Читать книгу The Greek Tycoon's Reluctant Bride - Кейт Хьюит, Kate Hewitt - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
Twenty years later
DEMOS ATRIKES lounged against a smooth stretch of wall and surveyed the strobe-lit dance floor with a jaundiced eye as music pounded and bodies writhed around him. Abstract images were projected on a rippling red curtain across from him, and the bored socialites who weren’t on the dance floor lounged artfully on curving leather sofas, watching the absurd slideshow.
He already had a headache. He didn’t normally come to these types of parties. Yet another striving socialite turning—what? Twenty-two? He glanced at the scantily clad beauties crowding the dance floor and suppressed a sigh of boredom. He generally preferred more sophisticated entertainments, although now even those had started to seem old. Empty.
He’d only come tonight because the birthday girl this time round also happened to be the daughter of one of his current clients, a financial analyst who wanted a custom-designed yacht, worth around twelve million euros.
It made coming to this pop princess party worth his while—or at least half an hour of his time. He downed the rest of his drink and surveyed the writhing crowd one last time. He’d had enough.
When he’d left the office half an hour ago he had been seeking respite, but he knew the pounding music and heaving dance floor would not provide it. He’d lost himself in such amusements too many times, and now he wanted something else. Something more.
He just didn’t know what it was.
He’d begun to turn away when his eyes were drawn to a slender, dark-haired beauty in the middle of the floor, gyrating closely with a greasy-haired punk wearing tight black trousers and a half-buttoned silk shirt in a violent shade of pink. She wore a slip dress in silver-spangled Lycra, riding high on her thighs and dipping low on her breasts so that little of that lithe young body was left to Demos’s imagination.
She smiled at the man next to her and he reached for her hips, drawing them closer to lock with his in a move so blatantly crude and sexual that Demos’s mouth thinned in distaste—even though at thirty-two years old he wasn’t old or innocent enough to be a prude.
His eyes flared with awareness and curiosity—blatant interest—uncoiled inside him as he watched the girl stiffen. Was the punk’s proprietorial pawing too much, even for a wild-child like her? Then she shrugged, accepting, and tossed back her tangled waves of ink-black hair in a gesture that was both brave and yet somehow wonderfully, pitiably defiant.
They danced like that for a few seconds, no more, before she suddenly twisted away, her hair lashing around her, and moved off the dance floor.
Demos watched, intrigued, as the man in the lurid shirt made to follow her. But with a flirty smile that managed to both promise and reject she shook her head and disappeared among the heated throng.
Without even thinking about what he was doing—or why—Demos followed.
It didn’t take long to find her. At six feet four he was head and shoulders above all the women, even those tottering on their sharpened stilettos, and most of the men.
He found her curled up on one of the curving divans scattered around the nightclub’s bar area, her eyes wide and staring. Demos stopped and watched her, considering his move.
He hadn’t been in the mood to party tonight, he acknowledged, not after nine hours of staring at blueprints, followed by his mother’s reproachful telephone call. You must visit, Demos. Your sisters need you…
A mantle, a yoke he’d taken on without a qualm or single pang of uncertainty. Yet now, twenty years later, he felt its shackling weight.
For a moment he threw it off, let his gaze rest on a far more enticing proposition—someone who didn’t depend on him, didn’t need him, someone he just…wanted. Desire. Pure, plain, simple.
He wanted her. Yet she was oblivious to his presence even though he’d come to a halt only a metre away. He took the opportunity to study her: the sexily tousled hair, the smoky eyeliner and pink pouty lips, the distant look in eyes the colour of lapis-lazuli. She was sitting with her legs tucked under her, and her minuscule skirt rode up even higher so he could see the scrap of her thong.
As if aware of where his wandering eyes had strayed, she snapped her own gaze to his, and for a heartbeat she looked surprised—shocked, even. Demos held her gaze, felt its lure and promise as those pouty lips curved into a smile of sensual enjoyment and with deliberate provocation she recrossed her legs.
Demos swallowed, not wanting to be affected by such an obvious ploy. But he was. Her lips curved more deeply, knowingly.
