‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

Althea turned slowly from the window. Demos stood in the middle of the room; he’d shed his jacket and loosened his tie. He looked beautiful, virile, and utterly furious.

‘Nothing’s wrong with me,’ she said slowly.

‘You’ve been acting like a ghost since we married,’ Demos accused. ‘Did I marry a woman, Althea, or a shell?’ He raked a hand through his hair.

‘It’s too late to back out now, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Yes, it’s too late,’ he agreed, his voice pitched low, a parody of pleasantness. ‘No one’s going to back out now.’

Althea knew what he meant. She’d been preparing for this moment. ‘What are you saying?’

Demos’s smile widened, although his eyes stayed hard and unforgiving. ‘I want my wedding night.’

Kate Hewitt discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older. She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog. Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website, www.kate-hewitt.com

THE GREEK TYCOON’S RELUCTANT BRIDE

BY

KATE HEWITT

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to Lydia.

Thanks for being a great editor

and giving me a year of fantastic feedback

and support.

—K.

PROLOGUE

‘DO YOU need help?’ Edward Jameson asked, pausing in the act of untying the rope that moored his yacht at Mikrolimano harbour. He raised one questioning eyebrow at the skinny determined boy standing by his boat.

‘No.’

Edward pursed his lips and surveyed the still waiting boy-man in front of him. He couldn’t be more than ten or twelve, and he looked like a scarecrow. His shirt and ragged trousers were too short for his long, scrawny arms and legs; it appeared he’d grown quickly and a lot. He also looked hungry, although from that determined glint in his silvery eyes he would never admit it.

‘Do you want something, then?’ Edward asked mildly. He spoke in Greek, for he doubted a Piraeus gutter rat like this one knew any other language. He looped the rope around one weathered wrist and waited.

The boy took a breath, puffing his thin chest out, and said, ‘Actually, I was wondering the same thing about you.’

Edward let out a short admiring laugh. ‘Were you?’

‘Yes. I can do lots of things.’ The boy spoke in a determined rush. ‘I can wash your boat, carry messages, pump out the bilge water… I don’t charge much.’

‘Really?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

Without a flicker of guilt or regret, the boy shrugged. ‘I’m done with that.’

‘How come?’

Another shrug, and this time there was a flicker of something… sorrow? Fear? ‘I have a family to support.’

Edward choked back an incredulous laugh as he realised the boy was serious. ‘What kind of family?’

‘A mother and three sisters. The youngest is just a baby.’ He folded his arms and gave Edward a level look. ‘Now, are you going to hire me?’

There was no reason to hire a boy like this, Edward acknowledged. He was a millionaire, and he didn’t need cheap labour—and inexperienced at that. Yet something in the boy’s eyes—the utter determination to gain work, to survive—made him pause. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I believe I am.’

The boy allowed himself only a second’s quick, triumphant grin before shoving his hands in his pockets and lifting his chin. ‘When shall I start?’

‘Does now suit you?’ Edward asked, suspecting that it did.

‘Sure. If you really need me.’

‘I think I do. Tell me your name first, though.’

He threw his shoulders back. ‘Demos Atrikes.’ Edward gestured to him to come aboard, and nimbly, his eyes bright with anticipation, he did.

He stood in the centre of Edward’s multimillion-pound yacht and only betrayed the level of his admiration by lightly touching the burnished wood of the railing, stroking it as if it were silk. Then he dropped his hand, tucking it back in the pocket of his trousers, and fixed Edward with a firm stare. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Tell me about your family first,’ Edward said. ‘Do you have to work so badly?’

Demos shrugged; no response was needed. It was, Edward thought sadly, all too apparent.

‘They need me,’ Demos said simply. ‘So I’m here.’

Edward nodded. He knew what the choices were for a boy like this. The docks, the factories, or else the gangs. ‘I need you to scrub the deck,’ he finally said. ‘I hope that’s not too dirty a job for you?’ he added, and Demos eyed him scornfully.

‘I’ll do anything,’ he said, and Edward knew he meant it.

Edward watched as Demos set to scrubbing the deck, sluicing the boards with water and washing them with determined thoroughness. His shoulderblades poked through the back of his thin shirt like chicken wings, and the back of his neck burned red.

