She could have made herself believe he hadn’t heard the phone ring, that maybe he was waiting for better reception, or maybe he had lost his phone. But silent as it was, the text came through loud and clear.
She couldn’t let Thea see her falter, couldn’t let anyone see her fall apart. She had to save face and then figure out what came next. So she did what she did best and let the anger swallow the hurt.
Elaina banged her head against the door. “Vlákas!”
“English?” Thea said meekly, and Elaina’s eyes burned.
“Stupid!” Elaina shouted. “How could I be so fucking stupid?”
She held the phone for her cousin to see.
Elaina stalked back to her dressing table. Soft. Thea was right. For three years she’d let Duncan, let loving Duncan, whittle away at her stony exterior, and how had that left her?
Vulnerable.
She thought her worries were unfounded, just pre-wedding jitters. But maybe deep below that tough exterior, her heart really had turned to marshmallow—a trusting marshmallow with a missing groom.
Well, soft was out of the fucking question now.
I am not a marshmallow.
She didn’t even like marshmallows—Jordan made her taste some jarred version of the American treat—but that was beside the point. Elaina needed to get Duncan to Thessaloniki and soon—before she had to explain to her family and his why he wasn’t coming. Duncan would have to tell her, face-to-face, that he was bowing out of this. He would have to look all their guests in the eye and explain to them why they would not be rehearsing tonight—why there would be no wedding tomorrow. Elaina may have lost the battle, but she wasn’t going down with the ship.
She scrolled through her contacts once again, still ignoring Thea’s confusion. As expected, this call went directly to voicemail. But when the plane landed, Elaina would hopefully be the first message in her queue.
“Jordan. It is Elaina. Duncan is…missing. I think he might be in Athens. I need your help to get him back here so he can leave me properly, face-to-face. Just—call me when you land. I will be here.”
She collapsed into the chair, blew out a long breath, and looked at her cousin.
“Let’s do this,” Elaina said, grabbing Thea’s makeup bag and getting to work on the dark circles under her eyes. “I want everything to be perfect today.”
Thea closed her mouth, the one that had been hanging open since Elaina stood from the chair minutes ago. Then she mustered a soft, “But, Elaina—”
She cut her off.
“He needs to see what he is missing, what he is giving up, and that he did not get the best of me.”
But she was sure her cousin heard the small break in her voice on that last word. Because the truth was, Duncan brought out the very best in Elaina, and she had already given those parts of herself to him. He would always have the best of her, but she’d never let him know.
Chapter Five
Duncan
Duncan stretched as he exited the jet bridge into the terminal. He set his messenger bag down on an empty chair and turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows and the plane from which he’d just come. As passengers disembarked, they smiled at him, and he offered the same in return.
A little more than three hours, and Scotland was gone. Just like that. His home was there, and Greece was here. The sun shone so brightly, he had to shield his eyes. That would take some getting used to. Not that Aberdeen never saw the sun, but there was something different about the sun in Greece, even in December.
Duncan wasn’t visiting Greece this time. Greece was his new home. He smiled at first, but then swallowed as his throat tightened.
Greece is my new home.
For fuck’s sake. Duncan lived here now. Well, not in Athens. But one more plane trip—a really freaking short one—and he’d be in Thessaloniki, which was his new home.
He pulled at the collar of his wool jumper, the Greek sun obviously melting him. In a swift movement, he tore off the garment, leaving only his Aberdeen Uni T-shirt and his jeans. That felt better. Of course. It was just the jumper. He could breathe now. But when he turned to the chair next to him, ready to stuff it into his messenger bag, the bag was gone.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he whispered, but as he finished the phrase, he heard a squeak of rubber on tile, and he turned.
There was the thief, with Duncan’s bag slung over his shoulder. The bloke from seat 23A.
“Fuck ya doin’?” Duncan yelled, and then 23A was off like a goddamn racehorse.
So was Duncan McAllister.
He was not a runner, not by choice. Duncan’s idea of exercise was a slow hike up to the beach or a mental workout in front of the telly with his PlayStation. But he was suddenly a short-distance sprinter. He had his hand around the strap of the bag in less than fifteen seconds, and 23A introduced his fist to his face just as quickly.
Duncan was sure he was standing seconds ago, but now he was flat on his back, the skin and bone below his left eye throbbing and his head spinning. Over him stood a prepubescent teen and the bloke from 23A, conversing in whispered shouts.
Duncan made out, “Attacked me,” and, “Detain you both for questioning,” and, “Are you okay, sir?”
He thought that last one was for him, so he nodded. Not because he was okay—he was pretty fucking far from okay—but because when a stranger asked if you were okay, it was easier to say yes than to explain all the reasons to the contrary, and though Duncan had a growing list of why he was miles from okay, he was too dazed to voice them.
The prepubescent-looking one helped him to his feet. The sight must have been a laugh, a git just past his A Levels lifting a twenty-five-year-old man from the ground—and quite a strapping twenty-five-year-old man, if Duncan had any say about it. Once standing, though, things went blurry. Then he swore he saw two of everything. And after that, it all went black.
Duncan sat up with a start.
“It’s my bloody bag!” he called out, he realized, to an empty room. Duncan lay on a small rollaway-type bed in what looked like a doctor’s examining room, his head propped on two pillows. He took a few deep breaths as his head swam. Where the hell was he?
The door opposite his bed opened, and a man dressed in all white entered carrying two miniature cups.
“For your head, Mr.…” he said, smiling underneath a thick black mustache, and Duncan didn’t argue. His head throbbed, so he was willing to take whatever the man was offering. He dropped two small pills in his mouth and chased them down with the water that was in the other cup.
“McAllister. Duncan McAllister.”
The man nodded. “This is good,” he said. “You couldn’t answer that question twenty minutes ago, and you do not have ID on you, sir. We did not know who to contact.”
What was this guy talking about? Of course Duncan knew his own bloody name. If only he could figure out where he was, he could be on his way to…to…
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Duncan asked. And where the hell am I meant to be?
The man’s brow furrowed, and he pulled a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on.
“If you’re ready to stay awake, Mr. McAllister, I’d like to finish your exam. We were close to sending you to hospital, but without ID it is very difficult to—”
Duncan stood, swayed, thought better of it, then dropped back on his bum on the bed.
“It’s in my bag,” he said, letting his head fall against the pillows again. He was so close to surrendering, to letting his eyes close, when he bolted upright again.