‘Had a nice look?’ she asked in a husky purr, and Demos smiled, slipping next to her on the divan.
‘Yes,’ he murmured back, ‘thanks to you.’
She glanced at him with brazen thoroughness, her gaze travelling from his face, with its five o’clock shadow, down to his loosened tie, sweeping across his chest, and down further, her smile still curving with a teasing playfulness that had Demos nearly breaking into a sweat.
He’d had his share of one-night stands—instant physical attraction that had been fulfilled and finished in a matter of moments. Yet he’d never reacted so strongly, so quickly, to a simple look.
‘Had a good look yourself?’ he asked, leaning closer to her. She shook her head, and her hair brushed his cheek. She smelled of some kind of flowery young scent that he normally would have found overpowering, yet on her it was intoxicating.
‘No…not yet.’
‘We could remedy that situation.’
She pulled back, raised her eyebrows. ‘How?’
She was challenging him, he thought. The smile that curved her lips was both sensual and mocking. He felt a thrill of adrenalin and lust race through him. This girl was different from the spoiled socialites, the shallow models. The women he normally took to bed.
They simpered, they cooed, they draped themselves over him with nauseating predictability. She didn’t. She just smiled coolly and waited.
‘How do you think?’ he finally asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, and he felt from her little smile that she was as intrigued as he was. ‘Maybe you can make some suggestions as to how we find out.’ There was a look of challenge in her eyes, and she laid one hand as lightly as a butterfly’s wing on his thigh. High on his thigh.
And Demos reacted.
So did she.
She jerked her hand away and gave a little laugh, her glance sliding away from his before it returned, resolutely, to meet his enquiring gaze.
The skinny silver strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder, and Demos reached to adjust it. He couldn’t resist sweeping his fingers against that silky bit of skin, to feel if it was as soft as it looked.
Yet the moment his fingers skimmed her collarbone she jerked back, her body stiffening, her eyes blanking. She almost looked afraid.
Demos dropped his hand and leaned back, considering.
What game was she playing?
Then she smiled again, reached for her martini glass, downed the last of her drink and thrust it towards him.
‘Why don’t we start with you buying me a drink?’
Althea Paranoussis held her glass out, quirking one eyebrow in mocking challenge. The man next to her stared at her for a moment, his own eyes the colour of smoke, darkening to charcoal.
Hard eyes, she thought. Hard mouth, hard face, hard body. Hard everything. She didn’t like the cool assessment in his eyes, the way his long fingers wrapped around her glass, taking care to brush hers.
She didn’t like the shock of pure sensation that shot up her arm, uncoiled in her belly and put the familiar metallic tang of fear on her tongue.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked.
She told him the cocktail she wanted. A name laced with innuendo.
He raised his eyes, and Althea flicked her hair over her shoulders in a move she’d perfected over the years.
‘Is that a drink?’
‘You’ll find out at the bar,’ she replied with a naughty little smile.
He gave a terse nod and moved from the divan. Althea watched his long, lean body as it moved through the crowds with easy grace. As he headed towards the bar she wondered if she should disappear.
She was an expert at the art of promising without delivering, of melting into the crowd as she made a little moue of regret. It was the way she stayed safe. Sane.
She leaned back against the leather divan and didn’t move. She wanted to see him again, she realised with a sharp pang of surprise. That was strange. She wanted to know more about him. He seemed different from the bored, base young men she normally surrounded herself with. He was older, more confident, and therefore more dangerous. Yet still she didn’t move.
There would be time later for excuses, escapes.
Plenty of time.
She glanced up and saw he’d already reappeared, requisite pink drink in hand. It was a ridiculous drink, a silly, soppy, girly cocktail, and she swallowed a laugh at the look of it in his hand. He looked revolted by it, but he handed it to her with a flourish, and the laugh she’d suppressed came out in a rich, throaty chuckle that had him smiling back in bemusement as well as blatant appreciation.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured. He hadn’t bought a drink for himself, Althea noticed as she took a small, careful sip.