Edward worked him all day, knowing Demos would accept no less. When he finally presented him with a wad of drachma notes, Demos flicked through them with a hungry yet expert eye and nodded once.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow?’ he said, and there was only a slight waver of uncertainty in his voice.

Edward nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll need you then.’ He’d think of something.

Demos nodded, and hopped easily off the yacht, walking barefoot down the dock, attracting a few irritated looks from the sleekly satisfied yachties. Yet he was utterly indifferent to their contempt.

Utterly above it.

On the cool, salt-tanged air Edward heard his jaunty whistling, and for a moment he looked like any other young Greek boy, loitering about the docks to gaze at the boats and have an afternoon’s pleasure.

Then Edward’s gaze drifted to the set of his shoulders, his ragged clothes, the drachma notes stuffed down his shirt where no one could steal them, and knew this boy was different.

He thought of the boy’s words—‘I’ll do anything’—and wondered sadly if one day he would have to.

CHAPTER 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.

CHAPTER TWO

SUNLIGHT poured through the wide windows of Althea’s bedroom, touching the single bed and the girlish white bureau with gold.

Althea lay flat on her back, unmoving, her eyes focused on the blank ceiling. She heard the deliberate heavy tread of her father down the front stairs of their town house and knew he was up, early as always, ready to take a cup of black tea and a koulourakia in the dining room, as he’d done every day of his adult life.

Althea let her breath out slowly but still did not move. She wondered if her father was still angry about her return last night. She hadn’t been out all that late, but he’d clearly been waiting for her to come home, and every second so spent had strained his patience.

He was tired of her. Tired of her parties, her late nights, her increasingly wild reputation. Althea smiled grimly. She was tired too.

‘This has to stop, Althea,’ Spiros Paranoussis had said last night. He’d been in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his white hair thin and wispy, his face flushed with anger. ‘You stop this behaviour or I shall have to stop it myself.’

‘I’m a grown woman, Father,’ Althea replied coolly. She’d stopped calling him Papa when she was twelve.

‘Acting like a spoiled child! Every day there is another story in the tabloids about what you’ve done, who you’ve been with. How am I to hold my head up in town? At work?’

Althea shrugged. ‘That’s not my concern.’

‘It is, alas, mine,’ Spiros said coldly. ‘And if you cannot see fit to curb your behaviour then I shall have to do so for you…by whatever means necessary.’

Althea had shrugged again and gone upstairs. He’d been threatening her for years with consequences he never cared to enforce. She refused to take her father seriously, refused to grant him the respect he demanded—the respect he felt he deserved—and it infuriated him. But he’d lost the right to her respect too many years ago for her to even consider giving it to him now.

With another sigh Althea swung her legs out of bed. She felt woozy, even though she hadn’t had much to drink last night. Just the cocktail and the glass of wine provided by Demos.

Demos… The mere thought of him caused her to wrap her arms around herself in a movement guided by self-protection. Safety.

He’d affected her too much. Made her think, made her feel, and she didn’t want to do either. She thought of the way his lips had almost—almost—brushed hers last night, and even now a deep, stabbing shaft of need made her realise she’d wanted his kiss.

She still did.

With a sigh she pushed her hair from her face and gazed dispiritedly at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale—too pale. The freckles were standing out on her cheeks and nose, her eyes burning bright and blue, and her hair a tangled mass pushed carelessly away from her face. She looked like the unruly child her father had accused her of being last night.

Althea’s mouth twisted. Yet what recourse did she have? Living in her father’s house, a high school drop-out, with no education, no money, no hope.

Hope.

Elpis.

He’d never been so far from the truth.

She slipped into a pair of skinny jeans and a close-fitting cashmere sweater in a soft, comforting grey, then tied her hair back with a scarf and slapped on a bit of make-up.

As she left the room she paused by the blazer she’d slung on a low settee. Against her better judgement she picked it up and held it to her face. It smelled of the nightclub, of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. But underneath those familiar and unpalatable scents was something deeper, foreign yet intimate. Demos.

