He found himself smiling at her. Giving her the reassurance she was silently seeking.

‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’

The flicker was in her eyes again. ‘It’s just that…’

‘It’s just that I’m a complete stranger and I picked you up off the street.’

The blunt way he said it made her cheeks colour. But he had done it deliberately, spelling out her fears, her apprehension and unease.

‘Over dinner, I trust we will get to know each other more. But nothing will happen that you do not want to happen. You have my word on this.’

His eyes held hers, and then, out of the solemnity, a smile slanted suddenly across his face. Carrie felt that dazzle glitter inside her, as it had done when she’d first seen that incredible smile in the car.

Slowly she nodded, swallowing. She wasn’t being stupid—she wasn’t! She was simply being—

Carried away. Swept away. But why not? Why not? What was the harm in it? And how could she walk away now? She didn’t have the strength of mind to do so. And she didn’t have the will. Why should she? He wasn’t some seedy, creepy bloke—he was… gorgeous. Fantastic. Devastating. Irresistible. And someone like that would never, never appear twice in her life.

The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out. The champagne still seemed to be fizzing in her veins.

Julia James lives in England with her family. Mills & Boon® novels were Julia’s first ‘grown-up’ books, read as a teenager—‘Alongside Georgette Heyer and Daphne du Maurier’—and she’s been reading them ever since.

Julia adores the English countryside—‘And the Celtic countryside!’—in all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean—‘The most perfect landscape after England!’—and she considers both are ideal settings for romance stories! Since becoming a romance writer she has, she says, had the great good fortune to start discovering the Caribbean as well, and is happy to report that those magical, beautiful islands are also ideal settings for romance stories!

‘One of the best things about writing romance is that it gives you a great excuse to take holidays in fabulous places!’ says Julia. ‘All in the name of research, of course!’

Her first stab at novel-writing was Regency Romances—‘But, alas, no one wanted to publish them!’ she says. She put her writing aside until her family commitments were clear, and then renewed her love-affair with contemporary romances. ‘My writing partner and I made a pact not to give up until we were published—and we both succeeded! Natasha Oakley writes for Mills & Boon® Romance, and we faithfully read each other’s works-in-progress and give each other a lot of free advice and encouragement!’

In between writing Julia enjoys walking, gardening, needlework, and baking ‘extremely gooey chocolate cakes’—and trying to stay fit!

GREEK TYCOON, WAITRESS WIFE

BY

JULIA JAMES

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GREEK TYCOON, WAITRESS WIFE

CHAPTER ONE

ALEXEIS NICOLAIDES glanced around him with displeasure. It had been a mistake to come here. A mistake to indulge Marissa. He was only in London for a twenty-four-hour stopover, and when he’d got out of the day-long meeting in the City and returned to his hotel suite he’d simply wanted to find her waiting for him. Then, once the bare niceties had been dispensed with, and they had made polite and completely empty enquiries about each other’s well-being, he would have done what his fundamental interest in Marissa was: taken her to bed. Instead, however, he had ended up in this overcrowded art gallery, bored rigid and surrounded by yapping idiots—among whom Marissa was the key offender. At this moment she was giving full throat to her knowledge of the art market and the financial worth of the artist on display. Alexeis couldn’t have cared less about either.

And with every passing moment he was caring less and less about Marissa, and about spending any more time with her. Not here—and not even in bed.

Even as he stood there, an expression of growing irritation in his eyes, he made his decision. Marissa was going to have to go. Up till now she hadn’t been much of a problem—no more than any woman was, for they all, invariably, wanted to outstay their shelf-life with him. But three months on Marissa, savvy as well as beddable, was evidently starting to think she could start making demands. Like insisting he take her to this opening. Doubtless she thought that an absence of a fortnight would have whetted his appetite for her so much that he would be complaisant to her whims.

His dark eyes narrowed.

Mistake. His was not a complaisant nature. The Nicolaides wealth had always meant that he could call the shots when it came to women. He chose the ones he wanted and then they did what he wanted—or they were out. No matter how beautiful, how desirable, how highly they rated themselves.

Marissa Harcourt rated herself very highly. She was ferociously chic, with head-turning looks, a well-connected background, an Oxbridge degree and a fashionable and highly paid career in the art world. Clearly she considered these attributes sufficient not just to attach herself to a man like himself, but to hold him.

Did she even, Alexeis found himself speculating, consider them sufficient to hold him permanently?

Her predecessor had thought so. Adrianna Garsoni, whose exotic looks, soaring soprano voice and talent for self-promotion ensured her status as a diva at La Scala, had clearly believed that marrying Alexeis would mean the rich Nicolaides coffers could be put to work furthering her career. The moment Adrianna had shown her hand, making it clear she considered that marriage was on the agenda, Alexeis had disposed of her. Her reaction had been volatile in the extreme, but irrelevant to him. In comparison with Adrianna’s tempestuous personality, Alexeis had welcomed Marissa’s cool chic, as well as enjoying her highly sensual nature in bed.

Now, it seemed, much to his irritation, she would have to go too. He had quite enough going on in his life as it was. Alexeis’s thoughts shifted closer to home, and mouth tightened automatically. His father was currently marrying his fifth wife, and far too busy to bother himself with the intricacies and pressure of running a global business. As for his half-brother, Yannis, he was the offspring of his father’s second marriage, and far too busy pursuing his twin pleasures in life—fast sports and faster women. Alexeis’s mouth tightened even more.

However, he knew that the last thing he’d welcome was his father trying to interfere in how he was running the group, or Yannis trying to muscle in on it. The latter, at least, was one thing upon which Alexeis saw eye to eye with his mother. Berenice Nicolaides was vehement in her determination that the son of the woman who had usurped her should not get his hands on what she considered her own son’s rightful inheritance—nothing less than total and permanent control of the Nicolaides Group. Alexeis’s reason for wanting Yannis out of the picture was less vindictive—he merely considered his brother feckless, hedonistic, and far too much of a risk to be involved in running so large and complex a company.

Alexeis didn’t always agree with his mother. And on one aspect of his inheritance he was completely at odds with her. Alexeis’s eyes darkened as they always did when his thoughts were called in that unwelcome direction. Berenice was convinced—obsessed, he amended—that he should marry an heiress, preferably Greek-born, both to bolster his own financial position and to present his father with a grandson to continue the Nicolaides dynasty. Her constant attempts to matchmake only exasperated Alexeis.

As did, right now, Marissa’s discoursing on the art market. He made some perfunctory reply, still considering whether to end their relationship right now. The trouble was, if he did, he would be facing yet another night on his own. The dilemma worsened his mood and, peremptorily, he beckoned to a server circulating with drinks. As his fingers circled the stem of a champagne flute, he found himself glancing at her.

And holding the glance.

Long, blonde hair, caught back in a clip at her nape, an oval face with flawless features, translucent skin, a short straight nose and accented cheekbones. Wide-set, long-lashed clear grey eyes completed the package—the very delectable package. His first thought was automatic. What was a girl with looks like that doing working as a waitress?