He sat down next to her, watching her with an intent narrowed gaze that lacked the lascivious speculation she was used to and yet affected her more deeply, causing a strange shaft of pleasure and pain to pierce her composure, her armour, as his eyes swept slowly over her.
‘I don’t even know your name.’
She smiled over the rim of her glass and sought to arm herself once more. ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that how you like it?’
‘Sometimes,’ she shot back carelessly. She put her drink down, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘I like women to know my name,’ he replied. His eyes glinted with both challenge and admiration. ‘Demos Atrikes,’ he said after a moment, and she tossed her hair back and smiled.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ She’d heard of him, of course. She supposed she should have recognised him. He was in the tabloids just as much she was, usually with a model or starlet clinging to his arm. And now he wanted her for that precarious position.
Her lips thinned before she smiled again, letting her gaze linger on the harsh yet beautiful lines of his face, noticing the gold flecks in his silver-grey eyes. Silver and gold. The man was rich, she knew. Rich and bored, out for an evening’s entertainment. She leaned back against the leather divan, tucking her legs under her, her mouth twisting sardonically.
He noticed. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked in a murmur, his voice pitched low yet sharpened with cynicism.
‘I’m bored.’ Althea met his gaze with a challenge of her own. ‘Let’s dance.’
‘You bore easily.’
‘Not if given the right entertainment,’ she tossed back, eyes and senses flaring.
‘I have a better idea,’ Demos murmured, leaning towards her so she could feel his breath, cool and minty on her cheek. ‘Let’s leave this party. I know a taverna near here. We can have a drink, some quiet conversation.’
Althea pulled back, raised one eyebrow in mocking disbelief. ‘You want to talk?’
‘We can begin with talking,’ Demos replied with a smile. ‘And see where it leads.’ He paused, his eyes flickering over her once again. ‘You’re different.’
She smiled again, not bothering to hide her cynicism. He had no idea how different she was. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It was intended as one. So?’ Demos arched an eyebrow, his eyes dark with enquiry and interest. ‘Shall we?’
She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. She didn’t get that close with men like Demos Atrikes. She didn’t get them alone.
Yet she was intrigued despite her intentions not to be, despite her self. He had told her she was different, and now she wondered if he really was too.
It was more than simple curiosity, Althea knew. Her eyes were drawn to the hand he extended, lean and brown and sure. She wondered how that hand would feel wrapped around hers, how his body, lean and long and hard, would feel against hers, and the very fact that she was wondering such things made her breathless and dizzy with fearful surprise.
Althea felt herself slip from the divan even as a disconnected voice reminded her that she never did this. He was just a man, another man, and she knew…
Except maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she wanted to find out. She tossed her hair back and reached for the scrap of spangled silk that served as a wrap. Even in Athens the early spring air was chilly. It had a bite.
She slipped her hand in his and felt those strong brown fingers close around hers, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her like a shot to the heart. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling; it was too strong and surprising. Althea jerked back, but Demos didn’t let go.
He just smiled, and Althea realised he’d sensed her reaction and knew what it meant. Maybe he felt it too.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a glint of pink silk, and her stomach curled with nerves as Angelos Fotopolous walked straight towards her, smiling with unpleasant promise. She turned back to Demos.
‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘In a hurry, are you?’ he murmured, even as Althea rested a hand on his arm, her fingers curling, clinging to his suit jacket.
‘You’re not leaving the party so soon, beautiful?’ Angelos said. He’d undone a further button on his shirt and his hair was slicked back from his narrow face.
He reached out to pull her to him, and Althea let herself go slack, unresisting. She felt her body go numb, and then… nothing.
He didn’t touch her.
Demos had stopped that snaking arm with a quick vice-like grip. ‘She’s leaving,’ he said in a low, pleasant voice. ‘With me.’
‘Says who?’ Angelos snarled, yet Althea saw the uncertainty enter his eyes. Demos was a head taller and a decade older than Angelos, who still had a rime of pimples along his jaw.
