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CHAPTER FOUR

ASHLEIGH STOOD NEAR the top of the marble steps that led to the street, stamping her feet in her thin-soled pumps against the cold. It seemed surreal to be on her way out to dinner with Lukas Christophedes—billionaire, businessman, fake boyfriend.

As she well knew, it took time to attend to the various locks, bolts and security devices on the glossy black front door. She seized those few minutes to herself to try and sort her chaotic thoughts about the crazy deal she’d struck with him.

But as she watched him she started to shiver—not because of the cold but from delayed reaction as the full impact of her misconduct hit her. Security was vital to the high-end clients of Maids in Chelsea. She’d learned that London SW3 was one of the most desirable postcodes in the UK, possibly even the world. By handing her the keys to this house, Clio had entrusted her with the reputation of the agency—and she had betrayed that trust big time.

She felt she might hyperventilate when she realised how lucky she was to have got off so lightly. Had anyone other than Lukas Christophedes caught her in his bathtub she suspected she would right now be languishing in a police lockup. But his lenient treatment of her was only because she had something to offer him. If he changed his mind, or if she didn’t deliver on her part of the bargain, she could still end up enjoying the hospitality of the Kensington and Chelsea constabulary.

Men like Lukas—no matter how charming—didn’t get to be billionaires without being ruthless. She would have to play her assigned role to the nines. That meant getting as much as she could out of this evening so she could become the best pretend girlfriend ever. Then, after tomorrow’s dinner date was over, she could put him and today’s mortifying incident behind her. She took a deep breath to steady herself for the task to come.

Not that spending time with Lukas would exactly be a hardship. As he finished with the security device he turned to face her. Tall and imposing in a superbly tailored, deep charcoal overcoat, he was so strikingly handsome if she’d passed him in the street she would probably have tripped over her feet in her haste to turn and gawk at him. He was intelligent and interesting too. It seemed impossible that such a gorgeous man had to resort to a fake date. One thing was for sure—she could never think of Lukas Christophedes as boring.

He narrowed his eyes in the inscrutable way she had already come to recognise. ‘You need boots in this weather,’ he said. ‘Tall black boots.’

She stopped stamping, berating herself for drawing attention to the paucity of her wardrobe. ‘Yes,’ she said. If he only knew how many of London’s enticing shop windows she had lingered at, looking at boots she couldn’t possibly afford. Running away from her wedding had cost her in more ways than one. ‘Warm boots are on my shopping list.’ To be purchased at the Christmas sales. She had to find somewhere to live first, before she bought boots.

He indicated that she go ahead of him down the steps. ‘Do you like Italian food?’ he asked.

Her tummy threatened to rumble in response. She hastened to speak over it. ‘I like any food. Well, pretty well any food. I don’t care too much for really hot curries, which is a disadvantage living in London when that’s what my friends love best. But Italian? I love Italian. Wouldn’t you like to eat Greek?’

‘No one cooks Greek food as well as in Greece,’ he said, his voice underscored with arrogance.

‘I guess not. I’ve enjoyed Greek food back home in Australia,’ she said. ‘You know Melbourne is supposed to have the biggest population of Greek people of any city outside of Greece? Not that I’d recognise what was good Greek food or bad.’

Ashleigh knew she was chattering on too much, a habit she would have to curb if she were to be believable as the sophisticated kind of woman a man like this would date. Lukas and her. She had to get the script right. Because this might very well turn out to be one of the most life-changing experiences of her life.

‘I’ll take you to my favourite Italian restaurant on the King’s Road,’ he said.

‘I’d like that,’ she said.

As soon as she turned into the street, she gasped as a gust of cold, damp air hit her, burning her lungs, numbing her cheeks. Her eyes started to water and she blinked against the smarting tears.

‘You’re not used to the cold, are you?’ Lukas asked.

‘Not yet,’ she said, rubbing her hands together then sliding them into the pockets of her glorious borrowed coat. ‘I’m still getting acclimatised. Of course I spent very cold, wet winters in Manchester when I was younger but that was years ago. I’ve lived in tropical heat ever since.’

Immediately, Lukas unwound the finely woven grey scarf from around his neck. ‘Wear this and keep it up around near your face.’

Dumbfounded, Ashleigh shook her head. ‘There’s no need—I can’t possibly take your scarf.’ It was all very well to wear his mother’s clothing; to wear his clothes seemed way too intimate.

Did he intend to put it around her neck? She put up her hand to stop him and in doing so grazed his. At the brief contact, she dropped her hand—then regretted it immediately. A pretend girlfriend wouldn’t react like that at such a casual touch. A pretend girlfriend certainly shouldn’t feel such a zing of awareness.