She breathed in the tang of brine mixed with the clean scent of a woodsy aftershave. After a second’s hesitation she felt the pockets, but they were empty. Her lips curved in a reluctant smile; she had no doubt this was intentional. Demos Atrikes was going to find her, not the other way round.

And did she want to be found? Pushing the question as well as the unformed answer away, she left her bedroom.

Downstairs the housekeeper, Melina, was arranging a display of purple asters in a vase in the foyer. She gave Althea a sorrowful look and shook her head. ‘What have you done to make your papa so cross?’

Althea smiled thinly. ‘Nothing more than usual.’

Melina frowned, turning back to the flowers. ‘You were a good girl once,’ she said, which was her standard protest.

‘People change,’ Althea replied, with a deliberately wicked little laugh, and Melina’s frown deepened.

‘You need to be good to him. He works hard for you.’

‘And for himself,’ Althea replied, but she softened this reply by kissing the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. ‘Don’t fuss at me this early in the day, Melina.’

Melina sighed, and Althea moved past her into the kitchen. She liked Melina, yet she’d long ago recognised how much the housekeeper was capable of. These mild, ineffectual protests were the extent of her involvement in the family’s affairs.

Althea paused on the threshold of the dining room. Her father sat rigidly at the head of the table, a teacup halfway to his lips. He didn’t turn as he said, ‘Althea. Are you joining me for breakfast?’

She hadn’t eaten a meal with him in months. ‘No, I’m going out.’

Spiros bristled. ‘Where, may I ask?’

‘Shopping.’

‘You need more clothes?’ He turned slightly, and Althea saw his eyebrows rise haughtily. He was a banker and a millionaire, but he had always been tight-fisted.

‘As a matter of fact, no. But my friend seems to think she does, and I’m going with her.’ Althea made to leave.

‘When will you return?’

She turned back and saw the faint look of bewilderment on her father’s face, as if he couldn’t understand how they had come to this, descended to this. When she was little he’d taken her to the seaside, bought her ice creams, tucked her in bed. He looked at her now as if he wanted to know why that adorable little girl had become this defiant young woman. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask the question.

And Althea would never bring herself to answer it.

That confused, saddened look had used to soften her, but now it only disgusted her, moved her to contempt rather than compassion.

She shook her head, her eyes hard.

‘Later.’ Without another word she left the townhouse.

The sunlight sparkled on the placid water of the marina at Mikrolimano as humble fishing boats and luxurious yachts bobbed next to each other against a vista of whitewashed apartments and shops.

It was morning, but the sun was hot on the deck of Edward Jameson’s yacht as Demos stretched his legs out and took a sip of strong black coffee. ‘Tell me what you know of Spiros Paranoussis.’

Across the table Edward Jameson cut his fried egg into precise squares. Even though he spent half a year on his yacht in various European harbours, he still insisted on a full English breakfast to start his morning. Now he looked up, raising his eyebrows. Underneath shaggy white brows his pale blue eyes glinted shrewdly, full of easy humour.

‘Spiros Paranoussis? Why should I know anything of him at all?’

Demos smiled and shrugged. ‘Because I know enough to know he’s a banker in Athens, and you know everyone in finance in this city—as well as in most others in Europe.’

Edward smiled faintly and inclined his head. ‘Spiros Paranoussis…’ he mused. ‘Yes, he’s a banker. Second generation, current CEO of Attica Finance. Solid businessman, although rather uninspired. He hasn’t made much money, but he’s kept what he has.’

Demos nodded thoughtfully, his gaze on the expanse of blue-green sea that stretched to a cloudless horizon. He took another sip of coffee, aware of Edward’s speculative gaze.

The older man had been a mentor to him for twenty years, ever since Demos had loitered longingly by his yacht, eager, desperate for work. Jameson had employed him, and later helped him win a scholarship to study marine architecture. He would have given him much more, but Demos had refused. He would pay his own way, earn his own money, provide for his own family. And so he had, for as long as he’d been allowed.

‘As far as I know,’ Edward remarked mildly, ‘he is not the kind of man to be interested in yachts.’

Demos smiled. ‘No?’

