Читать книгу After the Greek Affair - Шантель Шоу, Chantelle Shaw - Страница 8

BELLE ANDERSEN extracted her mobile phone from her handbag and skimmed the text message she had received from Larissa Christakis, explaining how to reach her brother Loukas’s private Greek island.

As I’m getting married on Aura, it would be wonderful if you could come to the island to work on the designs for my dress so that you can get a feel for the setting. You can catch the ferry from the port of Lavrion in Athens to the island of Kea. Let me know what time you plan to arrive and I’ll make sure a boat is waiting to bring you to Aura.

The ferry had arrived at Kea ten minutes ago and the last of the passengers were disembarking. Further along the quay several fishing boats rocked gently on a cobalt sea that reflected the cloudless blue sky above. The little port of Korissia was a picturesque place. Square white houses with terracotta-coloured roofs lined the harbour and gleamed brilliantly in the sunshine, and behind them green hills swathed in a profusion of brightly coloured wild flowers rose in graceful curves.

Belle’s artistic eye appreciated the beauty of her surroundings, but after a four-hour flight to Athens and another hour on the ferry to Kea she was looking forward to reaching her destination. Perhaps one of the fishing boats had been sent to collect her, she thought, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she stared along the quay. A group of fishermen were standing around chatting but no one paid her any attention. The other passengers from the ferry had dispersed into the town. With a sigh she picked up her suitcases and began to walk towards the fishermen.

The May sunshine was blissfully warm after the grey, unseasonably chilly London Belle had left behind. Her lips twitched when she recalled her brother Dan’s reaction to the news that she would be spending the next week in Greece while he remained on their old houseboat on the Thames, which had sprung a leak.

‘Spare me a thought while you’re hobnobbing with a Greek billionaire on his paradise island, won’t you?’ Dan had teased. ‘While you’re topping up your tan I’ll be patching up the boat—yet again—before I head off to Wales for a photo shoot.’

‘I’ll be working, not lazing in the sun,’ Belle had pointed out. ‘And I don’t suppose I’ll have much to do with Loukas Christakis. Larissa told me her brother spends much of his time at his company’s offices in Athens, or visiting his many business projects around the world. Even the date of Larissa’s wedding was determined by Loukas’s schedule. Apparently the last week in June is the only time he has free.’

A frown wrinkled Belle’s brow as she continued along the quay. During her conversations with Larissa the Greek girl had frequently mentioned her brother, and it was clear she adored him. But Belle had gained the impression that Loukas Christakis was a man who was used to having his own way, and she suspected that Larissa was slightly in awe of him.

The very fact that she had been asked to design and make Larissa’s wedding dress, as well as dresses for her two bridesmaids, in five weeks rather than the six months she would usually expect the commission to take was due in part to Loukas, Belle mused. Of course he was not responsible for the fact that the first designer his sister had commissioned had suffered some sort of personal crisis and disappeared—Larissa had been rather vague about the details of what had happened—but Loukas’s insistence that the wedding should still go ahead at the end of June as planned must have put Larissa under enormous pressure. She had been close to tears when she had visited the Wedding Belle studio a week ago, and clearly relieved when Belle had assured her that she could make her a dress in time.

Her frown deepened as she recalled the tremor in Larissa’s voice when she had explained that she needed Belle to come to Aura and begin working on designs for the dress as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even met Loukas Christakis yet, but she instinctively disliked him, Belle thought with a grimace.

She gave herself a mental shake. It wasn’t fair to allow her dislike of domineering John Townsend—the man she had grown up believing to be her father—to colour her judgement of all other men. Larissa’s brother was probably charming. Certainly enough women seemed to think so, if the reports in the gossip columns about his energetic love-life with a bevy of beautiful mistresses were to be believed.

A flash of movement far out to sea caught her eye and she halted and watched a speedboat streaking towards the harbour, churning up twin trails of white froth in its wake. It slowed as it approached the quay, the low throb of its engine shattering the quiet. Sleek and powerful, the boat was eye-catching, but it was the man at the wheel who trapped Belle’s gaze and caused her heart to jolt beneath her ribs.

When Larissa had said someone would pick her up from Kea and bring her to Aura it hadn’t crossed Belle’s mind that that someone might be Loukas Christakis himself. The pictures she’d seen of him in newspapers and magazines did not do him justice, she thought dazedly. Sure, the photographs had faithfully recorded the thick jet-black hair swept back from his brow, his chiselled features, square jaw and the innately sensual curve of his mouth. But a photo could not capture his aura of raw power, the magnetism that demanded attention and made it impossible to look away from him.

