Читать книгу The Mediterranean Millionaire's Mistress - Maggie Cox, Maggie Cox - Страница 5

‘SO, HOW do you go about choosing subjects for your pictures?’ Ianthe asked him before biting into an olive she’d selected from her colourful bowl of traditional Greek salad. They were sitting outside at a taverna up on a hill, the sparkling iridescence of the sea a stunning backdrop as two passenger ferries crossed each other in the distance, leaving a foaming backwash in their wake.

Lysander appeared thoughtful for a moment, his captivating eyes shielded from her gaze by dark sunglasses. Even so, Ianthe felt the keen scrutiny of his unsettling glance with the same stunning acknowledgement as though he was asking the most intimate questions of her that a man could ask a woman…

‘The woman in the photograph became my subject quite by chance,’ he replied with a shrug, breaking some bread and leaving it on his plate.

Her glance was drawn immediately to his lean, bronzed hands with their almost pearlescent square-cut nails. He definitely had ‘artistic’ hands, but they didn’t look work-shy either.

‘I’d been travelling around some of the smaller islands, taking my camera with me, and after walking all day in one particular place, and getting lost, I stopped at a small house to ask the way. It was Iphigenia’s house—the woman in the picture. She fed me that day with what little food she had, and in the course of our meal together she told me her life story. When we had finished eating she was curious about my camera and asked if I would like to take her picture. I said of course, and the result you see in the gallery.’

Iphigenia had moved Lysander deeply that day, with her kindness and her humility. Their encounter had happened just three scant months after Marianna had died. Leaving his business affairs to trusted colleagues, he had taken off travelling, needing to be alone for a while, needing to make sense of a world that he could not pretend to understand any more. Iphigenia had lost her entire family to illness, one after the other—her husband, her son, then lastly her daughter. Yet she wasn’t bitter, and she was utterly convinced that they would all be reunited again when she died.

Lysander had almost made his own entreaty to God that that might become true for her, though he nurtured no such similar hope of being reunited with the baby son he’d lost. That would be a miracle he found too hard to believe in…especially when he knew he probably didn’t deserve it. He had never been able to shake a nagging feeling that maybe, because he hadn’t truly been able to find forgiveness in his heart for Marianna’s adultery, he was somehow being punished.

When he’d finally returned home and developed the picture he’d known he’d captured something very special indeed. He could have sold Iphigenia’s picture a hundred times over with the interest it had generated, but Lysander had instead given it to his friend Ari Tsoukalas to hang in his gallery.

‘So you are a photographer by profession?’

‘Amongst other things, yes.’

There was not the slightest need or inclination on Lysander’s part to tell this charming young woman that he earned his main income from the shipping industry, and that that income ran into millions of dollars a year. Far better that she believed him to be a simple photographer. That would allow them both to be free to enjoy their unexpected lunch together, without all the baggage that his family’s name and wealth entailed.

‘And do you exhibit your photographs anywhere else?’ Ianthe enquired politely. For a moment Lysander’s attention was caught by the way she chewed on the juicy black olive and carefully extracted the stove by making her mouth into an unconsciously sexy ‘O’ shape, to capture it with her forefinger and thumb. Such an ordinary, commonplace action should not provide the highly provocative entertainment it did, but Lysander couldn’t deny that his groin had tightened hotly at the sight. He considered the pretty English tourist with a renewed fascination that wouldn’t be assuaged.

‘Not yet, but I’m currently working on putting a small exhibition together in Athens with a friend.’

He was telling the truth—apart from the fact that the exhibition was being held in one of the city’s most prestigious venues, and the friend who was helping him put it together was one of the world’s most celebrated photographers. It wasn’t anything to do with any kind of social nepotism, though: Lysander’s photographs had caught the other man’s professional eye when some of them had been published in a fashion magazine.

‘Well, I wish you well with it. If your other photographs are anything like the one I saw today then I’m sure you’re well on the way to making your fortune.’

She smiled, showing perfectly neat straight white teeth. Lysander didn’t doubt that she dutifully brushed them and flossed three times a day. Already he’d sensed that she was a contained little thing, the kind of person who paid rigorous attention to the small things in life…yet he’d also intuited that underneath she had a fire in her belly to match his own. A person who could be spontaneously moved and inspired, as he’d seen her that morning, would not lack for passion.

