He’s proposed to protect her...

But she has a surprise of her own!

Tia is horrified when imposing Anatole Kyrgiakis sweeps back into her life demanding marriage. Six years ago he left her heartbroken—no matter how fiercely she craves him, she won’t make the same mistake again! But Tia is bound to this powerful Greek by more than just passion... Does she dare confess to the biggest secret of all?

JULIA JAMES lives in England and adores the peaceful verdant countryside and the wild shores of Cornwall. She also loves the Mediterranean—so rich in myth and history, with its sunbaked landscapes and olive groves, ancient ruins and azure seas. ‘The perfect setting for romance!’ she says. ‘Rivalled only by the lush tropical heat of the Caribbean—palms swaying by a silver sand beach lapped by turquoise waters…what more could lovers want?’

Also by Julia James

The Dark Side of DesirePainted the Other WomanSecuring the Greek’s LegacyThe Forbidden Touch of SanguardoCaptivated by the GreekA Tycoon to Be Reckoned WithA Cinderella for the Greek

Mistress to Wife miniseries

Claiming His Scandalous Love-ChildCarrying His Scandalous Heir

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Greek’s Secret Son

Julia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07184-0

THE GREEK’S SECRET SON

© 2018 Julia James

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all care-workers everywhere.

how grateful we are to them.

Thank you to you all.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

A FINE DRIZZLE was threatening. Low cloud loured over the country churchyard and the wintry air was damp and chill as Christine stood beside the freshly dug grave. Grief tore at her for the kindly man who had come to her rescue when the one man on earth she’d most craved had been lost to her. But now Vasilis Kyrgiakis was gone, his heart having finally failed as it had long threatened to do. Turning her from wife to widow.

The word tolled in her mind as she stood, head bowed, a lonely figure. Everyone had been very kind to her for Vasilis had been well regarded, even though she was aware that it had been cause for comment that she had been so much younger than her middle-aged husband. But since the most prominent family in the neighbourhood, the Barcourts, had accepted their Greek-born neighbour and his young wife, so had everyone else.

For her part, Christine had been fiercely loyal—grateful—to her husband, even at this final office for him, and felt her eyes misting with tears as the vicar spoke the words of the committal and the coffin was lowered slowly into the grave.

‘We therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection...’

The vicar gave his final blessing and then he was guiding her away, with the soft thud of earth falling on wood behind her.

Eyes blurred, she felt herself stumble suddenly, lifting her head to steady herself. Her gaze darted outwards, to the lychgate across the churchyard, where so lately her husband’s body had rested before its slow procession from the hearse beyond into the church.

And she froze, with a sense of arctic chill.

A car had drawn up beside the hearse—black, too, with dark-tinted windows. And standing beside it, his suit as black as the hearse, his figure tall, unmoving, was a man she knew well. A man she had not seen for five long years.

The last man in the world she wanted to see again.

* * *

Anatole stood motionless, watching the scene play out in the churchyard. Emotions churned within him, but his gaze was fixed only on the slight, slender figure, all in black, standing beside the priest in his long white robe at the open grave of his uncle. The uncle he had not seen—had refused to see—since the unbelievable folly of his marriage.

Anger stabbed at him.

At himself.

At the woman who had trapped his vulnerable uncle into marrying her.

He still did not know how, and it had been his fault that she had done so.

I did not see what ambition I was engendering.

It was an ambition that had spawned her own attempt to trap him—when thwarted, she had catastrophically turned on his hapless uncle. The uncle who—a life-long bachelor, a mild-mannered scholar, with none of the wary suspicions that Anatole himself had cultivated throughout his life—had proved an easy target for her.

His gaze rested on her now, as she became aware of his presence. Her expression showed naked shock. Then, with an abrupt movement, he wheeled about, threw himself inside his car and, with a spray of gravel, pulled away, accelerating down the quiet country lane.

Emotion churned again, plunging him back into the past.

Five long years ago...

* * *

Anatole drummed his fingers frustratedly on the dashboard. The London rush-hour traffic was gridlocked and had come to a halt, even in this side street. But it was not just the traffic jam that was putting him in a bad mood. It was the prospect of the evening ahead.

With Romola.

His obsidian-dark eyes glinted with unsuppressed annoyance and his sculpted mouth tightened. She was eyeing him up as marriage material. That was precisely what he did not welcome.

Marriage was the last thing he wanted! Not for him—no, thank you!

His eyes clouded as he thought of the jangled, tangled mess that was his own parents’ lives. Both his parents had married multiple times, and he had been born only seven months after their wedding—evidence they’d both been unfaithful to their previous spouses. Nor had they been faithful to each other, and his mother had walked out when he was eleven.

Both were now remarried—yet again. He’d stopped counting or caring. He’d known all along that providing their only child with a stable family was unimportant to them. Now, in his twenties, his sole purpose, or so it seemed, was to keep the Kyrgiakis coffers filled to the brim in order to fund their lavish lifestyles and expensive divorces.