‘Are you Belle Andersen?’ His accented voice was deep and gravelly and so intensely male that the tiny hairs all over Belle’s body stood on end. Heat surged through her and her skin suddenly seemed acutely sensitive, so that she was aware of the faint abrasion of her lacy bra brushing against her nipples.

‘Y…yes…’ To her embarrassment the word emerged as a strangled croak. Her heart-rate quickened as she watched him steer the boat broadside against the harbour wall, and throw a rope around a bollard before he jumped onto the quay.

‘I’m Loukas Christakis,’ he announced, striding towards her. Supremely confident and self-assured, he moved with surprising grace for such a big man. He was well over six feet tall, Belle estimated, and narrow-hipped, his long legs encased in faded denims that moulded his powerful thighs. Through his close-fitting black tee shirt she could see the delineation of his abdominal muscles, and the shirt’s vee-shaped neckline revealed an expanse of bronzed skin and wiry black chest hair.

Dear heaven, he was something else! Belle swallowed. Never in her life had she felt so overwhelmingly aware of a man. Her heart was racing and her palms felt damp. She wanted to speak, make some banal remark about the weather and break the tension that gripped her, but her mouth felt dry and her brain seemed to have stopped functioning. She wished he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Perhaps if she could see his eyes he would seem less imposing, although somehow she doubted it.

Professionalism finally came to her rescue and she held out her hand to him, thankful that her voice sounded normal as she murmured, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Christakis. Larissa spoke of you when she visited my studio in London.’

Was it her imagination, or was there was an infinitesimal pause before he grasped her fingers in a brief handshake? His grip was firm, and once again she was conscious of his power and strength. He towered over her, his big body silhouetted against the bright sunlight, and unbidden she found herself wondering what it would be like to be crushed against his broad chest.

He released her hand, but to her surprise instead of stepping away from her he took hold of her arm. ‘I am delighted to meet you too, Ms Andersen.’ The greeting was perfunctory, and Belle detected a faint edge of impatience in his tone. ‘I need to speak to you. Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’

Without waiting for her to reply he picked up the larger of her suitcases, slid his hand beneath her elbow and steered her across the road to a bar, where tables were set beneath a striped awning. Belle struggled to keep up with his long stride in her three-inch heels. She felt like a recalcitrant child being dragged along by an impatient parent and she glared at him indignantly, but before she could say a word he pulled out a chair and she found herself guided firmly down onto it.

No doubt tourists found it a charming place to spend an idle hour watching the boats in the harbour, she thought with a frown when Loukas rounded the table and lowered himself into the seat opposite her. But she had come to Greece to work and she was eager make a start.

‘Mr Christakis—’

‘Would you like a drink?’ A waiter materialised at their table, and without waiting for her response Loukas spoke to the youth in rapid Greek. The only word Belle understood was retsina, which she knew was a Greek wine.

‘Make that a fruit juice for me, thank you,’ she said quickly.

The waiter glanced at Loukas—almost as if seeking permission to bring her the drink she had ordered, Belle thought irritably. She checked her watch and saw that it was eight hours since she had left home that morning. She felt hot, dishevelled, and in no mood to pander to a man with an oversized ego. ‘Mr Christakis, I don’t actually want a drink,’ she said crisply. ‘What I would like is to go straight to Aura. Your sister has commissioned me to design her wedding dress, and with a deadline of just over a month it is imperative that I start work immediately.’

‘Yes…’ Loukas lifted his hand to remove his sunglasses and subjected Belle to a cool appraisal. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

His eyes were the colour of flint, hard and uncompromising. Disappointment swooped inside Belle when she noted the distinct lack of welcome in his expression. What on earth had made her think that her intense awareness of him was reciprocated? she asked herself impatiently. Even more ridiculous was the notion that she wished it was. She frantically blanked out the thought and forced herself to meet his gaze, conscious of the uneven thud of her heart as she studied his heavy black brows, his strong nose and full-lipped mouth. The shadow of dark stubble on his jaw only added to his blatant sex appeal.