He took the glass, murmuring a thank-you, and the girl’s eyes met his.

He could see it happen as if in slow motion: her reaction to him. Her reaction to the way he was looking at her.

The soft grey-blue eyes widened, pupils dilating and her lips parted slightly. For one long moment she looked—helpless. That was the word, thought Alexeis. As if there was nothing she could do except meet his eyes and let him look at her.

Out of nowhere, Alexeis felt his mood improve. She really was very, very lovely—

‘There’s no mineral water.’

Marissa’s voice was a snap of complaint. Suddenly the waitress looked flustered. Her eyes broke from Alexeis, and went to the woman at his side.

‘I—I’m very sorry,’ she stammered.

She had a low voice, Alexeis noted, and sounded nervous and under stress. The tray, crowded with brimming glasses, wobbled slightly in her uplifted hands.

Marissa rasped in irritation. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a dummy. Go and get some. Still, not sparkling—and no lemon.’

The girl swallowed. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she got out. Jerkily, she turned to go. As she did, another of the guests in the crowded gallery stepped back abruptly and collided with her. Instinctively Alexeis felt his hand go out to balance the tray in the girl’s hands, but it was too late. The glass of orange juice nearest the edge tottered crazily and then cascaded forwards, smashing to the ground and emptying its contents all over Marissa’s cocktail dress.

‘You idiot!’ Marissa’s voice was shrill with fury. ‘Just look what you’ve done!’

A look of horror—and more—convulsed the girl’s face.

‘I’m…I’m sorry—’ It was all she could get out.

A space had cleared around her, and someone was bustling up to her. A short man with an expression on his face that was both irate, and aghast.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Marissa’s voice was still shrill. ‘This moron has ruined my dress.’

The aghast look on the short man’s face deepened, and he launched into vociferous apology—which Alexeis cut short.

‘Only the bodice is wet, Marissa,’ he said coolly, cutting the man off. ‘If you sponge it down it will dry out. It’s dark; it won’t show.’

Marissa was not consoled. ‘You half-brained little idiot!’ she raged at the girl again.

Alexeis put a restraining hand on her wrist. ‘Go and find the powder room,’ he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

Throwing him a fulminating glance, Marissa stormed off. Meantime, the short man had summoned two other waiting staff, who’d rushed up with cloths and a dustpan and brush, to clear up the shards and the spilt juice on the polished wood floor. He’d also banished the erring waitress whilst Alexeis had spoken to Marissa. Alexeis could see her scurrying, shoulders hunched, towards the back of the gallery.

Then the short man was turning his fulsomely dismayed apologies on Alexeis. Alexeis wasn’t interested. ‘It was an accident,’ he said curtly, nodding dismissal impatiently.

The moment was too opportune to miss—he strode to the reception desk at the entrance.

‘Tell Ms Harcourt I’ve had to leave,’ he said. Then he walked out of the gallery, extracting his mobile to summon his driver. He’d send Marissa a cheque for a new dress, and a trinket to wear with it. it. That should dispose of her. It also meant he’d be facing a celibate night for certain.

Without volition, he found himself thinking about the waitress Marissa had railed at. He frowned—there had been no call to be so abusive to the girl. It had been an accident, not incompetence. His mind wandered back to his perusal of the girl. She really had been very lovely indeed. And in the black, tight-skirted, white-aproned outfit, with the close-fitting short-sleeved white blouse, she’d looked very—

Beddable—that was the word for it.

Oh, not too obviously, not too flagrantly, but there was no denying that the black and white uniform—together with her soft blondeness and those long-lashed wide-set eyes—did the business.

Involuntarily, he felt himself tightening.

Damn—that was not an appropriate response right now! However lovely she was, the girl was not the type of female he usually consorted with. Anyway, he was not in the habit of picking women up on a casual basis. He selected them carefully, not just on their looks, but on whether they would fit into his lifestyle—and, of course, not seek to outstay their shelf-life.

His car glided up to the pavement and he got in. Tonight he would just have to work, that was all. He was flying to New York in the morning anyway, and he knew a large selection of suitable women there from which to choose a replacement for Marissa.

He sat back in the moulded leather seat, looking indifferently out of the tinted window as the car moved forward, heading back down Bond Street. It took him past the gallery again, and he was relieved to see no sign of Marissa. He felt his conscience twinge at having ended their relationship so ruthlessly, but put it aside. He knew very well that the main attraction for her was his wealth and status—nothing more.

He was about to avert his gaze when a figure caught his eye. Walking along with a rapid, somehow jerky gait, shoulders hunched, blonde head bowed, raincoat wrapped tightly round her, hands in pockets and shoulder bag clutched to her side, was the waitress.

Abruptly, for no reason he could justify, Alexeis pressed the intercom button.

‘Stop the car,’ he ordered his driver.

CHAPTER TWO

CARRIE kept walking forward. If she kept walking, she wouldn’t think. Wouldn’t think she’d just lost her job. Again. Was she doomed to keep losing jobs? she thought woefully. It had been her own fault, obviously, and she couldn’t blame them for sacking her. She’d let herself be distracted, she knew—fatally—by that incredible man. If she hadn’t been gawping at him so stupidly she’d have been more aware of what was going on. But, no, she’d had to just stand there like an idiot.

She hadn’t been able to help herself, though. He had just been so incredible! It really was the only word for him. She’d never seen a man that good-looking, who had that kind of impact. Talk about tall, dark and handsome! In the few moments she’d looked at him she hadn’t really been able to take in any specific details, but the overall impact had been just amazing.

And when he’d met her eyes…

She felt again the whoosh that had knocked her in that breathless moment, when she’d felt the impact of those dark, long-lashed eyes holding hers. There had been something in them as he’d looked at her that had squeezed her lungs tight.

Then his partner had wanted water, and the moment had passed. And then—then the disaster.

Mr Bartlett had raged at her when he’d found her in the back, and sacked her on the spot. She was incredibly lucky, he’d told her, not to have to pay for the woman’s dress she’d ruined, which would easily have cost hundreds of pounds. Even so she’d been sacked without her wages, to cover the cost of the specialist dry cleaning Mr Bartlett had said would be required.

Well, at least now she could get a daytime job and not just the evening work that she’d been restricted to up till now. Her eyes shadowed. She’d only been in London for three months, and had been glad to get away from her home—get away from the grief and the anguished memory of her father’s final days. Glad, too, to get away from everyone’s sympathy, not to mention the kindly meant offers of financial help that she could never accept. Here, in this vast city, she was all but anonymous, and she welcomed it.

Yet London was a bleak place, certainly when finances were as straitened as hers were. Just keeping her head above water was hard, but it had to be done—at least until the summer was over and she could go home again to Marchester and resume the life she knew, painful though it would be without her father. Casual jobs here, at least, were plentiful, but it was relentless and grinding, and in three months she’d had no time off for herself and no money to spare for anything beyond necessities.