‘She says,’ Demos replied. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked, sliding her a quick querying glance. He was, she realised, giving her a choice. She hadn’t expected it. She had expected him to defend her against Angelos as a matter of personal pride. But to let her choose…? It was novel.
Maybe he was different.
‘I…’ She cleared her throat, raised her voice. ‘I do. Leave it, Angelos.’
Angelos’s eyes blazed, but he shrugged. ‘Fine. She’s nothing but an easy slut anyway.’
Demos’s hand shot out, wrapped around Angelos’s throat. Althea blinked. Angelos choked.
‘Apologise, please,’ Demos said. His eyes were hard, almost black, even though he kept his voice pleasant.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Angelos gasped, his fingers scrabbling at Demos’s fist. Speculative murmurs rippled around them in an uneasy tide. They were, Althea realised, attracting a crowd.
‘Demos—enough,’ she said. She lifted her shoulder in a dismissive shrug. ‘He’s not worth it.’
Demos waited a few seconds, watched as Angelos’s face began to turn colour. Then he let him go. ‘No, he’s not,’ he agreed with an unpleasant little smile. He stepped away. ‘Let’s go.’
Demos turned his back on Angelos and his arm, heavy, guiding, went around Althea’s shoulders. She tensed as he led her through the curious throng, the crowd parting easily and quickly for a man of Demos’s size and presence.
Within seconds they were on the street outside the club—little more than a narrow alleyway in the city’s Psiri district.
‘I know a place near here,’ Demos said, and with his arm still around her shoulders he began striding down the street.
Although the district was a working class neighbourhood of small shops and factories during the day, at night the tavernas and ouzeries opened up, spilling their tables and patrons out onto the street along with raucous laughter and the twangy strains of old rembetika songs.
High-profile nightclubs had attracted Athens’s A-List, but now Demos was leading her to another part of Psiri altogether; a part, Althea thought with a shiver, that reminded her of the district’s origins in revolutionaries and organised crime.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, and Demos flashed her a quick smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.
The pounding music and pulsing lights of the club were far behind, and somewhere in the darkness a wild cat yowled.
‘Don’t worry,’ Demos said, but Althea jerked away from him.
‘I want to know where we’re going.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of how skimpy her attire really was. In the crowd of a club it felt appropriate. Here, alone with Demos on an empty darkened street, it felt ridiculous, dangerous. And freezing.
She was also conscious of how little she knew Demos; she’d been intrigued in the club—excited, even—yet now fear, cold and familiar, came rushing back.
Demos regarded her for a moment, and in the yellow wash of a passing car’s headlights Althea could see a considering gleam in his eyes. ‘There’s a little taverna on the next street,’ he said. ‘A quiet place, with good wine.’
Althea took a breath, tried not to think of the implications of his invitation. She made it a policy never to get this far, this close. Yet she’d broken that cardinal rule, and now she didn’t know what to do. How to act.
He’d led her through a maze of twisting alleys and streets and she had no idea how to get back to the club, or even to a thoroughfare that would have reliable taxis. She nodded slowly, and then forced herself to shrug. ‘Fine.’
He held out his hand, and with another shrug and a little smile Althea took it. She shouldn’t like the way his hand felt encasing hers, she knew, warm and dry and safe. She shouldn’t curl her fingers around his as if she wanted him to keep holding her, touching her. Yet she did.
A few minutes later they arrived at the promised taverna, a narrow, quaint place, crammed with tables and rickety chairs, dusty bottles lining the walls. The proprietor, a tall, gangling man in a three-piece suit and apron, welcomed them in.
‘Demos! Long time, eh? What brings you here?’
‘A party,’ Demos said with a shrug, but he clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Good to see you, Andreolos.’
Althea was surprised. From the innate grace and arrogance with which he’d strode through the club, not to mention dealt with Angelos, she’d expected him to entertain at five-star hotels on the Plaka, not dusty holes-in-the-wall in Psiri.
Andreolos ushered them to a table tucked in the corner, gave them menus and went to fetch a bottle of wine from under the bar. Althea wrapped her spangled shawl more modestly around herself, conscious yet again of how tarty she must appear.