With his first class degree in economics from a top university, his MBA from a world-famous business school and his keen commercial brain, this was a task that Anatole could perform more than adequately, and he knew he benefitted from it as well. Work hard, play hard—that was the motto he lived by—and he kept the toxic ties of marriage far, far away from him.

His frown deepened and his thoughts of Romola darkened. He’d hoped that her high-flying City career would stop her from having ambitions to marry him, yet here she was, like all the tedious others, thinking to make herself Mrs Anatole Kyrgiakis.

Exasperation filled him.

Why do they always want to marry me?

It was such a damn nuisance...

A dozen vehicles ahead of him he saw the traffic light turn to green. A moment later the chain of traffic was lurching forward and his foot depressed the accelerator.

And at exactly that moment a woman stepped right in front of his car...

Tia’s eyes were hazed with unshed tears, her thoughts full of poor Mr Rodgers. She’d been with her ill, elderly client to the end—which had come that morning. His death had brought back all the memories of her own mother’s passing, less than two years ago, when her failing hold on life had finally been severed.

Now, though, as she trudged along, lugging her ancient unwieldy suitcase, she knew she had to get to her agency before it closed for the day. She needed to be despatched to her next assignment, for as a live-in carer she had no home of her own.

She would need to cross the street to reach the agency, which was down another side street across the main road, and with the traffic so jammed from the roadworks further ahead she realised she might as well cross here. Other people were darting through the stationary traffic, which was only moving in fits and starts.

Hefting her heavy suitcase with a sudden impulse, she stepped off the pavement...

With a reaction speed he had not known he possessed, Anatole slammed down on the brake, urgently sounding his horn.

But for all his prompt action he heard the sickening thud of his car bumper impacting on something solid. Saw the woman crumple in front of his eyes.

With an oath, he hit the hazard lights then leapt from the car, stomach churning. There on the road was the woman, sunk to her knees, one hand gripping a suitcase that was all but under his bumper. The suitcase had split open, its locks crushed, and Anatole could see clothes spilling out.

The woman lifted her head, stared blankly at Anatole, apparently unaware of the danger she’d been in.

Furious words burst from him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Are you a complete idiot, stepping out like that?’

Relief that the only casualty seemed to be the suitcase had flooded through Anatole, making him yell. But the woman who clearly had some kind of death wish was perfectly all right—except that as he finished yelling the blank look vanished into a storm of weeping.

Instantly his anger deflated, and he hunkered down beside the sobbing woman.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

His voice wasn’t angry now, but his only answer was a renewed burst of sobbing.

Obviously not, he answered his own question.

With a heavy sigh he took the disgorged clothes, stuffed them randomly back into the suitcase, and made a futile attempt to close the lid. Then he took her arm.

‘Let’s get you back on the pavement safely,’ he said.

He started to draw her upright. Her face lifted. Tears were pouring in an avalanche down her cheeks, and broken, breathless sobs came from her throat. But Anatole was not paying attention to her emotional outburst. As he stood her up on her feet, his brain, as if after a slow motion delay, registered two things.

The woman was younger than he’d first thought. And even weeping she was breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly lovely.

Blonde, heart-shaped face, blue-eyes, rosebud mouth...

He felt something plummet inside him, then ascend, taking shape, rearranging everything. His expression changed.

‘You’re all right,’ he heard himself say. His voice was much gentler, with no more anger in it. ‘It was a narrow escape, but you made it.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ The words stuttered from her as she heaved in breath chokily.

Anatole shook his head, negating her apology. ‘It’s all right. No harm done. Except to your suitcase.’

As she took in its broken state her face crumpled in distress. With sudden decision Anatole hefted the suitcase into the boot of his car, opened the passenger door.

‘I’ll drive you to wherever you’re going. In you get,’ he instructed, all too conscious of the traffic building up behind him, horns tooting noisily.

He propelled her into the car, despite her stammering protest. Throwing himself into his driver’s seat, he turned off the hazard lights and gunned the engine.

Absently, he found himself wondering if he would have gone to so much personal inconvenience as he was now had the person who’d stepped right out in front of his car not been the breathtakingly lovely blonde that she was...

‘It’s no problem,’ he said. ‘Now, where to?’

She stared blankly. ‘Um...’ She cast her eyes frantically through the windscreen. ‘That side street down there.’

Anatole moved off. The traffic was still crawling, and he threw his glance at his unexpected passenger. She was sniffing, wiping at her cheeks with her fingers. As the traffic halted at a red light Anatole reached for the neatly folded clean handkerchief in his jacket pocket and turned to mop at her face himself. Then he drew back, job done.

Her eyes were like saucers, widening to plates as she looked back at him. And the expression in them suddenly stilled him completely.

Slowly, very slowly, he smiled...

Tia was staring. Gawping. Her heart was thudding like a hammer, and her throat was tight from the storm of weeping triggered by the man whose car she had so blindly, stupidly, stepped in front of when he had laid into her for her carelessness. But it had been building since the grim, sad ordeal of watching an elderly, mortally ill man take his leave of life, reminding her so much of the tearing grief she’d felt at her mother’s death.