‘But you must,’ he said, holding the scarf out to her. ‘I insist.’ It was not so much a demand but a statement not to be disputed.

Pretend girlfriend or not, it would be ungracious not to take the scarf when it had been so thoughtfully offered. Tentatively, she took it from him. The fabric was soft, cashmere and silk most likely, and warm from his body heat. She wound it around her neck, tucked it inside her collar and up around her chin, and immediately felt several degrees cosier.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, too shaken to say anything else.

The scarf was scented with something spicy and woody—cedar perhaps?—and distinctly male. Him. The scent of Lukas Christophedes—the man she needed to get to know by this time tomorrow evening. The man she would have to fight crazy stirrings of attraction for. There was too much of a fairy tale feel about all this—she couldn’t allow herself to believe any of it could be real.

‘But now you’ll be cold without your scarf,’ she said.

‘I’ll have to walk really, really fast then,’ he said, taking an exaggerated deeper stride.

She laughed, surprised at the unexpected touch of humour. Otherwise he seemed so serious.

‘Does it get cold in Greece in winter?’ she asked. ‘I always think of it as a summer place, all blue skies and even bluer waters.’

‘Even the islands get snow in winter,’ he said. ‘I live in Athens where it does get cold but not bitterly so. Then we have unexpected warm days—halkionis meres—halcyon days when the sun is shining and winter is temporarily banished.’

They were talking about the weather. She’d need to know more than that if she were to fool the astute businesswoman they’d be dining with tomorrow. But where to start without seeming to interrogate him?

They walked to the end of his street, turned into The Vale and then right into the King’s Road, heading west. Far from walking really, really fast, Lukas kept his pace to hers. As if they actually were a couple. At this time of evening Chelsea was buzzing. Trees were strung with thousands of tiny lights, the shops decorated for Christmas, snatches of festive music greeting them as they walked by the buildings. London at Christmastime was magic—she was so glad she had decided to stay here.

‘Where shall we say we met?’ she asked, having to raise her voice over the sound of a red number eleven bus rumbling by. ‘We can’t say Greece, because I’ve never been to your country. I did a whistle-stop European bus tour when I was a student but we didn’t go there.’

‘We’ll rule out Greece, then. I believe my potential business partner has vacationed on the island of Santorini many times and would immediately sniff out any fraud.’

‘Have you ever been to Australia?’ she asked.

‘No. Although it is on my bucket list.’

‘So “no” to Australia, then. Seems our common ground is England. We’ll have to say we met somewhere on British soil.’

‘But not in my bathroom.’

Was there a hint of teasing in his expression? Ashleigh couldn’t see to be sure. She squirmed at the memory of their first meeting. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’ Maybe she would tell Sophie about that incident but no one else. She would never live it down.

‘When were you in Manchester?’ Lukas asked.

‘When I was fifteen. Twelve years ago. And Sophie tells me the city has changed a lot.’

‘Manchester won’t work either.’ He paused. ‘So you’re twenty-seven now?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I thought you were younger. Perhaps twenty-three, twenty-four.’

Ashleigh gritted her teeth. She couldn’t let him know how much that assumption irritated her. ‘People often take me for younger—and treat me as younger.’ Especially her family—right now refusing to believe she knew how she wanted to live her own life. ‘I’ll be twenty-eight in March and am quite grown up, thank you.’ She couldn’t keep the tart edge from her words.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said with that trace of a smile that lifted his somewhat severe face.

‘How old are you?’ she asked. If there’d been time, she would have looked him up on the Internet. As it was, she was flying blind. He was a total stranger.

‘Thirty-four.’

‘So you were okay with thinking I was more than ten years younger than you?’

‘In my family it is not uncommon for the men to be much older than their women. My father is considerably older than my mother.’

‘I see,’ she said. She’d only ever dated men around her own age. It might be interesting to get to know a man six years older—even if they weren’t really dating. ‘There’s so much I need to know about you if we’re to appear authentic as a couple.’

‘That is true. Ask me anything you need to know.’

‘And you ask me anything too,’ she said. Not that there was a lot to discover. Her life had been anything but exciting. Until now.

They walked in silence while Ashleigh wrote herself a mental memo of questions. She fired off the one at the top of her list. ‘I probably don’t need to ask this, but I’m assuming you’re not married?’

‘I have never been married,’ he said. ‘I never will marry.’

His vehemence surprised her. ‘That answers that, then,’ she said. ‘I’m...uh...sure you have your reasons.’ He didn’t rush to enlighten her as to those reasons. ‘What about serious girlfriends?’