There was another aspect to working in London she didn’t like either. The hassle she got. That was what had cost her the first job she’d lost. She’d been working in a tapas bar and a customer had slid his hand up her skirt. Shocked and appalled, she had hit his hand away violently. The man had complained about her and Carrie had been sacked. The woman at the job agency had been unsympathetic.

‘With your looks you should be used to it—and used to handling it,’ she’d said dismissively.

But she wasn’t, thought Carrie miserably. No one behaved like that in the world she was used to, nor had any interest in doing so. Their minds were focussed on other matters. It was hard to be subjected to that kind of treatment, or even just to be looked at the way men did here—so blatantly. So sleazily.

It wasn’t sleazy when that incredible guy looked at you—

Memory flushed through her again hotly. No, sleazy had not been the word. Not in the slightest. The way that man had looked at her had made her feel—

Breathless.

She felt the tightness in her chest again as she recalled the way his eyes had held hers. He really had been amazing! The sort of fantasy man a girl could dream about. He was probably rich, too, because all the guests at the gallery had been—or at least well-heeled. He’d had a very rich look indeed about him. There’d been something about him, something more than just his fantastic dark looks and what had obviously been a hand-made suit and a silk tie—a sort of assurance, arrogance, even, as if he were one of the princes of the world…

She gave a twist of her mouth. Whatever he was, he belonged to the London that she didn’t! The one she only saw from the other side of the bar or the table or through the door, where the likes of her served the likes of him, and remained anonymous and unobtrusive.

Dejection hit her again, and she quickened her pace, unconsciously hunching her shoulders, feeling bleak and lonely. Though she saved money and got exercise by walking, there was still a good long way back to the poky bedsit in Paddington that was all she could afford.

Suddenly she stopped. A car door had just opened in front of her, enough to block her path and require her to veer around it. Then, as she gathered her wits to do just that, a voice spoke.

‘Are you all right?’

Carrie’s head turned. The voice—deep, and with an accent she did not register—came from the interior of the car. As she looked at the speaker her eyes widened involuntarily. It was the incredible-looking man from the gallery, whose girlfriend’s dress she’d soaked. Apprehension stabbed at her. Was he going to demand money for the dress? She didn’t have anywhere near enough on her, even just for cleaning it. And if he told her she had to replace it she would be completely stuck. The prospect was so daunting that she just froze.

The man was getting out of the car, and she stepped back hurriedly. He seemed taller than she remembered—and even more incredible looking. She couldn’t help reacting to it, even though it was the stupidest thing in the world to do.

‘Is—is it about the dress?’ she blurted, gripping her bag by its shoulder strap out of sheer tension.

A frown pleated his brow momentarily. It made him look even more forbidding than the dark, severely tailored bespoke suit and his air of wealth and power did.

‘Your girlfriend’s dress? The one I spilt the juice over?’ Carrie continued.

The man ignored her question. ‘Why are you not still at the gallery?’ he demanded.

Carrie swallowed. It seemed more like an accusation than a question, and she could only say, ‘I got dismissed.’

The man said something in a language she did not recognise. He looked foreign, she registered belatedly. That dark tanned skin and the darker eyes.

‘You were fired?’ he demanded. Again, it sounded like an accusation.

Carrie could only nod, and clutch her bag more tightly.

‘I’m really sorry about the dress. Mr Bartlett said he’d use my wages to dry clean it, so I hope it will be all right.’

The man made an impatient gesture with his hand.

‘The dress is taken care of,’ he said. ‘But tell me—do you want your job back? If you do I shall arrange it. What happened was clearly an accident.’

Carrie felt her cheeks heat with acute embarrassment.

‘No—please,’ she said. ‘I mean—thank you—thank you for offering. And I’m really very sorry about the dress. I really am,’ she finished quickly. Then she made to start walking again.

Her elbow was taken.

‘Allow me,’ said the man, ‘to offer you a lift to wherever you are going.’ His voice had changed somehow. She didn’t know how. It seemed smooth—not abrasive, the way it had been before. Then the import of what he’d said registered. Carrie could only stare at him—feel his hand on her elbow like a burning brand.

‘A lift?’ she echoed stupidly. ‘No—no, thank you. I’m fine walking.’

Something flickered in the man’s eyes. If she hadn’t known better she would have said it was surprise.

‘Nevertheless,’ he said. The smoothness was still there, but underpinned now by something else. ‘Please—allow me. I insist. After all, it is the least I can do to make amends for you losing your job.’

Carrie’s eyes widened even more. ‘But it wasn’t anything to do with you!’

‘Had I been quicker off the mark I could have steadied your tray,’ said the man, in the same smooth voice. ‘Now, where would you like to be driven?’

The hold on her elbow had tightened imperceptibly, and Carrie felt herself being inexorably guided towards the open door of the car.

‘No—please, it’s not at all necessary.’ Nor, she knew with strong female instinct, would his girlfriend welcome the presence of the waitress who’d ruined her dress.

‘Please do not delay me further. The car is causing an obstruction.’ The voice was still smooth, but now in its place was something like impatience.

Carrie looked, and realised that cars were backing up, unable to get by easily. Without realising how, she found herself being handed into the car, looking apprehensively for the brunette. But she wasn’t there.

‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ She’d gone back to blurting.

The man lowered himself lithely into the seat next to her, and reached for his seat belt with a fluid movement. He cast a frowning look at Carrie.

‘Girlfriend?’

‘The one I spilt the juice over—’

His eyes cleared. ‘She is not my girlfriend.’ He said the word as if it were deeply alien to him.

Something lifted in Carrie. Something she knew was quite pointless, but it did all the same. That chic brunette hadn’t been his girlfriend.

And it wouldn’t matter if she was, anyway! Good grief, what do you think this is? Some kind of pick-up? For some reason the man feels a sense of obligation that you’ve lost your job, and is giving you a lift! That’s all!

She swallowed again. ‘The end of Bond Street will be fine. Thank you very much.’

The man didn’t say anything, just instructed the driver to go, and the car moved forward. Carrie sank back into the leather seat. It was deep and luxurious, as was the rest of the car. Carrie had never been inside a car so upmarket, and she couldn’t help looking around. The man was leaning forward, depressing a button, and a recessed shelf slid forward into the spacious leg-well between them. Carrie’s eyes widened. There was a bottle of champagne and several flutes. Before she could say or do anything, she was watching with disbelieving fascination as the man lifted the champagne bottle, eased it expertly open, and with equal expertise took up a flute, tilted it, and filled it with foaming liquid. Then he handed it to her.

‘Um—’ said Carrie. But she found she had taken the flute anyway.

The smallest semblance of a smile seemed to flicker momentarily at the man’s mouth, before he filled his own glass and replaced the bottle in its holder. He eased back in his seat again and turned towards Carrie, who was just sitting there, disbelievingly.