Edward waited, too shrewd and too polite to ask Demos directly why he was fishing for information about Paranoussis.

‘And his family?’ Demos asked after a moment. ‘What do you know about them?’

Edward’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. ‘His wife died ten years ago, or round about that. He has one daughter. I met her once or twice, back when she was a child. Pretty girl, quiet and well-behaved. Although from what I’ve heard she’s now a bit of a liability.’

‘How so?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Wild, reckless, always getting herself in the tabloids.’

Demos nodded thoughtfully. In some ways he was surprised he hadn’t seen or heard of Althea before last night. He undoubtedly frequented Athens’s nightspots, although in general he preferred more discreet venues. He didn’t read the tabloids, however, and he realised with a wry grimace that he was probably considered too old for Althea’s crowd.

‘How old would the daughter be now?’

‘Twenty-two? Twenty-three?’ Edward leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. ‘Why do you ask, Demos? What is your interest in her?’

‘I met her last night.’

‘Met?’

Demos chuckled. ‘Yes, met. That’s all. And I wondered.’ Yet it was more than that, Demos knew. A lot more. He was not about to tell Edward the truth. That he’d met her and wanted her. That she intrigued him, challenged him, fascinated him in a way no other woman had.

And he wasn’t even sure why.

Edward returned to his breakfast. ‘I would usually warn you off colleagues’ daughters,’ he said wearily, ‘knowing your reputation with women. But this time I won’t bother. I’m not sure a girl like Althea Paranoussis has a heart to break—or at any rate a reputation that needs guarding.’

It was a more polite way of saying what Angelos had said last night, and Demos was surprised by his instinct to defend Althea from her accusers. What little he knew of her supported such statements. He thought of Angelos’s easy familiarity with her, with her body, and suppressed a grimace of distaste. Althea didn’t need defending. Perhaps she didn’t even deserve it.

And yet…

‘Although,’ Edward continued thoughtfully, ‘I’ve heard from various business associates that Paranoussis wants to see his daughter married.’

‘Married?’ Demos repeated, nearly spluttering over his coffee. He thought of his conversation with her last night; she was determined to stay clear of marriage. A free spirit—just what he wanted.

Edward sipped his coffee. ‘Marriage would steady her as well as the family’s reputation.’

‘Is it that bad?’ Demos asked. Most rich young girls were spoiled and shallow, at least in his experience. Surely Althea’s brand of entertainment was no worse than theirs?

‘Perhaps not to you,’ Edward replied with a little shrug, ‘but Attica Finance is a conservative organisation. Spiros wants to see his daughter taken care of.’

‘And out of the way?’

‘Out of trouble, perhaps.’ Edward paused, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. ‘Does it matter so much to you, Demos? She’s just a girl.’

Just a girl. Edward’s tone was casually dismissive, yet Demos was shrewd enough to see the flicker of suppressed interest in Edward’s eyes.

He leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know how much it matters,’ he finally said, choosing to be candid. ‘I just met her.’

‘She might suit you,’ Edward replied. His eyes sparkled with both mischief and possibility. ‘Like you, she wants to have a good time. Socially she has all the connections…’

‘I don’t need connections.’

Edward’s little shrug was a silent eloquent reminder of his background, Demos knew. The son of a grocer, with his mother now married to a butcher and still living in a working class suburb of Piraeus. No matter how his life looked now, he’d always know where he’d come from.

‘Think about it,’ Edward said lightly, and began to butter his toast. ‘Paranoussis would be willing to arrange something…see her taken care of, as I said. And a man like you—wealthy, industrious—would impress him suitably.’

Demos smiled. ‘You want me to marry her?’ His voice had a lilt of disbelief.

‘Do you plan ever to marry?’ Edward asked, and Demos considered the question.

‘Perhaps. Eventually,’ he said at last.

‘The party circuit grows old, my friend,’ Edward said, a weary world of experience in his voice, and Demos nodded in agreement.

He was already feeling it. But marriage…?

That was another proposition altogether—and not a very welcome one. Yet even as he dismissed it his mind turned over the possibility. He’d always supposed he would need to marry at some point. He pictured Althea in the role of his wife and found it surprisingly invigorating. She wouldn’t be an innocent, irritating little miss; she’d be fiery and spirited…in bed as well as out of it. His lips curved in a smile of imaginative appreciation.