‘Not recently. And none that should concern you.’

‘Not married. No serious girlfriends. Okay.’ This wasn’t going well.

‘My friends tell me I’m married to my work.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound much fun.’

His laugh was short and cynical. ‘One thing you would be expected to know about me is that I took over the family business when it was on the verge of bankruptcy. I was aged twenty-one when I set myself the goal of turning it around. There hasn’t been much opportunity for fun.’

‘That’s quite a story. You must be proud of such an achievement.’

‘Yes,’ he said shortly.

‘But what’s the point of being a billionaire and not having any fun?’

Lukas stopped so abruptly she nearly crashed into him. ‘What?’ he said.

‘I said...I said... Well, I think you heard what I said. I mean, life’s all about laughter and love and...’ Her voice dwindled away. ‘Forget it. On to the next question.’

He stared at her in what she could only describe as astonishment that she should be so impertinent. ‘My life is about responsibility and hard work and righting the wrongs of the past,’ he said.

She didn’t dare ask what those wrongs might be. Not yet, anyway.

‘I get that,’ she said, even though she didn’t. They came from different worlds. She forced her voice to sound bright and cheerful. What the heck had she got herself into?

‘Moving on to my next question. You speak such perfect English. Did you study here?’ His voice was deep and steady, with that hint of an accent to add to its appeal. She could close her eyes and just enjoy hearing him talk.

‘I went to university here in London for a while. But I was already fluent. I had an English nanny from birth and studied the language all through school. My family considered it important that I spoke good English. There is another reason so many young Greek people speak English—American and English music and movies are not often dubbed into Greek.’

‘That’s a powerful incentive to learn a language. I wish I’d had something like that to inspire me.’

‘Do you speak another language?’

‘I studied Indonesian at school. But, apart from vacations in Bali, I’ve never really used the language so am not at all fluent.’ She looked up at him. ‘Maybe you can teach me some Greek?’

‘There is not much I can teach you in the short time we will be together,’ he said. Putting her in her place.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But could you please just tell me the Greek for “darling”?’

He frowned. ‘What for?’

She wanted to sigh heavily at his obtuseness but didn’t dare. Wasn’t it obvious? ‘An endearment here and there might add to the authenticity of our...uh...relationship.’

‘Agápi mou,’ he said finally.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It means darling, or my love—agápi mou,’ he said with an edge of impatience.

Ashleigh repeated the words. ‘How did I do?’ she asked.

‘Not bad at all,’ he said with an expressive lifting of his dark eyebrows.

‘Thank you.’ In her head she went over and over the phrase so it would seem natural should she get the chance to drop it into the conversation.

They walked further, past the fashionable restaurant that had in some earlier incarnation been a garage. She’d enjoyed a very expensive cup of coffee there with Sophie the first day she’d come to Chelsea to meet Clio and be interviewed for the position with the agency.

‘How far is the restaurant?’ she asked.

‘A few blocks further down,’ he said.

‘Towards Land’s End?’

He smiled. ‘World’s End is in Chelsea. Land’s End is in Cornwall, right down at the southernmost part of England. They say if you walk from John O’Groats at the top of Scotland to Land’s End you’ve walked the length of Britain.’

Ashleigh gave herself a mental slam to the forehead. ‘Of course, what a stupid mistake. I’ve heard my English grandparents say that. You know more about this country than I do and I’ve got English blood.’

‘I like London. That’s why I bought the house here. Chelsea is so English but also cosmopolitan. I can enjoy a certain anonymity here.’

‘I love it too,’ Ashleigh said. She was about to tell him how she’d felt immediately at home in London when she’d got here but didn’t want to remind him of how completely she’d made herself at home in his house.

The ristorante was large and noisy with clatter and chatter; delicious aromas wafted to meet her. Ashleigh wondered how she would be able to talk privately with Lukas. But he was greeted by name by the beaming maître d’ who took their coats—she hoped hers wouldn’t get lost because no way in a million years would she ever be able to afford to replace it—and ushered them to a quiet table in an alcove. Reluctantly, she handed over her borrowed scarf—already she missed its warm caress with the heady hint of his scent.

The waiter pulled out her chair for her. But before she sat down she rose up on tiptoe and deliberately planted a lingering kiss on Lukas’s cheek, then trailed her fingers from his cheek, down his neck to stop at his collar. ‘This is delightful, agápi mou,’ she murmured in the throatiest, sexiest murmur she could muster. Then looked up into his eyes and pouted, as if inviting a kiss in return.