‘It’s very good champagne, I do assure you,’ the man said. Again, that smile flickered briefly on his mouth, as if he found her reaction amusing. He took a considering mouthful of the gently effervescing liquid. ‘Yes, perfectly drinkable,’ he said. ‘Try it.’

Carrie lifted the glass to her mouth, and sipped. The chilled pale gold champagne slipped into her mouth, tasting delicious. Her eyes widened. She knew almost nothing about champagne, but she could tell that this was, indeed, a superior potation.

‘What do you think of it?’ the man asked. The smoothness was in his voice again, and it seemed to glide over Carrie, doing strange things to her. Like getting her to drink a glass of champagne with a man who was a complete stranger.

But we’re in the middle of Bond Street! It might be bizarre, but it’s not dangerous or anything!

And it was also—irresistible. The word was the right one, she knew, because it summed up what seemed to be going on in her—an inability to resist.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say, and it was the truth. Gingerly, she took another sip.

I’m drinking champagne with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. It’s something that will never happen to me twice in my life, so I might as well make the most of the experience!

‘I’m glad you like it,’ said the man, as he took another mouthful himself. He eased his long legs forward. His eyes were resting on her, and Carrie felt intensely self-conscious.

Oh, God, he really is gorgeous, she thought helplessly. Beneath his disturbing regard, she felt her nerve-ends jitter. Instinctively, she took another mouthful of the champagne. It fizzed down her throat, its native effervescence seeming to infect her blood.

‘So, where would you like to eat tonight?’ said the man. The voice was again as smooth as ever.

Carrie stared. ‘Eat?’

The man gestured loosely with his half-empty flute. ‘Of course,’ he said, as if it had been the most logical thing in the world to say to her. The most obvious.

An edge of caution cut into Carrie’s mind. Carrie looked at him. Really looked at him.

He met her eyes.

‘But…I don’t know who you are,’ she said, in a low, strained voice. ‘You could be anyone.’

Alexeis had never been told he ‘could be anyone’ before. The novelty intrigued him. But then the entire novelty of what he’d just done—what he was still doing and what he fully intended to do—was intriguing him. It was an experience he’d never had, and it had charms he had not anticipated. His identity had never been in question before.

Yet he could understand her caution and be pleased for it—for it only helped to recommend her to him. Half of his mind was telling him he was behaving with a rashness he would inevitably regret. The other half was determined to continue on the path his impulsiveness had started. After all, what real risk was there? There was nothing about the girl that was off-putting. Just the reverse. His original opinion of her had not changed—she was, indeed, very, very lovely.

So why not indulge his inexplicable whim and continue the evening with her? Besides, there had been something else that had made him so impulsively order his driver to stop. It was something to do with the way she had been walking—rapidly, but hunched up, head bowed. She’d looked—dejected. Down.

Clearly she needed something to divert her. Take her mind off her woes. So the whim he was following would be good for her, too, he reasoned. He would expect nothing of her she did not wish, and he would relinquish her at any point in the proceedings. But it would be a pity to do so now, so soon. Time to set her mind at rest. She was right, after all, to be cautious. Cities such as London could be dangerous for vulnerable and beautiful young women.

He slipped a hand inside his inner breast pocket and drew out a slim silver card case, flicking it open and offering her a card from within.

‘This will reassure you, I trust,’ he said.

She took the card and looked at it.

‘Alexe-is Ni-Nicol-ai-des,’ she read, hesitating over the foreign syllables.

‘You may have heard of the Nicolaides Group of companies?’ said Alexeis, a hint of arrogance in his voice.

The girl shook her head.

The sense of novelty struck Alexeis again. He had never encountered anyone who had not heard the name of Nicolaides. But then, of course, he moved in circles where everyone knew who had money and what that money derived from. Why should he expect a simple waitress to know such things?

‘It is listed on several stock exchanges, and is capitalised at just under a billion euros. I am the chief executive, and my father the chairman. So you can see, I am sure, that I am quite respectable, and that you are, accordingly, perfectly safe.’

Carrie looked at Alexeis Nicolaides. The surname was a mouthful, but his first name seemed to quiver inside her, as if a vibration had been struck, very deep in her body. There was an uncertain expression on her face.

She ought to go. She ought to ask him to stop the car and let her out. So that she could walk briskly away. Back to her poky bedsit in the run-down house where she didn’t know anyone, to eat toasted cheese for supper as she always did.

The prospect seemed bleak, uninviting, and into her mind crept another thought.

Would it be so very wrong to have dinner with him? This Alexeis Nicolaides, or whatever his name is. Do you think drinking champagne in a luxury car with a man who’s obviously a millionaire and then having dinner with him is going to happen twice in your life? Do you?

But it wasn’t his obvious wealth, or the luxury car and the brimming flutes of champagne that tempted her.

It was the man. The man who had made her breath catch when she’d first set eyes on him. The man she’d been unable not to stare at, to register as the most amazing-looking creature she’d ever seen.

She could feel part of her brain cut out. The part that was sensible and cautious. And sane.

Another part seemed to be pushing its way forward. Telling her something. Something that was getting more insistent. More persuasive.

More tempting to listen to.

Why not? Honestly, why not? You don’t exactly have a packed social life, do you? You don’t exactly have a million people you know in London to go and see. You don’t exactly have anything else desperately urgent to do this evening, do you? So why not? Why not? What have you got to lose?

‘So,’ Alexeis said, interrupting her thoughts. His voice was still smooth, and again made her feel strange and fluttery inside. ‘You will have dinner with me?’

The expression of uncertainty deepened in her eyes.

‘Um…’ she said. ‘I…I don’t know. I…I…’ She fell silent, just staring at him helplessly, as if she was waiting for him to make the decision for her.

He did. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then that is settled. All we need decide now is where you would like to eat. Would you like to choose somewhere?’

He was, he knew, offering her the choice in order to make her feel more in control of a situation that was overwhelming her.

The look of uncertainty in her eyes deepened yet more.

‘I…I don’t really know anywhere in London,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘Fortunately, I do.’

Carrie made no answer. She couldn’t. His smile had come out of nowhere, and it electrified her. Dazzled her. Then it was gone, leaving her nerves tingling. Alexeis took another mouthful of champagne, and the movement triggered her to do so as well.

‘So, you have the advantage of my name, but not I of yours,’ he said encouragingly.

‘It’s Carrie—Carrie Richards,’ she answered, almost hesitantly.

Was she reluctant to give him her name? The novelty again intrigued Alexeis, as did the faint colouring of her cheeks. Women were usually eager for him to know who they were, glad to draw his attention…

‘Carrie,’ he echoed. He lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Well, Carrie, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance,’ he said, with a smile.