As the hot sun beat down upon their heads, Lysander fell into a compellingly erotic little daydream about how he’d like to spend the rest of the afternoon igniting that passion he was so certain she possessed into full unfettered flame, and the realisation of what he was contemplating did not induce the remotest sense of guilt.

He wasn’t looking for a soul mate. Emotionally, he was spent: there was nothing left in that department to give any woman. These days Lysander had only one use for attractive females who persisted in trying to command his attention. Ianthe might not have deliberately come on to him like the others usually did, especially when they found out who he was, but she had confessed to him that she was unattached. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that a woman like her would be nursing some secret hope of some kind of romantic liaison whilst on vacation.

Well, he couldn’t offer her romance. But the idea of a liaison—now, that was appealing.

‘Thank you. But I have done all the talking, it seems, and I still know nothing about you. What brings you to our little island?’

She didn’t answer him straight away. It was a relatively simple question, but she seemed to be having extraordinary difficulty finding a reply.

‘I came because I badly needed a break…a change of scenery.’

‘And you travelled here alone?’

‘I didn’t want to travel with anyone because I needed time on my own, to think.’

‘That sounds very serious. So you have important decisions to make about your life, perhaps? Or am I being a little too personal?’

He was being too personal, but when he removed his stylish sunglasses and fixed her with that arresting indigo stare of his Ianthe did not have the nerve or the inclination to rebuff his questions. In any case, ‘too personal’ or not, it might be easier to share some of what was on her mind with a stranger—someone she would never see again once she left the island.

Ianthe decided to take at least a small step and reveal something of what she felt—just not too much.

‘I suppose I do have some important decisions to make. Some things…some very hard things happened that have kind of forced those decisions on me. But the truth is, in some ways it’s as though what happened—how it affected me—was fated. Up until recently I was ignorant of personal tragedy or pain. I think I needed to learn that lesson, however painful, and change my way of life.’

She went quiet for a very long moment. Lysander could see the near agony that she could not quite conceal in her very expressive dark eyes and was curious at what had caused it.

Then she took a breath and smiled, deliberately lightening the mood. ‘Of course it’s far easier to contemplate than actually do, don’t you think? Making changes, I mean.’

‘If the desire is there…’ He shrugged. ‘I think you have clearly been changed already by what has happened to you, Ianthe. You are a brave woman to embrace it so philosophically. Many people recognise they need to change something, but rarely do anything about it—even when pushed. It is too easy to pretend nothing has happened, or stay in our comfort zones, no?’

He was so easy to talk to. His deep, rich, accented tones seemed to lull her into a strange feeling of safety she hadn’t experienced with anyone else. And he’d said she was brave. No one had ever said that to her before.

She closed her lips and became very aware of the silent but strong clamour of emotion surging through her heart.

‘Ianthe?’ Lysander prompted gently, his hand reaching for hers.

Contact with his firm, warm flesh was like being seared with a branding iron, and for a moment she was caught up in a vortex of shock and heat that robbed her of speech.

‘I’m not brave at all,’ she insisted after a while, her shock slowly subsiding as she stared down at her small slender hand, held possessively captive in his. ‘I’ve been the opposite all my life. Always playing safe, always erring on the side of caution. My parents tried to protect me from everything, you see, and I’m afraid I just let them.’

‘But now you are breaking free, yes? Like a beautiful butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.’

His words caused such a swell of emotion inside her that Ianthe pulled her hand free and rubbed it, biting down on her softly quivering lip to prevent herself from disgracing herself with tears. She had to change the subject to something less personal. ‘This is such a beautiful place…have you always lived here?’

She was determined to bring their conversation back to much more neutral and safe ground. When Lysander didn’t immediately reply, but instead surveyed her as though he understood every raw emotion that was threatening to submerge her—and understood it intimately, as though he was a kindred spirit—Ianthe found she couldn’t look away from him, no matter how hard she tried.

‘I don’t live here. I only visit now and then. I have a house on the island, and whenever I need to get away for a while…this is where I come. I live in Athens. And, yes, I agree with you, this is a beautiful place. It is a good place to come when you have lots of thinking about life to do.’ His voice was gently humorous, but not in any way derisive.