‘Regretting your choice of attire?’ Demos asked, and she heard a mocking note in his voice that made her flush. Then he surprised her by adding quietly, ‘You look beautiful.’
In the dim intimacy of the taverna, with their knees touching under the tiny table, she took a moment to study the man whose attention and interest she’d captured. And had he captured hers? She considered the question reluctantly; she didn’t like to think that a man—any man—could have a hold over any part of her. Body, mind, heart.
Yet she’d gone with him; she’d been planning to go with him even before Angelos had intercepted their exit. She’d wanted to.
Why?
She thought of that deep shaft of pleasure-pain she’d felt when he looked at her, touched her, and then shoved the memory away with resolute determination.
She couldn’t afford memories like that.
He glanced down at the laminated menu, giving her ample time to study his features.
He was good-looking, undoubtedly, although not in the stylised, almost feminine way most of the young men of her circle were.
His face wasn’t beautiful; it was too rugged and individual for that. His hair was dark, longer than most men’s, touching his collar, raked arrogantly back from his face. His eyes were silvery grey under fierce arching brows. His nose would have been straight and perfect if not for a slight crook in the middle, suggesting it had been broken at some time in the distant past. And his mouth…lips that were sculpted, full. Surprisingly soft in such a hard face.
She tried to remember what the tabloids said about him, but the details escaped her. She tried never to read the gossip rags anyway. She knew all too well how they twisted the truth and lied outright. And she let them.
Andreolos came with the bottle of wine and two glasses, and they were both silent as he poured. Demos smiled his thanks at the man, then lifted his glass in a toast, the ruby-coloured liquid glinting in the lamplight.
‘Yasas,’ he said, in the familiar drinking toast, and Althea murmured it back before she took a sip. ‘So,’ he said musingly, and Althea tensed. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
She took another sip of wine. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Your name, to start.’
Althea smiled mischievously. ‘I thought we agreed it would be better if you didn’t know.’
His mouth quirked in an answering smile. ‘Woman of mystery?’
‘Of course.’
He chuckled, and Althea wondered why it mattered. It didn’t make sense; he could find her name out easily enough by asking anyone in that club. She was surprised that he didn’t know it already, and that she’d never seen him outside the tabloids before.
She noticed now a few grey streaks at his temples, and wondered how old he was. Older than most of her crowd, at any rate. Older and more experienced—more sophisticated. More dangerous, she reminded herself.
She took another sip of wine.
‘All right, Woman of Mystery,’ Demos said, his tone lazy and languorous, ‘I suppose I’ll have to think of a name for you myself.’
Althea’s lips curved. ‘Such as?’
He studied her, his eyes heavy-lidded over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Elpis,’ he finally said at last, and Althea let out a short laugh of disbelief.
‘That’s an interesting choice.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Hope. The only thing left in Pandora’s box.’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know who she is?’
He laughed, and she could tell he had recognised how he’d patronised her. ‘Vaguely,’ he admitted, his eyes glinting in the dim light, sending a strange shiver of foreboding through Althea. She shouldn’t let him affect her like this…even if he was different.
‘So.’ She placed her wine glass on the table and leaned forward, her wrap slipping off one shoulder. ‘What kind of hope do I give you?’ she asked, and there was a knowing, sardonic edge to her voice that had his eyebrows rising in surprise.
His eyes flicked over her, resting briefly on her bare shoulder. ‘I think you know,’ he murmured.
She smiled, leaned back, and said nothing. She felt the slight, stupid sting of disappointment. It was about sex. Always about sex. Just sex. Of course. Had she thought for a moment he wanted something more? Had she hoped for it? Why?
Maybe he wasn’t so different after all.
‘So tell me about yourself,’ she said after a moment. Demos shrugged.
‘I’m a yacht designer. I also run a business letting luxury yachts to the discerning customer.’ He smiled and she nodded, her interest piqued. He wasn’t another boy intent on spending his father’s inheritance. He was a man who had presumably made his own money.