She bit her lip, still in a daze about the whole adventure, not seeing the way her gesture made his eyes focus on her mouth. She took another swallow of her champagne, feeling it fizzing warmly down her throat. It seemed to have fizzed into her veins as well. Suddenly she felt buoyant, as if everything were getting light around her. The dejected anxiety and depression she’d felt about losing her job, the bleak loneliness of living in London, seemed far away now, and she was glad and grateful. Grateful to the man who had dispelled it.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, suddenly thrilled at the prospect.

‘My hotel is by the river, and it has a very good restaurant, with a three-starred Michelin chef,’ said Alexeis.

A look of sudden dismay crossed Carrie’s face.

‘Oh, I can’t! I can’t go into a restaurant—I’ve just realised! I mean—I’m still wearing this stupid uniform, and I haven’t got any proper clothes with me!’

Alexeis gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘That won’t be a problem. Trust me.’

He smiled at her again. In the dim interior light, just for a moment, she felt a stab of unease go through her. Not just uncertainty. His smile had seemed, just for a moment, to be amusement at some private source of humour. Then he was speaking to her again, and the moment passed.

‘Have you always lived in London?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve only been here a few months.’

‘It must seem very exciting to you.’ It was the sort of thing that seemed appropriate to say to a girl as beautiful as she was, at the peak of her youth.

But she gave a quick shake of her head again. ‘No, I hate it!’

He looked taken aback. ‘Why?’

‘Everyone is so rude and unfriendly, and in a rush, pushing all the time.’

‘Then why do you stay here?’

She gave an awkward half-shrug. ‘It’s where the work is.’

‘There are no waitresses in your home town?’

She looked as though she were about to say something, then stopped herself. Alexeis wished he hadn’t said what he had, lest she think it sarcastic. He hadn’t meant it to be—he was simply surprised that a girl as beautiful as her had expressed so strong a dislike of London. She must have men flocking around her, and she could take her pick from them!

Even as the image formed in his mind he felt himself react. What he was doing was on impulse, he knew, but even with that allowance he still recognised his reaction. He didn’t want her taking her pick of other men. Then his hackles retracted. While she was with him she would have eyes for no one else.

And nor would he…

There was no doubt in his mind about that, at any rate.

He let his gaze wash over her. She really did have something. He wasn’t sure what, but it was growing on him with every passing moment.

‘So where is your home town?’ he asked, returning to the conversation. She was still uncertain about what she was doing, he could tell—and, again, the novelty of that uncertainty intrigued him. He knew of no women who had ever been in the least bit uncertain about their reaction if he showed the slightest interest. They positively bit his hand off when he took them up! They didn’t bite their lip in that incredibly softly sensual way…

Another reaction took him, and he had to subdue it. It was far, far too soon for that! Now was only the time for gentling, for drawing her to him, for making her feel at ease—making her lose that last vestige of caution that would only encumber his plans for the evening.

‘Um—it’s Marchester,’ she said. ‘It’s a small town, sort of in the Midlands.’

Alexeis had barely heard of it, and was little interested, but he made some anodyne reply, and continued the conversation with bare attention. He was far more interested in watching how a strand of her blonde hair had worked loose and was caressing her cheek, how her profile was etched against the windowpane. He was also impatient to arrive at the hotel and get her opposite him at a dining table, in a good light. Indulge himself in appreciating her soft beauty.

The car seemed to crawl the rest of the way, but eventually it drew up under the portico of the hotel—one of London’s most prestigious, with breathtaking views over the Embankment.

As the driver opened his door, Alexeis crossed around the back of the car and helped her out, holding his hand to her. She took it tentatively, and it added, yet again, to her novelty value. Then his eyes were on the slender length of her black-stockinged leg, below the hem of her raincoat. She seemed to hug it more tightly around her as he escorted her into the hotel. She glanced around almost nervously.

‘Don’t worry—I won’t subject you to a crowded restaurant,’ he assured her. ‘There is a much quieter place to eat upstairs.’

He guided her towards the bank of elevators, and in a moment they were being whisked upstairs. She had gone back to biting her lip again, he noticed.

Suddenly a pang struck him. Should he really be doing this?

Then she looked across at him and gave him a tentative smile, as if seeking reassurance. Something kicked through him, and his own uncertainty vanished. Her smile was enchanting—

He found himself smiling back at her. Giving her the reassurance she was silently seeking.

‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’

The flicker was in her eyes again. ‘It’s just that…just that…’

‘It’s just that I’m a complete stranger and I picked you up off the street.’

The blunt way he said it made her cheeks colour. But he had done it deliberately, spelling out her fears, her apprehension and unease.

‘But think about this,’ he went on, and his eyes held hers. ‘The Irish have a saying—“All friends were strangers to each other once.” Is that not true? We were not formally introduced to each other by mutual acquaintances—but so what? If I’d met you at a party I’d still have wanted to invite you to dinner. What difference does it make how we got to know each other?’ His voice changed, something in his eyes changed, and something inside her shimmered and caught, like a soft flame lit deep, deep in her being. ‘Now we do know each other. And over dinner, I trust, we will get to know each other more. But nothing, absolutely nothing, will happen that you do not want to happen. You have my word on this.’

His eyes held hers, and then, out of the solemnity, a smile slanted suddenly across his face. Carrie felt that dazzle glitter inside her, as it had done when she’d first seen that incredible smile in the car.

Slowly, she nodded, swallowing. She wasn’t being stupid—she wasn’t! She was simply being—

Carried away. Swept away. But why not? Why not? What was the harm in it? It was true, if she’d met him at a party she would not have been so nervous, so uneasy. And how could she walk away now? She didn’t have the strength of mind to do so. And she didn’t have the will. Why should she? He wasn’t some seedy, creepy bloke—he was…gorgeous. Fantastic. Devastating. Irresistible.

And someone like that would never appear twice in her life.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out.

Champagne still seemed to be fizzing in her veins.

CHAPTER THREE

THE ‘somewhere quieter’ that Alexeis had promised was quieter indeed. It was the dining room of his suite, overlooking the gardens of the Embankment below, and the dark, flowing Thames beyond. Her eyes had widened when she’d seen the view, but she had not objected or said anything, simply stared out over the river and the shore beyond.

‘The Festival Hall, the National Theatre, the Hayward Gallery—all the South Bank,’ said Alexeis, coming up behind her. His hand rested lightly and very casually on her shoulder as he pointed them out with his other hand. She felt warm beneath his touch, through the thin material of her blouse. She was like a gazelle, easily startled—easily affrighted—and so he kept his contact brief.

He stepped away, feeling a wry smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes flickered over her rear view. She had called her uniform ‘stupid’. He had another word for it. But it was not one he would use in front of her. Instead, he would merely—enjoy it.

As, indeed, he proceeded to enjoy her company over dinner. He set himself out to dissolve her self-consciousness, her doubt about what she was doing here with him. He ventured several conventional opening gambits, such as London’s cultural life, but she said, looking rather awkward, that she did not go to the theatre and didn’t know much about art. Immediately the memory of Marissa and her spouting self-importantly about the art world impinged in his mind, and he realised it was refreshing not to have to discuss such subjects. Whatever it was they did talk about—nothing too demanding or intellectual—he was very conscious of not being bored in any way. He was also conscious that he wanted her to feel comfortable and at ease.