‘Is that why you’re here too?’ she asked him, feeling as though she stood precariously on the edge of a precipice that hypnotically begged her to leap into space. She took a hasty sip of the chilled white wine he had ordered for them with their meal, but her hand was trembling as her fingers curled round the stem of the glass.

Surprisingly his jaw clenched a little, as if her question disturbed him.

‘No. I am here on a kind of working vacation.’

‘Taking photographs, you mean?’

‘Ianthe?’

‘Yes?’

Startled by the suddenly authoritative tone in his voice, she felt her brown eyes collide anxiously with his searing gaze, like the fragile wings of a moth bumping against the dangerous yet compelling heat of a lightbulb.

‘As flattering as it is to have a woman so easily persuade me to talk about myself, I am much more interested in learning about you than in answering all your very polite questions about my own life.’

He was being perfectly serious. Especially since holding her hand just now had engulfed him in the kind of heat that stirred the blood to passion rather than friendship. Just an hour or so ago he had been feeling angry and in despair—hating his own morose company, but still unable to contemplate spending time with anyone else. And yet now…now, after being with the sweet, sexy woman sitting opposite him for just a few short minutes, he felt more vitality throbbing through his veins than he had experienced in months.

‘I don’t really want to talk about myself, if you don’t mind,’ she replied. ‘I’d just like to sit here and enjoy the sunshine and your company, and forget about my problems for a while. Is that all right with you?’

Apart from taking her to bed and tangling his limbs with hers for the rest of the afternoon in the trapped heat of his bedroom, with the blinds rolled down to shield them from the unforgiving sun, Lysander couldn’t think of anything he’d like better.

‘You don’t ask for much. And I would be happy to sit here and do just that.’ He raised his glass to her in the semblance of a toast. ‘I am very fortunate to have met you today, Ianthe. I thought it would be a day just like any other, but meeting you has proved me wrong, I do believe.’

Feeling her face radiate a heat to match that of the sun’s rays, Ianthe met his warm, searching glance with mixed feelings of pleasure and alarm fizzing inside her like lemonade bubbles. Turning her head away, she deliberately focused on the sublime scenery instead—silently and fervently calling upon divine help to prevent her from dangerously succumbing to the myriad and infinitely fascinating qualities of this wildly attractive and unusual man.

Lysander had been unable to resist inviting Ianthe to join him for dinner. He’d refused to consider the question of whether it was wise of him or not, and now he could barely contain his great desire to see her again as he sat at one of the best tables on the terrace of an exquisitely positioned restaurant overlooking a presently calm ocean, the sun almost ready to demand homage as it set.

He spied Ianthe at the entrance, talking to an animated young waiter, and his chest tightened oddly at the sight of her. Even though she stood several tables away from him, he could sense the hum of admiring interest that her appearance was generating. He experienced a small, yet almost violent reflex low down in his belly—part jealousy, part pride that for tonight at least she was his—and with every moment that passed he realised he was growing more and more impatient for her to join him.

She was wearing a simple red and white halter-necked cotton dress that paid loving homage to breast, hip and thigh before flaring slightly and falling elegantly to just below her knees. With her rich dark hair as shiny as a sunlit river flowing prettily down her slim back she was stunning, and observing her in those arresting few moments gave Lysander a picture that he would not soon forget. Sensual excitement dealt him another stunning blow.

He stood up as she arrived at their table, the young waiter deferentially arranging the chair opposite his for her to sit, and flushing ever so slightly beneath his perfect olive skin. Lysander guessed that perhaps the young man was embarrassed at being noticed talking so animatedly to the wealthy Lysander Rosakis’s new ladyfriend.

Thanking him in his native tongue for showing his guest to his table, Lysander waited until his charming dinner companion sat down before addressing her.

‘I am very glad that you could make it,’ he asserted, his gaze locking possessively onto her shy brown eyes.

‘Am I late?’ she anxiously returned, glancing down at her watch in dismay. ‘It was such a perfectly lovely evening that I couldn’t resist just strolling.’

‘I arrived early, so, no, you are not late. You are just in time to witness one of the most spectacular sunsets, in fact.’