‘You like it?’ she asked.
‘Very much.’
‘Why?’
The question surprised him, she could tell. He took a sip of wine before speaking. ‘I like to see the designs come to life. From nothing, to lines on paper, to something made of steel and glass—something that races across the sea.’ He gave a little smile, almost of embarrassment, as if he’d said too much.
‘That must be a nice feeling,’ Althea agreed, and she couldn’t quite keep the wistful note from her voice. ‘To create something.’
‘And what do you do? Besides play and party.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I need to do anything else?’
‘A beautiful woman need only exist,’ Demos replied smoothly. Too smoothly.
‘An ornament, you mean?’ Althea said flatly, and she could tell he was surprised. He thought he’d been complimenting her.
‘So tell me what you do, then,’ he said, a cool note entering his voice.
Althea smiled sardonically, although she kept her voice light. ‘I exist, of course.’ Exist. So much less than living, loving. Nothing more than a state of being.
She could feel Demos’s eyes on her—felt his curiosity, his interest and, worse, a flicker of compassion. Pity.
‘Are you happy?’ he asked, and Althea realised no one had ever asked that before.
She looked up, saw him smile and laughed—a hard, brittle sound. ‘Of course I am. Look at me.’ She raised her arms. ‘Do you honestly think a woman like me could be unhappy?’
It was a bold question, one she didn’t want answered. She was beautiful; she knew that. Beautiful people didn’t have problems. Beautiful people were always happy. They had to be.
Demos’s gaze moved over her slowly, thoughtfully. Althea watched and waited. She wanted to look away; she wanted to hide. She hated feeling examined, explained away, yet for some reason Demos didn’t look like a man trying to find answers. He looked more in search of questions. ‘I would find it difficult to believe,’ he finally said, and Althea dropped her arms.
‘There you are, then,’ she said, and drained her glass.
The ensuing silence hummed and buzzed between them with expectation, and Althea toyed with the stem of her wine glass. ‘Are you married?’ she asked after a moment.
Demos’s own glass slammed onto the table with enough force to send liquid sloshing over the rim. Andreolos hurried forward and dabbed at the spill before retiring once more.
‘What the hell kind of question is that?’
Althea shrugged. ‘I have to ask.’
‘Do married men pick you up in clubs often?’ he asked, and she wondered if the distaste thickening his tone was for her or for the married men.
‘I try to stay away from wedding rings,’ she replied.
Demos arched one eyebrow. ‘Even on your own finger?’
‘Absolutely.’
He paused, his eyes hard and bright with speculative satisfaction. ‘Then we shouldn’t have a problem.’
He smiled, and she watched as he poured her more wine. No problem, she thought, because he had no intention of marrying. No intention, perhaps, of even calling her or seeing her again. A few preliminaries, the standard ‘tell me about yourself’, and then his undoubtedly well-used one-liner about Pandora’s box. Hope.
For heaven’s sake. She’d almost fallen for it, almost wondered—believed—that he was different.
That she was.
Althea closed her eyes briefly; she felt a sudden sorrowful weariness that threatened to wash over her in an endless tide. She was so tired of men like Demos. So tired of nights like this. So tired of being the party princess who never said no to a drink, a dance.
Who didn’t know how.
She opened her eyes and saw Demos looking at her with far too much perception—and yet not nearly enough. Had she thought he might understand? Might want to? Was that why she’d come out with him alone, unescorted, unprotected? Dancing in a club was safe. Flirting, partying, promising. All safe.
This wasn’t.
She needed safety. She needed escape. She needed it now.
She flicked her hair back with a little smile, her decision made. ‘Where’s the ladies’ room in a place like this?’
‘It’s a closet in the back,’ Demos replied. His eyes narrowed slightly as he added, ‘Probably not what you’re used to.’
‘Not to worry.’ Althea slid from her chair, taking her wrap and her tiny beaded bag, trying to act casual. Her heart was starting to thump so loudly she was sure Demos could hear it, see it through her skimpy dress. ‘Be back in a moment,’ she promised with a little smile, and he nodded.