And above all responsive to him.

But he was not overt. For her that would have been crass. This was not a female to come on strong to. This was one to…woo. A flicker came in his brain. Had that been the word he’d intended? Yes—and it was the right one, too. Nothing will happen that she doesn’t want, he reminded himself.

Beneath the undemanding topics of conversation he was selecting for her benefit—tourist attractions in London was the current one—he considered her objectively. She must be in her mid-twenties, at least, and though she was reserved, it was a quality he liked about her. She would not have had appeal for him had she been otherwise. Nor, at that age, was it likely she was a virgin. Again, had she been, he would not have been in the slightest bit comfortable about what he was doing. But as it was—

She’s here of her own volition, and I’ve all but spelt out to her that she only has to say the word and I will send her home untouched! I intend no harm to her—none whatsoever! Only a night we will both enjoy…

With final resolution, he closed his mind down on the matter. He was here to enjoy the evening—and, even more, the night ahead, he hoped. He wanted to ensure, as he was certain he was more than capable of doing, that she, too, took as much enjoyment as he did.

Satisfied with his conscience, he poured them both more champagne.

The meal was leisurely, superbly cooked and presented, and highly enjoyable. When, finally, it was over, Alexeis dismissed the waiting staff and guided her to the sofa for coffee, making sure he sat at the far end from her. He did not want her getting nerves at this stage.

His eyes rested on her.

He wanted her. It was very simple. Very uncomplicated. She was a beautiful female of a type he had never before encountered—a complete antidote to the kind of self-assured, self-regarding, sharply sophisticated women that were his usual fare. And he was intrigued by the prospect of what it would be like to experience her.

He was already diverted by the difference in his approach to her from his usual style. He had to be careful, he knew, not to appear to patronise her. She obviously had no experience of the kind of lifestyle he took for granted, and he wanted her to find enjoyment in the occasion. It was as if he wanted to—to indulge her.

It was an odd thought. He did not usually indulge the women he selected for his bed—if he had, they would have taken ruthless advantage of it. But this girl? No. Instinctively he knew that she would not do so.

Yet again, the novelty that she presented intrigued him.

He watched, his long lashes swept down over his dark eyes, as she nibbled from a rich chocolate truffle served on a silver filigree dish.

‘I shouldn’t, I know,’ she said, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. She was not quite looking at him, as she had not quite looked at him all evening. ‘But I can’t resist.’

Alexeis smiled, stretching his arm out along the back of the sofa, but making sure it did not impinge into her body space. His eyes washed over her—the clinging blouse, the white apron, the tight skirt and the black stockings. The effect was erotic, yet very subtly so. He felt desire rise in him, and anticipation.

‘Then don’t,’ he answered. ‘Don’t resist.’

Her eyes fluttered—and satisfaction eased in him. Oh, she might be unaware of how alluring she looked, but she was not unaware of her own response to him. Or of what it was that was happening between them.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

She finished the truffle—supremely conscious, he could see, of his regard—and then reached for her coffee. He did likewise, his eyes going to the hemline of her skirt, riding up over her knees. He felt his arousal quicken. But he must hasten slowly, he knew—draw her to him with extreme care—or he would frighten her off. Again the novelty of having to do so intrigued him.

As she sipped her coffee, he could see that she was becoming nervous, uneasy. There was an abstracted, unfocussed air about her. Then, as she finished the cup, she set it down on the coffee table and got to her feet. Alexeis’s eyes followed the movement.

She stood, looking down at him.

‘I ought to go,’ she said. There was constriction in her voice. Agitation in the way she stood. ‘I ought to go,’ she said again.

Alexeis simply looked up at her, his pose still as relaxed as ever.

‘Do you want to?’ he asked.

She looked down at him, the soft fronds of her hair framing her face, the blackness of her stockings and the tightness of her skirt emphasising the slender length of her leg. He could see the swell of her breasts through the tight whiteness of her blouse.

He had not the least intention of letting her leave.

Of letting her want to leave.

She didn’t speak, only looked at him. With indecision in her eyes, colour in her cheeks. He set down his coffee cup, but otherwise did not move.

‘I would like you very much to stay,’ he said.

She bit her lip. Alexeis got to his feet and came up to her. She did not move.

His eyes rested on her.

‘I promised you,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that I would at any time call the car to drive you home. That is as true now as it was then. And if you wish it I shall do so. But…’ His eyes rested on her with an intent he wanted her to feel. ‘I would like, before I do so, to do one thing. This—’

He stepped forward. In a single fluid movement, before she could back away or realise what he was going to do, he slid his hands around the frame of her jaw, slid his fingers into the silken mass of her hair, cupping her head, tilting it to him, and then, closing up to her, he lowered his mouth down to hers.

She was as soft as honey, as warm and sweet. He parted her lips to taste the sweeter appeal within.

She made no resistance to him. None. With a tiny sigh, deep in her throat, she parted for him, letting him taste her, letting his tongue glide into her mouth, deepening his kiss so that as the tender swell of her breasts brushed against him he could feel, with a deep, sensual satisfaction, their tips harden.

Ruthlessly, he increased the sensuality of his kiss, one hand slipping from her jaw to glide with sensuous leisure down the supple length of her spine, drawing her yet closer against him. Curving down over the rounded swell of her bottom so barely covered by the enticing tightness of her skirt.

As he drew her against him, his stance altering instinctively to accommodate her body against the cradle of his hips, he felt her give a soft gasp. It aroused him yet further, and he let his hand edge further down, seeking the hemline of her skirt and ruching it upwards, so that his hand splayed over only the barest, sheerest material between it and her naked flesh.

God, but she was lovely to kiss, to caress. Her sweet, enticing body yielding to his, moulding to his, her tender mouth open to his to taste at will—

Desire speared in him—strong, aroused. Insistent.

He dragged his mouth from hers, still holding her against him. From somewhere, somewhere that required all his strength, he found his voice.

‘Do you still want to leave, Carrie?’

She was staring at him blindly, her pupils huge, lips parted. He could see the hectic pulse at her throat, feel the agitation of her heart against his chest, the peaked tips of her breasts.

She made no answer.

With triumph surging through him, he lowered his mouth to hers again.

Carrie lay, curled back against Alexeis’s strong, hard body. Her mind felt overwhelmed, her body still glowing, pulsing, with what she had experienced.

Which had been something even the most fervid imagination could never, never have imagined!

Oh, God, it had been incredible—amazing! Unbelievable!

Disbelief, wonder, seared through her.

I never knew it could be like that! Never!

She had not stood a chance, she knew—not a single chance of changing her mind. Not from the moment when, filled with the sudden inescapable realisation of why she had come here, she had suddenly felt that she was far, far out of her depth. All the temptation of the evening had suddenly coalesced into reality. The reality of what she was allowing to happen.