‘I imagine Althea will be married off within the year,’ Edward continued with a shrug. ‘Or sooner, if she continues to push her father. He’s had enough.’

Demos’s gaze snapped back to Edward’s. ‘He can hardly force her—’

‘Can’t he?’ Edward arched one eyebrow, ever shrewd. ‘She could be cut off without a cent, or an opportunity to earn one.’

‘She’s educated—’

‘Actually, she isn’t. She was expelled from school at seventeen, for bad behaviour.’

Demos sat back, considering. Althea might not have an education, but she was surely intelligent. She would survive if her father actually did make good on his threat and cut her off.

Anyway, he dismissed with a little shrug, Paranoussis was most likely just threatening Althea in an attempt to curb her behaviour. It had nothing to do with him; all he wanted was to see her again.

And, he acknowledged, his lips curving wryly, a bit more than that…

He turned back to Edward, who was watching him with growing curiosity, and smiled blandly.

‘How about some more coffee?’ he asked, and Edward’s own smile widened as he poured.

Althea had taken the bus from her father’s house in Kifissia to an upscale boutique on Tsakalof Street in Kolonaki. Her father gave her very little pocket money, and she was careful with what she had.

Now she sat on a leather-cushioned bench as Iolanthe tried on pair after pair of high-heeled sandals. ‘Everyone has these now,’ she said, twisting her ankles to catch a better view of the sandals’ gaudy beading. ‘Don’t you want some, Althea?’

Althea shrugged and eyed the pointed heels. ‘They look like a deathtrap for the dance floor.’

‘And you are a good dancer.’ Iolanthe met Althea’s eyes in the mirror and winked. ‘I saw you and Angelos last night.’

Althea remembered Angelos’s hands pulling on her hips, pulling her towards him, and suppressed a grimace. She stretched her arms along the railing behind her and shrugged. ‘You and everyone else at the club.’

‘He was telling everyone you ditched that man you left with to be with him. Is that true?’

Damn him, Althea thought, but she shrugged again. ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’

‘Who did you leave with? He looked…’ Iolanthe paused, her eyes flicking over her own appearance, the smooth, girlish curve of her cheek and shoulder, the sequined top and fringed skirt she wore. ‘Old,’ she finally said, and Althea laughed.

‘Oh, he’s old. At least thirty.’

‘Older than us,’ Iolanthe protested, andAlthea shrugged again.

Compared to Iolanthe, nineteen years old and determined to have fun, she felt old. Sometimes she felt ancient.

‘Anyway, you left him?’

‘After a while,’ Althea replied. ‘Now, are you going to buy those sandals or not? I’m hungry, and there’s a café right across the street.’

‘So you did go back with Angelos!’ Iolanthe kicked them off and a sales assistant came forward to replace them in the box.

‘Would madam like the sandals…?’

‘Yes, yes—ring it up.’ Iolanthe waved a hand and turned back to Althea. ‘Well?’

‘What do you think I did?’

‘Althea…!’ Iolanthe pouted. ‘You never tell me what you get up to. I have to hear it from some man—or, worse, the newspapers.’

‘The tabloids will print anything,’ Althea dismissed in a bored voice. ‘Now, let’s get a coffee.’

They sat outside, the sun hot despite the brisk breeze of early spring. A steady stream of shoppers moved by in a blur of colour and chatter, the trill of a dozen different mobile phones punctuating Iolanthe’s insistent pestering for details.

Althea took a sip of coffee and realised how tired she was. Tired of pretence, tired of everything, and she’d been tired for so long.

She sighed, smiled, and returned her attention to Iolanthe’s chatter. Her lifestyle had suited her for the last several years. It would continue to do so.

She didn’t really have any choice.

‘Hello, big brother.’

Demos closed the door of his loft apartment in Piraeus harbour and turned around slowly. Brianna sat sprawled on his sofa, grinning up at him as she lazily swung her feet.