She wove her way through the tables, down a narrow corridor to the bathroom at the back. She could see a few men in greasy aprons cooking in the tiny kitchen at the end of the hallway. They glanced up as she approached, then turned back to their flaming skillets. There was a door, she saw with relief, to a back courtyard.
She waited a moment, until she couldn’t see anyone either in front or behind, and then strode quickly to the back door. For a second, no more, she imagined turning around and going back to the table. Sitting with Demos, drinking good wine, talking, laughing, learning about each other.
And where would it lead? Where would he expect it to lead? Where did he intend for it to lead? He’d already told her. Hope.
Ha.
With a grim little smile she clenched the knob and wrenched the door open. Outside in the cramped courtyard she breathed in a lungful of greasy fumes; the vent from the kitchen blew out into the cluttered space. There was an overflowing skip of rubbish next to the door, a couple of rickety chairs, no doubt placed for the waiters to have their cigarette breaks, and high, soot-stained stone walls separating the courtyard from those of the neighbouring buildings. On every side.
There was no way out.
Althea slowly circled the courtyard before cursing aloud. She was trapped.
‘Going somewhere, Elpis?’
Her breath came out in a startled rush and her eyes flew to Demos, now lounging in the doorway, a sardonic smile curving that mobile mouth, his eyes glinting in the darkness. He looked lazily amused, yet underneath Althea sensed something deeper, darker.
She swallowed and opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The evidence was obvious. Impossible to deny. She’d been trying to run out on him.
He uncoiled himself from his relaxed pose and closed the space between them in a couple of strides.
‘I don’t think you were skipping out on the bill,’ he murmured, though she heard the edge in his voice. Felt it. He was close enough that his breath ruffled her hair. ‘So you must have been skipping out on me.’ He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and Althea shivered. ‘And I’m wondering why.’
He stood so close to her she could feel his heat. She felt her mind go numb. Blank.
‘Cold feet?’ he whispered against her hair, mockery hardening his tone. ‘Or are you just playing a game?’
Althea was tall, but she still wasn’t at eye-level with him. She stared straight ahead at the collar of his shirt, opened at the throat, saw the sharp line of his collarbone, the skin tanned a deep, working man’s brown. She swallowed and said nothing.
Demos lifted his hand, trailed his fingers lightly down her cheek. ‘You intrigue me, Elpis,’ he whispered. ‘You’re different from most of the spoiled socialites I meet. I think you might be as bored with the club scene as I am.’ She arced her head away from him, and his fingers closed around her chin, tilting it so she was forced to meet his iron gaze. ‘But I don’t play games, so you’d better not try them with me.’
Something sparked to life and she jerked her chin from his grip. ‘All of this is a game.’
‘Is it?’ His eyes fastened on hers, searching, demanding. ‘And who wins, I wonder?’
Althea’s lips curved in a smile. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sick. She shook her hair back, smiled again. She let the smile play about her lips, let Demos notice, saw his own eyes darken with desire even as his mouth remained unsmiling and hard. ‘And the game is over, Demos,’ she whispered. ‘For tonight. If I intrigue you so much you’ll have to work a little harder. Find out my name first…and it’s not Elpis.’ Then, driven by a need she couldn’t even name, she stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward, meaning only to brush her lips with his in the barest kiss of farewell.
She planned on never seeing him again. Certainly not alone.
Demos stilled her, his hands curling around her shoulders. Their lips were a breath apart. ‘Are you sure this is how you want to end tonight?’ he asked in a lazy murmur, and Althea felt control trickling away, felt her body and mind freeze once more. ‘Because,’ Demos continued, ‘I’ve been wondering what it will feel like to kiss you all evening. What you taste like. And I think you’ve been wondering the same thing.’
She couldn’t open her mouth to deny it; his lips were too close.
‘And I think,’ Demos continued with a knowing edge, his lips almost—almost—brushing hers as he spoke, ‘I’m going to let you wonder a little bit more. You want me, Elpis. You want me as much as I want you. I can tell.’
