Page 65 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4
For a second all my fury is drowned beneath a waterfall of icy shock, and all I can do is stare out through the window, my mind utterly blank. ‘Pregnant?’ I echo as if I have no idea what the word means. ‘What?’
‘You’re going to be an uncle,’ Olympia says, a thread of something I can’t identify entering her voice. ‘It’s early days, but I wanted you to know, and I didn’t want you to worry about me. I’m with the father and I’m safe, but please, please don’t come looking for me.’
Suddenly I hear the sound of another voice down the phone. It’s deeper, definitely male and Olympia is arguing with him, which immediately sends me into overdrive. I’m about to shout down the phone at her when I hear the man speak, his Greek impeccable, his accent Italian.
‘She’s with me, Zakynthos,’ he says curtly. ‘Rafael Santangelo. And I’m the father of her child. Merry Christmas, motherfucker.’
Then he ends the call.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Katla
I hear Ulyssescursing all the way down the other end of the hallway—and it’s a long hallway.
I’m standing in the giant living room, admiring the huge Christmas tree that takes up most of one corner, the radiant crystal star on the top almost brushing the high ceiling. It’s covered in tinsel and incredibly delicate and expensive-looking ornaments, hand-blown glass Christmas lights in different shapes and colours arranged artfully in the branches.
I’m also admiring the interior of his palatial Greek villa, with its pristine white walls and long, white linen sectional sofas. Folk art adorns the walls, but it’s clear the main attraction in this room lies in the floor-to-ceiling windows and their outlook over the vivid green lawn to the deep blue of the Aegean.
My attention has been caught by a glimpse of a particularly lavish pool area, and I’m just on the point of walking to the windows to get a better look when I’m distracted by what sounds like the beginning of a very intense male tantrum. Despite being wary of male anger, I find myself drawn towards the sound by an impulse I can’t explain. I feel like a moth constantly being lured towards the light, and Ulysses is that light.
I wanted more of his touch on the plane, but he refused, saying it would be better to be in a bed—more privacy—and, since he was right, I didn’t argue. But since we arrived at his villa I’ve kept myself in check, because I’m not sure how the meeting with his sister will go.
Ulysses obviously adores her, since he spoke a little about her on the plane after we had sex. I had questions for him—mostly about where his villa was and whether his sister would be okay with me being there. He assured me she would be, that Olympia was caring and easy to get along with and that I would love her.
Yet there’s been no sign of her since we arrived and now, with Ulysses cursing a blue streak, I wonder if something terrible has happened. Admittedly, he sounds more angry than upset, but I need to see him, to look into his eyes to determine which it is.
The door to what is obviously his office is standing open. The room is large, with big windows facing the tall pines that grow beside the villa, and a desk stands in front of the windows. Book cases line the walls.
It’s a tidy office, but not stark, with knickknacks here and there giving hints of the personality of the man who inhabits it. There’s a shell on one of the shelves and I want to look at it, because it has the most perfect spiral. A small, beautiful and delicate abstract painting is propped up against some books. What looks to be a very old Grecian vase sits on another shelf.
Ulysses is standing with his back to me, looking out of the windows. He must not know I’m there, because he turns suddenly, picks up an empty water glass from his desk and hurls it at the wall. The glass smashes into a million pieces, scattering all over the floor, and I freeze in the doorway, shocked.
He catches sight of me, his golden eyes blazing, every line of him taut with fury. And I’m suddenly reminded of the day John threw my glass paperweight and it hit the wall and smashed. That terrified me, and the next day I left him, so by rights I should be terrified now.
Yet, as the shock drains away, it’s not fear that replaces it. John would simmer coldly for weeks before exploding, but Ulysses is standing there, making no attempt to hide his fury, and he isn’t simmering either. He’s already boiling over, and for some reason that fascinates me.
‘I suggest you not come near me for the time being,’ he says roughly.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Will you hurt me?’
His anger flares again, his mouth hard. ‘No, of course not. I’m not your bastard husband.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I agree. John chose my paperweight to break because he knew it was mine and that it would hurt me. But Ulysses just threw his own water glass, and it’s not the same. ‘So why should I not come near you?’
‘Because I’m furious,’ he bites out through gritted teeth. ‘And I’m never very pleasant when I’m furious.’ His accent has grown stronger, his voice deeper, which I find unbearably sexy. I even find his anger unbearably sexy, though I shouldn’t.
He’s practically incandescent with it, his hands in fists at his sides, his eyes blazing. He’s not afraid of his anger, I think. He feels comfortable expressing it, and part of me wonders what that would actually be like—to be so relaxed about my emotions that I could express them without worrying about hurting someone or making them angry. Without being told that the way I feel is wrong and inappropriate.
‘Why are you furious?’ I want to know, because it must be something serious, and if so I want to help. It seems like a strange thing to want to do for a man I haven’t known very long, but it’s true nevertheless.
Ulysses turns back to the windows, as if looking at me is too much for him. ‘My sister is not here. She’s with someone else. An enemy of mine from years ago.’
I study his tense posture. He loves his sister, that’s obvious, but he’s furious too, which likely means he’s afraid. Anger sometimes stems from fear, so perhaps he’s afraid for her—which makes sense, given what he said about an enemy of his.
‘You’re worried about her?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he bites out. ‘Of course I’m fucking worried about her.’ There’s another silence, then he adds, ‘She’s pregnant.’