Demos watched her, and a chill of apprehension crawled through him. He shook it off with determined force and moved to greet her. ‘Hello, Brianna. This is…a surprise.’ He didn’t think she’d ever been to his apartment before, and he wondered how she’d got in.

‘I got the key from the woman downstairs,’ Brianna said, in answer to his silent question. She smiled impishly. ‘She thought I was one of your women, but when I explained I was your sister…’

‘Of course.’ He forced himself to smile as he kissed her cheek, his gaze sweeping over her outfit—what there was of it. ‘Your skirt is too short.’

Brianna pouted, and Demos tried to smile again. His sister was looking at him with too much hope and fear in those wide, wistful eyes. Turning away, he went into the kitchen. Brianna scrambled up from the sofa to follow him.

‘You’re one to talk,’ she said, hands on her hips, and a smile tugged at Demos’s mouth despite his intention to remain stern and aloof with his littlest sister. He could never stay so for long; he’d given her bottles as a baby, had taught her to walk, had promised…

No. He wouldn’t think about that. He turned back to her, arching one eyebrow as he smiled playfully. ‘Am I? I don’t wear skirts.’

She giggled, a practised girlish trill that grated on his nerves, his memories. ‘Demos! I meant that the women you’re seen with do.’

An image of Althea in that scrap of a silver dress flashed through his mind. The defiant sparkle of those sea-coloured eyes, the sensual promise of her smile. He wondered yet again why she intrigued him so much. Why he couldn’t stop thinking about her. ‘What do you know about the women I’m seen with?’ he asked, and Brianna shrugged.

‘I see the papers.’

‘Mama lets you read those?’

‘Demos, I’m twenty-one! She can’t stop me!’

Demos frowned, once more taking in his sister’s painted face and tarty clothes. She was trying to look sophisticated, he supposed, and missing by a mile. ‘When are you going to settle down and marry a nice boy? Someone from the neighbourhood? That Antonios, the chemist’s son—he’s always been sweet on you.’

Brianna made a sound of disgust, her eyes sparking. ‘Antonios! He’s an oaf.’

‘A nice oaf,’ Demos countered mildly, although he observed her clenched fists and sparkling eyes with another chill. ‘He has a steady job—’

‘I want more than that!’ Brianna stood with her hands on her hips, her chin and chest thrust out aggressively. She looked so defiant, so determined, that Demos paused, the chill intensifying once more to a deep remembered dread. He recognised the glitter in Brianna’s eyes, the trembling of her lips.

For the last eight years he’d kept his distance—for her sake as well as his own. Because he’d believed it was the right thing to do. Brianna needed him too much, looked up to him too much. She always had—ever since he’d held her as a baby in his arms and she’d reached up and lovingly grabbed his chin. Sometimes it felt as if she’d never let go. She’d wanted him to be father, friend, saviour.

And he never could be.

Now, observing her desperate, defiant stance, Demos realised how those eight years had lulled him into a sense of security. Peace. Both began to crumble.

‘Brianna,’ he asked gently, ‘why are you here?’

He saw a flicker of uncertainty chase across her features and his dread deepened, pooled icily in his stomach. His only contact with Brianna had been his intermittent visits to where she lived with his mother and stepfather, Stavros. Only twenty minutes away, yet it was another part of the city entirely—another world. Working class, respectable, conservative. So unlike this spacious, airy apartment, positioned above Piraeus’s nightclubs and shipping offices, both businesses vying for space and trade in Athens’s ancient and busiest port.

Yet now she was here, visiting him. Needing him. Looking at him as if he could fix all her problems when he couldn’t.

He knew he couldn’t.

‘I wanted to see you. I never see you any more…’ she began, with a toss of her head, but he heard the tremble of need in her voice and something inside him crumbled and broke. Again.

He turned and took her by the shoulders. Her cheeks were still as round and soft as a child’s. She was, he reflected, despite the make-up and clothes, nothing more than the frightened little girl he’d comforted during storms, played endless games of cards with on rainy afternoons. The little girl who had gazed trustingly up into his face and asked, ‘You’ll never leave me, will you?’

And, damn it, he had said he wouldn’t.