Why not? The voice had said to her again.

But at that fateful moment last night, looking down at the superb, lounging figure of the man who had simply knocked the breath from her body the first time she’d set eyes on him, the only words in her mind had been quite, quite different.

Oh, my God—what am I doing—what am I doing?

But she had known—known absolutely—what she was doing. Had known it all evening and had gone with it. Gone with the voice that had tempted her.

And she had known in that moment of standing there, at the end of the evening, that the moment of decision had come. She had known why she was there—known exactly why. There had been only one decision to be made—did she want to stay? To accept what was going to happen? To succumb to the temptation that had been beckoning her all evening?

She stared ahead of her, out over the dimness of the bedroom. What might she have answered had Alexeis not kissed her?

She didn’t know. Because he had kissed her, and in that very first moment, when his cool, long fingers had slid into her hair and his mouth had come down on hers, there had been only one decision—and it had already been made.

And she could not—did not—regret it! Not now, as she lay there, scooped back against the fantastic body that had done things to hers that she had never known were possible! How could she possibly regret it?

It had been a feast of sensuality—a banquet! His touch on her had melted through her like lava, drawing from her a response she had not thought possible. Touch after touch, each more arousing than the last, each more devastatingly intimate, until at last the sensations in her body, so incredible, so exquisite, had fused into an endless stream, intensifying until she was molten. Helpless in his arms, her head threshing from side to side, her body had been incandescent, burning like a flame that consumed all sense, all knowledge, all consciousness, making the whole world only what she was feeling, as if the whole universe were inside her head and nothing else existed!

Only the man making her feel that way. Only the one she’d clung to, cried out to, clutched with her hands, lifted her body to, to catch more, yet more, of that incredible, incredible experience—

She felt the afterglow still infusing through her, in her flesh. Her eyes were heavy, lids sinking. Her lashes fluttered. Around her waist she could feel, like a band, his strong arm pinioning her to him. Holding her where he wanted her to be.

In his arms. His bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

CARRIE sat in the wide leather seat in the first-class compartment of the aeroplane, overcome with wonder and disbelief.

What on earth am I doing? What on earth am I doing?

The words circled slowly in her brain. It was hard to think coherently, rationally. Hard to think at all. She didn’t want to, she knew. She wanted very much not to think. To simply—accept. Accept that something had happened that had never happened to her in her life before and never would again. She had spent the night—the most amazing, incredible, breathtaking night of her life!—with a man who had been a stranger twenty-four hours ago. And now, even more unbelievably, she was flying to New York with him!

It was like some kind of fantasy—the kind you dreamt up when life looked grim and you needed something rose-tinted and impossibly wonderful to think about. The mental equivalent of eating a cream cake or pigging out on a box of Belgian chocolates.

Her head turned to look at the most incredible man in the world, sitting beside her—an entire tray of cream cakes, a kilo of Belgian chocolates all in his own right!

She gazed helplessly, disbelievingly, at his profile. His attention was focussed on the screen of his laptop, resting on the table provided by the airline seat, his long legs extended.

Her heart swelled. God, he was so gorgeous to look at! She could gaze at him non-stop, like an idiot, just drinking him in. Everything about him was incredible—from the strong nape of his neck, the dark satin sheen of his superbly cut hair to the strong line of his jaw, the sweep of lashes around those eyes that could melt, melt, melt her into mush just by glancing at her…

A thrill went through her like a huge bubble of champagne, lifting her from her seat.

I’m with him—I’m really with him! He’s taking me to New York and I can go on being with him all that time!

That was the thought she wanted to go on thinking—feeling—like champagne in her veins, intoxicating her. But the other thought—the one that was trying to circle slowly—was also there.

What am I doing here?

The only answer she could give was the wonder, disbelief and delight that was intoxicating her. That was all the answer there was.

I’m here because I couldn’t be otherwise! I couldn’t turn it down—couldn’t say no. How could I have? How could I have?

In less than twenty-four hours her life had been turned upside down and she had been swept away. And she was helpless, quite helpless, to do anything else but let it happen.

A deep, heartfelt sigh of sheer happiness breathed from her.

Beside her, Alexeis, supremely conscious of the slender, beautiful body so close to his, heard her exhalation and glanced at her. Approval and satisfaction reflected in his eyes before he turned back to his work.

Yes, he had made a good decision. Definitely a good decision. A good decision to follow the unexpected impulse that had impelled him to order the car to stop as it drove past her, and a good decision to fold her soft, yielding body to his and make her his own. It had been an amazing night. Extraordinary not just for the novelty of it but for whatever it was that had made possessing her so deeply satisfying. He wanted—quite naturally, quite obviously—to repeat the experience for quite some time, he knew, and to do that he’d needed to make the decision he had made this morning: to take Carrie with him. Yes, it was an impulse. No, he did not normally take women with him. But so what? He was taking Carrie with him. Why? Because she was, right now, exactly what he wanted.

Rapidly, mentally, he ran through just why that was. She was beautiful, obviously—he wouldn’t have bothered with her otherwise. But hers was a beauty, a wide-eyed, fair-haired, tender-mouthed loveliness—that appealed to a taste in him that he hadn’t hitherto been aware of. That in itself was a charm that he was more than appreciative of. Her body was all that he could want—soft breasts, slender waist, gently rounded hips, long legs, and skin like the satin bloom of a peach growing into ripeness.

Caressing her, possessing her, had been a pleasure that was as rewarding as he had anticipated.

A slight frown flickered in his eyes. She had been everything he’d expected, it was true—soft, silken, and very, very seducible. And she hadn’t been, as he had known, a virgin. That, he knew, he would have found an impediment. However, she was not much experienced—certainly not in all the ways of pleasure he was used to. He had sensed her inexperience in some forms of intimacy, had sensed, too—a sensual smile of recollection played about his mouth as memory caressed his mind—how much of a revelation it had been to her that such intensity of sensation was possible…

She had gasped, cried out, eyes distended, wonder and amazement in her face, as he had brought her time after time to the point of ecstasy. It had been, he mused, a particular satisfaction of his own to afford her such an experience as she had clearly never known before.

The frown flickered in his eyes again. It was a novelty, he knew, to have a sexual partner such as she was—one he had to lead almost every step of the way. And his reward had been more than pleasure. Something had made him want to watch, intently, as her body caught fire from his ministrations, to hear her cry out, and then, as the fire ebbed from her, the flames of ecstasy extinguished, to fold her to him, to hold her, cradle her. Then, as he had reaped his own reward, his own rich satiation, something more had made him feel that it was a feeling richer than any he had felt with any other woman…

But why not? he reasoned. She was not like his usual fare, so his experience, his response, had been different. That was all. Simply—different.

He turned to glance at her again. She was leafing through a glossy magazine now—her head slightly bowed and her lovely profile exposed to him—and he let his eyes linger a moment. Yes, different indeed. And not just in looks and style.