They both glanced towards the blazing orb hovering just above the sea’s edge, sending a ricochet of intense orange flame scudding across the already darkening waters. Ianthe sucked in her breath.

Hearing the unbelievably sensual little sound, Lysander felt the smile on his lips melt abruptly away—so taken aback was he by her innocent yet at the same time passionate response to witnessing one of nature’s most awe-inspiring wonders.

‘Doesn’t that stir your soul?’ she demanded, her eyes wide, briefly moving her glance back to Lysander’s.

Marianna had never noticed a sunset in her life. He doubted it would ever have occurred to her to consider whether she had a soul, let alone ask him about his. Ianthe’s words struck an answering chord inside him, deeply and provocatively.

‘Yes, it does,’ he replied, his voice low and slightly husky. ‘No matter how many times I am privileged to witness it, its beauty and power never fail to move me.’

He had the most amazing voice, Ianthe thought as a flare of heat exploded inside her breast. Hearing it was like bathing in a warm bath scented with her favourite perfume. In fact, it was one of the most delicious sensory experiences she’d ever had…perfect for seduction.

The all too tempting idea escaped her characteristic self-restraint like wild horses chasing a dream, and for a while Ianthe succumbed to it with undeniable relish. But cold reality quickly surfaced. She hadn’t agreed to have dinner with Lysander in the hope that he might seduce her. She’d heard all about the pitfalls of holiday romances even if she’d personally never experienced one, and a man as dynamically attractive and charismatic as him had probably had his share and regarded them as fleeting pleasures that he would quickly forget. For all Ianthe knew, he might even be married.

This new thought filled her with horror. As charming and compelling as he was, she would no more consider having an affair with a married man than she would walk down her conservative suburban high street naked! That was one opportunity that she would definitely not be taking!

‘What will you have to eat?’ he asked, breaking into her thoughts afresh with that sensual, provocative cadence of his voice.

Taking the menu he offered, and glancing only briefly down at its lacquered pages, Ianthe cast her gaze almost immediately back to his.

‘Please don’t think me presumptuous, but…’ How could she put an undeniably indelicate question delicately? His relaxed contemplation of her face did not waver at her words, but seemed to become more disturbingly concentrated. Little implosions of panic and awareness were like landmines dotted along her vertebrae. She swallowed. ‘You asked me if I had a husband or a boyfriend. Well…do you mind if I ask you the same quest—?’

‘My wife died.’

His voice was as bleak and foreboding as a deep, dark well—the kind that she would not dare to look down in case there was something menacing and dangerous lurking in there. He did not bother to hide his complete distaste for her nervously executed question. The hue of his disturbing eyes suddenly resembled impervious blue marble, and it appeared as if the Lysander that Ianthe had sensed herself succumbing to with such surprising vehemence had suddenly vanished—in his place was a cold, forbidding stranger. A horrible shiver licked slowly down her spine.

‘Now that that is clear, and you know that I am not trying to involve you in some kind of illicit love affair, perhaps you would care to think about what you would like to eat, Ianthe?’

Her throat dried so hard that she gazed longingly at the carafe of water on the table between them, almost willing it to levitate and come to her rescue.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, Lysander.’

A disconcerting dimple appeared at the side of his tanned cheek and confused her altogether. ‘Of course you did not. Now the matter is at an end. Forget about it and we can concentrate on enjoying our evening together.’

Ianthe wanted desperately to know what had happened to his wife. How had she died and how long ago? It was clear he must have loved her deeply, going by the jagged rip of pain she had momentarily glimpsed in his eyes before that distinctly frosty barrier had slammed into place to guard against unwelcome speculation.

It was clear, Ianthe thought, that those areas were taboo: topics that she didn’t dare raise again unless she wanted to incur his deep disapproval and maybe even wrath.

Forcing herself to scan the menu again, she was taken aback when he softly pronounced her name.

‘I did not mean to upset you.’

‘I’m not upset.’

Shaking off her uneasiness with a forced smile, Ianthe found herself unable to glance away as quickly as she’d intended, so that she wouldn’t expose her sudden unhappiness. It wouldn’t have worked in any case. Lysander’s reaction was like quicksilver.

‘Do not lie to me, Ianthe. You are the kind of girl who wears her heart in her eyes, and I am not blind.’