What would it feel like to have that sensual mouth move over hers, at first in a leisurely tasting, and then crushing her lips beneath his in hungry passion? She was shocked as much by the clarity of the image in her head as by her wayward thoughts, and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Loukas’s eyes narrowed and his gaze became speculative. Had he guessed what she had been thinking? Mortified, she felt her blush deepen. Everything about him—from the proud angle of his head to his relaxed, almost insolent air as he trailed his eyes over her—exuded arrogance. No doubt he was used to the effect he had on women, Belle thought dismally, wishing the ground would swallow her up.

Life seemed to be doing its damnedest at the moment to be difficult, Loukas brooded irritably as he stared at the woman opposite him, watching the flush of soft colour stain her cheeks. It should have been a simple matter to inform Belle Andersen that there had been a change of plan and she was no longer required to design his sister’s wedding dress, hand her a hefty cheque to cover her expenses, and then see her onto the next ferry back to Athens. Instead he found himself transfixed by a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, fringed by long hazel lashes and shadowed by an air of vulnerability that he found intriguing.

He had not expected her to be so beautiful. Even more surprising was his reaction to her, Loukas acknowledged. He spent his life surrounded by beautiful women. He was a connoisseur who dated top models and glamorous socialites, and he preferred tall, willowy, sophisticated types. Belle was a tiny, doll-like creature, but from the moment he had seen her standing on the quay his attention had been riveted—and now he could not tear his eyes from her exquisite face.

Her features were perfect: those startling blue eyes, a neat little nose, high cheekbones, and a soft pink mouth that was undeniably tempting. Her hair was hidden from view beneath her wide-brimmed hat, but he would lay a bet that with her pale, almost Nordic skin tone she was a blonde. The cream hat with black trim was the perfect accessory for her expertly tailored skirt and jacket. Black patent stiletto heels and handbag completed her outfit.

He wondered if her elegant 1950s-inspired suit was one of her own creations. If so, then perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily about her suitability to design Larissa’s wedding dress? He entertained the thought briefly and then dismissed it. Belle Andersen was an unknown quantity. The company search he had made on the internet the previous night, after Larissa had sprung the news that she had chosen a new designer to make her wedding dress, had revealed that the bridalwear company Wedding Belle had barely made a profit in the previous financial year and had little capital. In other words Belle’s company was struggling financially—just as Demakis Designs, whom Larissa had first commissioned to make her dress, had been.

Loukas blamed himself for the fact that his sister did not have a wedding dress five weeks before her wedding. If only he had checked out Toula Demakis he would have discovered that the Greek designer had serious financial problems and that her business was on the verge of bankruptcy. But he had been abroad when Larissa had appointed Toula, and had been unaware that his trusting sister had paid the wretched woman the entire cost of her dress in advance.

That had been six months ago, and as the date of the wedding had drawn nearer Toula Demakis had made increasingly wild excuses to explain the delay in completing the dress—excuses which unfortunately Larissa had not relayed to him until the unscrupulous designer had disappeared with the money.

Perhaps he was to blame that his sister was so unworldly? Loukas thought heavily. But she meant the world to him. He had acted as a surrogate father to her for most of her life, and maybe he was a little over-protective of her. With the wedding looming, he had decided to take charge of the situation and had asked his friend, internationally acclaimed fashion designer Jacqueline Jameson, to make Larissa’s dress—unaware until last night that Larissa had already appointed a new designer.

Perhaps it was unfair to be suspicious of Ms Andersen just because Toula Demakis had turned out to be a dishonest crook, Loukas conceded. But unlike his sister he never trusted anyone—a lesson he had learned the hard way, and which had proved invaluable in both his business and private life. Maybe the English designer was totally reliable, but the wedding was fast approaching and he was not prepared to risk Larissa being let down again.

He leaned back in his seat and studied Belle’s delicate features. She was exceptionally attractive, he acknowledged. But he did not need to remind himself that his sister was his only consideration. His unexpected attraction to Belle Andersen was inconsequential, and he was confident that he would have forgotten her within minutes of escorting her onto the ferry. It was a pity, though, Loukas mused, feeling a sharp stab of desire in his groin. Under different circumstances he would not have wasted a moment seducing her into his bed…

Belle wished that Loukas Christakis would stop staring at her. She could feel herself growing increasingly flustered, and when their drinks were served she gulped down her fruit juice simply because holding the glass to her lips provided a welcome distraction from his disturbing presence.