‘Brianna,’ he asked gently, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘I want to come and live with you!’ she said in a rush. Tears brightened her eyes and she blinked them back. ‘Mama and Stavros are tired of me. They want me to marry, like you said. But, Demos…! I don’t want to.’ Her eyes widened, and a tear splashed onto his thumb.

He gazed down at her for a moment, at the need and fear so open and endless in her childish face, before he released her and moved out of the kitchen, back into the main space of the apartment. Through the sliding glass doors that led out onto the wide balcony he could see the aquamarine glint of Piraeus’s main harbour. He had been out on that water less than an hour ago, his eyes and mind on an endless horizon. Now, with a resolute sigh, he turned back to face his sister. ‘Why don’t you want to marry?’

‘Why don’t you?’ she tossed back, and he shook his head.

It was a question his mother asked him every time he went to her house. She’d ply him with her spinach pies and meltingly sweet baklava and then demand to know when he was bringing home his bride.

Demos just ignored her; there was no point in explaining that he didn’t want a wife, a family. He’d had the responsibility of one since he was twelve. He didn’t need any more.

He didn’t need this.

‘Marriage would be good for you,’ Demos said, his voice turning brusque.

Brianna let out a choked cry. ‘You hypocrite! You’re allowed to live alone, go to wild parties, have affairs and lovers—’

‘Brianna…’ Demos warned in a low voice. But she was too furious to take heed, or perhaps even to hear.

‘You get to do everything you want, to enjoy life,’ she cried, ‘and yet you want me to settle down like Mama did, like Rosalia and Agathe did, whether I’d be happy or not! You don’t care about any of us now that you’re rich, do you?’ She stood there trembling, her fists clenched at her sides, tears streaking down her cheeks.

‘I care about all of you,’ Demos retorted. ‘I always have.’ He felt a tide of fury rise up in him, threatening to drown him in memories and regrets, and he forced it back down. ‘More than you could ever know, Brianna.’

‘Some way you have of showing it! You haven’t been to see Mama in weeks. We still live in a house half the size of this apartment—’

‘Brianna—silence! You are talking about things you know nothing about.’ Demos slashed a hand through the air. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated in a steely voice.

Brianna shut her mouth and stared at him with wide frightened eyes. Demos regarded her for a moment, so angry and afraid, so young, and then with a muffled curse sank onto the sofa and raked a hand through his hair.

‘What do you mean, Mama and Stavros want you to marry? They can’t force you, surely?’

‘No…’ Brianna admitted in a small voice. ‘But they’re always hinting at it.’

‘Hints don’t mean anything. Mama’s been hinting to me for years.’ Admittedly her hints had the force of a sledgehammer, Demos thought, managing a wry smile. He was gratified to see Brianna give a tremulous little smile back.

‘Yes, but they won’t let me go out! I’m only twenty-one, Demos. I want to have fun…like you do.’

Demos jerked his head up and met Brianna’s pleading gaze. Like you do. The three words had the force of an accusation. A judgement. Even though Brianna did not intend them to be.

He didn’t want Brianna to have fun. Not like he did. Never like he did.

He was a hypocrite.

He wanted her to be safe, cared for. Protected. He just couldn’t be the one to do it. Not for Brianna’s sake. Not for his.

‘Like I do?’ he repeated slowly. He’d never considered himself to be wild. He was careful in his entertainment, choosy with his partners, but still he revelled in his freedom, revelled with a determination borne of too many years of self-denial.

Freedom, he acknowledged now with tired truthfulness, that was paling the longer he experienced it. He wanted more out of life. More for Brianna, more for himself.

He had just never expected it to be marriage. Marriage… unending, stifling responsibility…someone always needing him, never satisfied, never enough.

Althea didn’t need him at all. The thought made him smile.

‘Demos…?’ Brianna said in a halting voice, and his gaze snapped back to her as he nodded in grim acceptance.

‘You can stay the night. I’ll take you out to dinner.’ He forced a smile. ‘We’ll have fun. But tomorrow I’m taking you back home, where you belong.’

‘It’s not fair—’

Demos held up one hand in warning. ‘Don’t,’ he said in a hard voice, ‘tell me what is and is not fair.’ He softened his tone to add, ‘It’s best for you, Brianna. Trust me. I know this.’

