up. The newly married couple was laughingly shoved to the hearth, where a wineglass was turned upside down. Jessica remembered what she should do but her reactions were dulled by her misery and Nikolas easily beat her, his foot smashing the wineglass while the villagers cheered that Kyrios Constantinos would be the master in his house. As if it could ever be any other way, Jessica thought numbly, turning away from the devilish gleam in Nikolas's black eyes.

But he caught her back to him, his hands hard on her waist and his eyes glittering as he forced her head up. "Now you're legally mine," he muttered as he bent his head and captured her lips.

She didn't fight him, but the response that he had always known was lacking. He raised his head, frowning when he saw the tears that clung to her lashes. "Jessica?" he asked questioningly, taking her hand, his frown deepening when he felt its iciness, though the day was hot and sunny.

Somehow, though afterward she wondered at her stamina, she made it through the long day of feasting and dancing. She had help in Madame Constantinos and Petra and Sophia, who gently made it clear that the new Kyria was weak with nerves and not able to dance. Nikolas threw himself into the celebration with an enthusiasm that surprised her until she remembered that he was Greek to the bone, but even with all the laughing and dancing and the glasses of ouzo he consumed, he returned often to his bride and tried to entice her appetite with some delicacy he had brought. Jessica tried to respond, tried to act normally, but the truth was that she couldn't make herself look at her husband. No matter how she argued with herself, she couldn't escape the fact that she was a woman, and her woman's heart was easily bruised. Nikolas had destroyed all of her joy in her wedding day with the peach gown and she didn't think she would ever be able to forgive him.

It was late; the stars were already out and the candles were the only illumination in the house when Nikolas approached her and gently swung her up into his arms.

No one said anything; no jokes were made as the broad-shouldered man left the house of his godfather and carried his bride up the hill to his own villa, and after he had disappeared from view, the celebration began again, for this was no ordinary wedding. No, the Kyrios had finally taken a bride, and now they could look forward to an heir.

As Nikolas carried her up the path with no visible effort, Jessica tried to gather her scattered wits and push her unhappiness aside, but still the cold misery lay like a lump in her chest. She clung to him with her arms around his neck and wished that it was miles and miles to the villa and perhaps then she would be more in control of herself by the time they arrived. The cool night air soothed her face and she could hear the rhythmic thunder of the waves as they pounded against the rocks, and those seemed more real to her than the flesh-and-blood man who carried her in his arms.

Then they were at the villa and he carried her around the side of the terrace until he reached the double sliding glass doors of his bedroom. They opened silently at his touch and he stepped inside, letting her slide gently to the floor.

"Your clothes have been brought in here," he told her softly, kissing the hair at her temple. "I know you're frightened, darling; you've been acting strange all day. Just relax; I'll fix myself a drink while you're changing into your nightgown. Not that you'll need a nightgown, but you do need some time to calm down," he said, grinning, and suddenly she wondered just how many glasses of ouzo he'd had.

He left her and she stared wildly around the room. She couldn't do it; she couldn't share that big bed with him when she felt as she did. She wanted to scream and cry and scratch his eyes out, and in a sudden burst of tears and sheer temper she tore the peach gown off and looked around for scissors to destroy it. There were no scissors to be found in the bedroom, however, so she tore at the seams until they ripped apart, then she threw the gown on the floor and kicked it.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs and wiped the furious tears off her cheeks. The gesture had been childish, she knew, but she felt better for it. She hated that gown, and she hated Nikolas for ruining her wedding day!

He would be returning soon, and she didn't want to face him while wearing nothing but her underwear, but neither did she have any intention of putting on a seductive nightgown for his benefit. She threw open the closet door and grabbed the one pair of slacks she had with her and a pullover top. Hastily she snatched the top over her head just as the door opened.

Thick silence reigned as Nikolas took in the tableau of her standing there clutching a pair of slacks and staring at him with anger and fear plain in her wide eyes. His black gaze wandered to the tattered wedding gown on the floor, then back to her.

"Settle down," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you, darling, I promise—"

"You can keep your promises," she cried hoarsely, dropping the slacks to the floor and pressing her hands to her cheeks as the tears began to slide from her eyes. "I hate you, do you hear? You—you ruined my wedding day! I wanted a white gown, Nikolas, and you had them use that horrible peach! I'll never forgive you for that! I was so happy this morning, then I opened the bag and saw that ugly peach thing and I—I— Oh, damn you, I've cried enough over you; I'll never let you make me cry again, do you hear? I hate you!"

Swiftly he crossed the room to her and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her in a grip that didn't hurt but nevertheless held her firmly. "Was it so important to you?" he murmured. "Is that why you haven't looked at me all day, all over a silly gown?"

"You don't understand," she insisted through her tears. "I wanted a white one, and I wanted to keep it and give it to our daughter for her wedding—" Her voice broke and she began to sob, trying to turn her head away from him.

With a muttered curse he pulled her to him and held her tightly in his arms, his dark head bent to rest atop her tawny one. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I didn't understand. Don't cry, darling; please don't cry."

His apology, so unexpected, had the effect of startling her out of her tears, and with a caught breath she raised her tear-wet eyes to stare at him. For a moment, their eyes held; then his midnight gaze slipped to her mouth, and as quickly as that he was kissing her, pulling her even closer to his powerful frame as if he could make her a part of himself, his mouth hungrier and more devouring than it had ever been before. She tasted the ouzo he had been drinking, and it made her drunk, too, so that she had to cling to him even to stand upright.

Impatiently he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, and for a moment she stiffened in alarm as she remembered that she still hadn't told him the truth. "Nikolas…wait!" she cried breathlessly.

"I've been waiting," he said thickly, his restless mouth raining kisses across her face, her throat. "I've waited for you until I thought I would go mad. Don't push me away tonight, darling—not tonight."

Before she could say anything else, his mouth closed over hers again. In the sweet intoxication sweeping over her at the touch of his lips, she momentarily forgot her fears, and then it was too late. He was beyond listening to her, beyond the reach of any plea as he responded only to the force of his passion.

Still she tried to reach him. "No, wait!" she said, but he ignored her as he pulled her top over her head, momentarily smothering her in the folds of material before he freed her from it and tossed the garment aside. His eyes were glittering feverishly as he stripped her underwear away, and her pleas for patience stuck in her throat as he dropped his robe and covered her with his powerful body. Panic bloomed in her, and she tried to control it, forcing herself to think of other things until she regained some small measure of self-control, but it was useless. A thin sob tore out of her throat as Nikolas drew her down into the fathomless well of his desire, and blindly she clung to him as the only tower of strength in a wildly shaking world.