‘You were thirsty after all,’ he commented dryly.

She flushed, remembering that she had told him she did not want a drink. ‘I’ve been travelling all day,’ she said pointedly.

Cool grey eyes trapped hers. ‘I appreciate that—just as I appreciate that the last thing you will want to hear now is that your journey has been unnecessary. But I’m afraid I have to inform you that my sister has chosen another designer to make her wedding dress and no longer requires your services.’

For a few seconds Belle stared at him in dumbstruck silence while his words sank in. ‘But…’

‘I hope this will recompense you for your travel expenses and time,’ Loukas continued smoothly, opening his wallet and handing her a slip of paper.

Numbly, Belle took the cheque. The figure scrawled in black ink covered her travel costs a hundred times over, but it did nothing to alleviate her feeling of sick disappointment. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said slowly. ‘I received a text message from Larissa only yesterday, saying how excited she was that I was going to design her dress and that she was looking forward to my arrival. Are you saying she’s changed her mind since then?’

This time she was sure she had not imagined Loukas’s slight hesitation before he spoke, but his voice was level and even politely apologetic as he murmured, ‘I’m afraid so.’

Belle did not know what to say. She felt winded, as if someone had punched her and forced all the air from her lungs. She was stunned by the news that Larissa had had a change of heart. She stared down at the cheque, her vision suddenly blurred.

It was ridiculous to cry, she told herself fiercely. But this was to have been her big chance. Larissa’s wedding was the society wedding of the year.

Loukas Christakis was one of the richest men in Greece; recent reports suggested that he had moved up to billionaire status—which was an astounding achievement considering that he had been born into poverty. He was regarded as a national hero in his own country and a celebrity in the US, where he had started his property development empire. Everyone who was anyone had been invited to the marriage of his only sister.

‘I’ve never met half the people on the guest list,’ Larissa had confided to Belle. ‘If I’m honest I would have been happy with a smaller affair. But I know Loukas is determined to make my wedding the most memorable day of my life and so I feel I can’t complain.’

The commission to design the bride’s dress for such a high profile wedding had been guaranteed to give Wedding Belle huge media attention. Belle knew it could have been the making of her fledgling business, bringing in new orders and providing a vital lifeline when the bank was threatening to call in her loan.

But her disappointment was due to more than a lost business opportunity, she thought bleakly. She had taken an instant liking to Larissa, and had felt deeply sympathetic when she’d heard how the Greek girl had been let down by her first designer. In London, Larissa had excitedly pored over Belle’s portfolio, and had rummaged among the samples of vintage French lace, marabou feathers and other trimmings like a child in a sweetshop. Her enthusiasm had been infectious—so what had happened between then and now to cause her to choose a different designer? It didn’t make sense, Belle brooded. Something did not feel right.

She frowned as she recalled something Larissa had said when she had visited the Wedding Belle studio. ‘Loukas wants Jacqueline Jameson to make my dress.’

She’d recognised the name, of course. Jacqueline Jameson was a favourite designer of celebrities across the globe, and at least four Hollywood actresses had worn her dresses to last year’s most prestigious film awards. Belle had felt flattered when Larissa had insisted that she wanted to get married in a Belle Andersen creation, but it seemed that at the last minute she had changed her mind—or given in to her brother.

She stared suspiciously at the arrogant features of the man sitting opposite her, noting the hard line of his jaw and the glint of steel in his eyes. Had Loukas got his own way? Had he put pressure on his sister to employ the designer of his choice? From what Larissa had told her it sounded as though Loukas had hijacked the wedding and was determined to turn it into a showcase to demonstrate his wealth and success, so it followed that he would want Larissa to pick an internationally acclaimed designer to make her dress.

There was only one way to find out exactly what was going on, and that was to ask Larissa, Belle decided, opening her handbag and taking out her phone.

Across the table she was aware that Loukas no longer looked relaxed, but had tensed and was watching her intently. ‘You need to make a call right now?’ he queried, his heavy brows drawing together.

‘I had an arrangement with your sister,’ she informed him, relieved that she sounded so calm when her insides were churning. ‘I’d just like to check with Larissa that she is happy with her decision to commission another designer instead of me.’ She hesitated, and felt a little shiver run down her spine when her eyes clashed with his hard grey gaze. ‘Assuming that Larissa did actually make that decision and it wasn’t made for her.’