That evening he took Brianna out to a reasonably trendy taverna—enough to impress, but hopefully not to entice. After she was in bed he called his mother.

‘Demos!’ Nerissa Leikos’s voice sounded strained with anxiety over the telephone. ‘I was so worried… Thank God she is safe with you.’

‘Yes…but, Mother, she is unhappy. I am…’ Demos chose his words carefully ‘…concerned.’

The silence on the other end of the line told him enough. There was cause for concern, for fear. ‘Is she in danger?’ he asked quietly. ‘Does she need care?’

‘She needs to be married,’ Nerissa said flatly. ‘She is the kind of girl who gets into trouble on her own, Demos. She sees you—’

‘What about me?’ Demos asked sharply.

Nerissa sighed. ‘Demos, it is different for a man. You may do as you like, go out as you like. But Brianna—she is young and easily influenced. And you know her history, how easily she can become…distraught. If she were protected in a stable relationship… If she saw you in a stable relationship…’ Nerissa trailed off delicately.

Demos knew what his mother was implying. Her hints had never been subtle. She wanted him married…for Brianna’s sake as well as his own. And for the first time he considered it, the image of Althea and her teasing smile flashing through his mind with seductive promise.

Perhaps in one fell swoop he could influence Brianna—show her something more positive than the playboy antics she’d been watching from afar.

Perhaps his marriage would be good for Brianna, good for Althea. Good for him. Perhaps it was time.

He sighed. ‘Thank you for telling me. I’ll bring Brianna back tomorrow.’

‘It will be good to see you here, Demos.’

Demos shrugged off the guilt that threatened to settle on him like a shroud. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at his mother’s house. There were reasons he didn’t go back home. Home… His mother’s house had never been his home. Nerissa had married Stavros when Demos was twenty-four, just when he’d started making money, trading the provision of a millionaire for that of a working-class butcher.

Demos’s mouth twisted in sardonic acknowledgement of his own snobbery. Stavros provided decently for his wife and family, yet Demos could have given them so much more.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Itwill.’ But his words sounded hollow to his own ears, and as he severed the connection he was left staring into the darkness, lost in the shadows and memories of his past.

CHAPTER THREE

‘FOUND you.’

Althea looked up from the book she’d been engrossed in and her eyes widened in surprise, awareness prickling along her bare arms. Demos Atrikes sprawled in the chair across from her, grinning with the gloating satisfaction of a little boy. Although there was nothing boyish about the sensual glint in his eyes as his gaze roved over her.

Althea swallowed and looked away. She forced herself to idly turn a page of her book. ‘Am I meant to be impressed?’

‘Of course.’ Demos’s gaze flicked over her once more, lingering on the book in her lap. ‘I didn’t expect to find you in a library.’

‘Oh? Where did you expect to find me?’ Althea slipped the book into her bag and raised one haughty eyebrow, her lips curving with sardonic mockery. ‘In a club? A boutique? A salon?’

Demos just smiled. ‘You’re different,’ he said. ‘I like that.’

‘And I’m so thrilled to oblige you.’ Althea reached for her bag as she began to stand up. Demos checked her with one hand.

‘Don’t be offended,’ he said with a little smile. ‘It was a compliment, you know. “Thank you” is usually the expected response.’

Althea shrugged his hand off and slipped her bag onto her shoulder. ‘You really don’t know anything about me.’

‘I know your name. Althea. It means healing.’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ she acknowledged, her eyes flashing. ‘Good boy.’

Demos grinned lazily. With irritation, Althea realised she was simply amusing him. He wasn’t one of the callow, spoiled young men she was accustomed to, boys who were all too easily put off by her put-downs. Demos Atrikes had too much confidence, too much ease and comfort in who he was for her stinging little remarks to be anything more than a diversion.

‘Have dinner with me,’ he said, and although he spoke it like an invitation, Althea heard the command in his voice. Demos Atrikes was a man determined to get what he wanted. ‘Please,’ he added mildly, his eyes glinting with amused appreciation, and Althea let out an exasperated sigh.

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