In personality too.

She was quiet, for a start. She did not try to talk to him, to make sophisticated conversation or demands of him. She simply gave a fleeting smile, almost shy, her eyes only briefly meeting his, before drawing away as if she were not sure whether to look at him. Nor did she seem, like all the other women of his acquaintance, to relish and revel in the attentions of other men. All the women he had selected for his leisure hours had always known how prized they were, and had taken it for granted—expected it as their due—that male eyes would be drawn to them.

Carrie was not like that. She seemed rather to be embarrassed by heads turning as she walked beside him. Alexeis had been highly aware of how she had immediately drawn male attention when she came into the airport, and when they boarded the plane. But she had seemed either unconscious of the way men were looking at her or, at the other extreme, uncomfortable with it.

He had never known a woman with her calibre of looks to be so.

He had put it down to her being self-conscious about her new clothes. She had spent the day in Knightsbridge, with a personal shopper that his London PA had organised, and when she had walked into the VIP lounge he had known at once that it had been well worthwhile.

If she had looked unknowingly erotic in that black and white uniform last night, now she simply looked stunning. She was wearing a pale aqua suit, with bracelet-length jacket sleeves and a pencil skirt, and her hair was dressed in a style that was simple, but extremely effective, the front strands drawn back to the nape of her neck to give her a profile that was almost pre-Raphaelite.

He had not been able to take his eyes from her.

As he’d escorted her on to the plane he’d known, with absolute certainty, that he had definitely—quite definitely—made an excellent decision.

* * *

Two weeks in New York. Two weeks with Alexeis. Two weeks of a world, a life, Carrie had never dreamt of having. Far, far different from anything she had ever known. With every day—more with every night—her real life seemed a universe away. With every day this new life she was leading was becoming more and more real to her.

And yet still a fantasy come true.

How could it not be? How could it not be like a fantasy to be staying in a world-famous hotel by Central Park, a guest in a lavishly appointed suite, eating in one gourmet restaurant after another, dressed in clothes that she had only ever before seen in glossy magazines. Night after night to be taken to glamorous, glittering parties, sometimes in fantastic multi-storeyed apartments in uptown Manhattan, sometimes in the mansions of Long Island, drinking champagne as if it were water, wearing evening gowns so beautiful they were fit for a princess. How could it not be a fantasy come true?

And to have at the glowing, radiant heart of it Alexeis at her side.

Just thinking about him made her weak with longing for him. The hours without him seemed endless, and though she knew, of course, that he was here on business, she had to school herself to patience until she could be with him again—even if much of the time it was in public rather than in private. He socialised a great deal, but he didn’t seem to mind that she was a less than scintillating partner for him. All of the women they’d met in New York seemed to have high-powered careers, or else be engrossed in a host of other activities—running charity events, involved in the arts or media or fashion—always something glamorous, something prestigious, something that made Carrie feel dull and boring in comparison.

But she wouldn’t let it get her down. After all, she would remind herself, if Alexeis didn’t mind her being so different from the glamorously sophisticated circles he moved in, then why should she? And besides, when she was alone with Alexeis she didn’t feel dull or awkward. Even though he lived in so utterly a different world from her, came from so entirely a different background, it didn’t seem to matter. Being with him, she just felt—at ease.

She didn’t know why—didn’t question it. Only accepted it—gratefully. Just as she accepted that he had, for reasons she did not question either, swept her away into this wonderful, wonderful world with him.

Nor did she ask the question she dreaded—how long would she have with him? How long before the fantasy ended and Alexeis left her life as swiftly as he had entered it?

But she wouldn’t think about that. Hurriedly she pulled her mind away. She would make the most, the very most, of each and every wonderful day—and more, the passionate, breathtaking nights she had with him, living out this most incredible of romantic fantasies…

For as she knew this could only be a fantasy, she also knew, with a strange tremor of her heart, that there could never, ever again be a man in her life like Alexeis. It was not just the wealth and the glamour—that was only the gilding. The gold—the pure, pure gold—was Alexeis himself. He was her treasure, who made this time so precious.

And when it ended…?

No—again she pushed the thought aside. It would come, but not yet. Not yet. Not today—not tonight.

But come it did. When Alexeis’s final day in New York arrived, Carrie was still determined not to think of it. Yet it seemed that there was a hard, heavy stone inside her chest. At breakfast she was subdued, picking at her food.

‘You are not hungry?’ Alexeis eyebrows rose in surprise. Carrie always ate heartily in the morning—but then, like him, she needed to restore her energy levels after the exertions of the night.

‘No, not really,’ she answered, and set down her fork, abandoning half of the delicious Eggs Benedict that she usually polished off. But she had no appetite—only that hard, heavy stone inside her.

‘You don’t feel well?’ he asked. There was concern in his voice.

She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘It’s just because it’s the last day,’ she said.

‘So New York has enraptured you?’ he commented. ‘Even though—’ a note of mock severity came into his voice ‘—you have hardly made the most of all the shops! Well, perhaps those in Chicago will tempt you more, ne?’

‘Chicago?’ Carrie’s voice was puzzled.

‘Our next destination,’ said Alexeis. He looked at her. ‘You have no urgent need to go back to London, do you?’

Carrie stared at him. The hard, heavy stone inside her seemed to be poised on the brink of melting away like snow in summer. But did she dare believe what he might be saying?

Alexeis watched her expression. It was something he found very enjoyable to do—and not just now. He had enjoyed watching her expression on their first evening in New York, when she’d gazed at her reflection, wearing an evening gown that had cost five thousand dollars. Her face had come alight with disbelief and wonder at the image she had made. And when he’d escorted her to cocktails on the rooftop terrace of a skyscraper, or to a party on a multi-million-dollar yacht on the Hudson, to dress circle seats at the latest Broadway musical. Wherever he took her, whatever the experience, the location, her face was so very, very expressive.

And not just as she was experiencing what life was like when she was at his side. What he enjoyed most of all was watching her face as he made love to her. He took almost as much pleasure in her pleasure, as he took in his own.

And he took pleasure, too, in just being with her. That was strange for him, he knew. With other women, their primary value to him was as a sexual partner, skilled and experienced. Sophisticated in their tastes and expertise, they were social partners too, who could be relied on to move easily in his world. But not otherwise to spend time with. But Carrie—well, she was different. She seemed just to—to be there—part of his daily life.

He frowned minutely. He’d never thought of women in that way—as companions. His frown deepened. When he was alone with Carrie, what did they do? What did they talk about? He tried to think. Obviously a great deal of their time together they were in bed, but, even so, there was a lot of time when he was not making love to her. When he was simply having breakfast with her, chatting, relaxed, or late at night or in the early morning, together in bed, embracing her, half asleep, half awake, talking of… Well, what did they talk about? Nothing specific, nothing memorable. Yet the very fact that he could not recall was in itself notable.

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