Althea wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to deny it with as much scathing disdain as she could muster. And yet she couldn’t quite make herself say the words.
She’d never wanted anyone. Any man. And she sure as hell wouldn’t want this arrogant ass either.
Demos’s mouth hovered over hers a second longer, long enough for Althea’s lips to part in instinctive invitation, even though her mind was screaming its useless denial. She felt him smile against her mouth, and then he stepped back and released her.
‘I’ll get you a taxi.’
For a shattered second all Althea could do was stare, blink, her mind and body shocked and numb. Then she nodded mutely, still unable to form a thought, much less a sound. She knew it would be difficult for her to get a taxi in this part of Psiri—a woman alone on the street. And she wanted to go home…alone. Even if Demos had won this round. Even if she was left wondering, wanting, unsure and unsated.
She followed Demos through the taverna, weaving her way through the tables, and tried to ignore Andreolos and the other waiters’ speculative looks.
Out in the street a couple staggered past them, laughing uproariously and clearly drunk.
Althea wrapped her arms around herself. The wind had picked up and was now slicing through her skimpy dress.
Demos hailed a taxi in a matter of seconds—an admirable accomplishment in any part of Athens, and certainly in this neighbourhood.
Althea pushed past him without a word, too frozen in body and spirit even to offer her thanks. She felt something heavy drop over her shoulders and she stiffened in surprise.
It was his blazer.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said, and handed the taxi driver a wad of euros.
‘I don’t—’
‘Yes,’ he replied with flat certainty, ‘you do.’ He closed the door in her face, leaving her alone in the darkened taxi, speeding away, his jacket still on her shoulders.
* * *
Demos watched the taxi disappear around the corner and wondered where she was going. He wondered who she was.
He was intrigued by her spirit, her sass, as well as by the hidden depths in those jewel-like eyes. She wasn’t, he mused, an empty-headed socialite—even though she pretended to be one. He had a feeling she wasn’t the easy slut Angelos had claimed her to be either.
So who was she? And why did he want her so much?
Was it the challenge, the mystery? Or the simple fact that he was currently unattached and bored?
No, it had to be more than that; there had been at least a dozen debutantes in that forsaken club that would have gladly come home with him. He hadn’t given them a single look. They hadn’t been worth a single thought.
But her…
She’d been going to run out on him. He smiled at her sheer audacity and nerve, even though he’d been furious—furious and stupidly a little hurt—at the time.
Why had she been sneaking out? Had she been bored? Provocative? Or something else altogether? He didn’t like games. He should have left her there—alone, humiliated. Yet he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.
She had courage. She was beautiful. He wanted her.
Three reasons to make her his, however he could. But first he needed a name.
It didn’t take long. Nothing ever did when you had determination. Demos had discovered that long ago. He paid the bouncer at the club fifty euros to find Angelos and bring him outside.
Demos leaned against the graffiti-splattered brick wall as Angelos came out, looking surly and suspicious.
‘You…!’ he said in disbelief, and then looked quickly around, noticing that the bouncer had stepped closely behind him. ‘What do you want?’
‘A name.’
Angelos shook his head, nonplussed and not a little drunk. ‘What?’
‘The name,’ Demos repeated softly, ‘of the woman I was with tonight.’
Angelos snorted. ‘You didn’t even get her name?’ He glanced around, saw that Althea was absent. ‘She tired of you quick, hey? She’ll come running to me. Althea and I go way back.’
‘Althea,’ Demos repeated in satisfaction. It suited her.
‘Althea Paranoussis,’ Angelos confirmed with a shrug. ‘Daddy’s little rich girl. Stupid sl—’
‘Don’t,’ Demos warned him. ‘Don’t speak of her again. Ever.’
‘What do you care?’ Angelos took a step backwards, and came up against the bouncer. ‘She left you anyway. She’s good at that.’
‘I’m finished here.’ Demos addressed the bouncer, then started down the street. He didn’t look back as Angelos was hustled into the club.
Althea Paranoussis. He had a name. He knew how to find her. And he would, Demos thought with satisfaction. Soon.