Now something else was overpowering her. Her eyes were distended, and she was unable to stop staring. Staring at the man who had just mopped her face and was now sitting back in his seat, watching her staring at him with wide eyes filled with wonder...

She gulped silently, still staring disbelievingly, and words tumbled silently, chaotically in her head.

Black hair, like sable, and a face as if...as if it was carved... Eyes like dark chocolate and smoky long, long lashes. Cheekbones a mile high... And his mouth...quirking at the corner like that. I can feel my stomach hollowing out, and I don’t know where to look, but I just want to go on gazing at him, because he looks exactly as if he’s stepped right out of one of my daydreams... The most incredible man I’ve ever seen in my life...

Because how could it be otherwise? How could she possibly, in her restricted, constricted life, during which she had done nothing and seen nothing, ever have encountered a man like this?

Of course she hadn’t! She’d spent her teenage years looking after her mother, and her days now were spent in caring for the sick and the elderly. There had never been opportunity or time for romantic adventures, for boyfriends, fashion, excitement. Her only romances had been in her head—woven out of time spent staring out of windows, sitting by bedsides, attending to all the chores and tasks that live-in carers had to undertake.

Except that here—right now, right here—was a man who could have sprung right out of her romantic fantasies...everything she had ever daydreamed about.

Tall, dark and impossibly handsome.

And he was here—right here—beside her. A daydream made real.

She gulped again. His smile deepened, indenting around his sculpted mouth, making a wash of weakness go through her again, deeper still.

‘Better?’ he murmured.

Silently, she nodded, still unable to tear her gaze away. Just wanting to go on gazing and gazing at him.

Then, abruptly, she became hideously aware that although he looked exactly as if he’d stepped out of one of her torrid daydreams—a fantasy made wondrously, amazingly real—she was looking no such thing. In fact the complete, mortifying opposite.

Burningly, she was brutally aware of how she must look to him—the very last image a man like him should see in any daydream, made real or not. Red eyes, snuffling nose, tear runnels down her cheeks, hair all mussed and not a scrap of make-up. Oh, yes—and she was wearing ancient jeans and a bobbled, battered jumper that hung on her body like a rag. What a disaster...

As the traffic light changed to green Anatole turned into the side street she’d indicated. ‘Where now?’ he asked.

It came to him that he was hoping it was some way yet. Then he crushed the thought. Picking up stray females off the street—literally, in this case!—was not a smart idea. Even though...

His glance went to her again. She really is something to look at! Even with those red eyes and rubbish clothes.

A thought flashed across his mind. One he didn’t want but that was there all the same.

How good could she look?

Immediately he cut the thought.

No—don’t ask that. Don’t think that. Drive her to her destination, then drive on—back to your own life.

Yes, that was what he should do—he knew that perfectly well. But in the meantime he could hardly drive in silence. Besides, he didn’t want her bursting into those terrifyingly heavy sobs again.

‘I’m sorry you were so upset,’ he heard himself saying. ‘But I hope it’s taught you never, ever to step out into traffic.’

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she said again. Her voice was husky now. ‘And I’m so, so sorry for...for crying like that. It wasn’t you! Well, I mean...not really. Only when you yelled at me—’

‘It was shock,’ Anatole said. ‘I was terrified I’d killed you.’ He threw a rueful look at her. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t because of that—not really,’ she said again. ‘It was because—’

She stopped. All thoughts of daydream heroes vanished as the memory of how she’d spent the night at the bedside of a dying man assailed her again.

‘Because...?’ Anatole prompted, throwing her another brief glance. He found he liked throwing her glances. But that he would have preferred them not to be brief...

Perhaps they need not be—

She was answering him, cutting across the thought he should not have. Most definitely should not have.

‘It was because of poor Mr Rodgers!’ she said in a rush. ‘He died this morning. I was there. I was his care worker. It was so sad. He was very old, but all the same—’ She broke off, a catch in her voice. ‘It reminded me of when my mother died—’

She broke off again, and Anatole could hear the half-sob in her voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because it seemed the only thing to say. ‘Was your mother’s death recent?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was nearly two years ago, but it brought it all back. She had MS—all the time I was growing up, really—and after my father was killed I looked after her. That’s why I became a care worker. I had the experience, and anyway there wasn’t much else I could do, and a live-in post was essential because I don’t have a place of my own yet—’

She broke off, suddenly horribly aware that she was saying all these personal things to a complete stranger.

She swallowed. ‘I’m just going to my agency’s offices now—to get a new assignment, somewhere to go tonight.’ Her voice changed. ‘That’s it—just there!’

She pointed to an unprepossessing office block and Anatole drew up alongside it. She got out, tried the front door. It did not open. He stepped out beside her, seeing the notice that said ‘Closed’.

‘What now?’ he heard himself saying in a tight voice.

Tia turned to stare at him, trying to mask the dismay in her face. ‘Oh, I’ll find a cheap hotel for tonight. There’s probably one close by I can walk to.’

Anatole doubted that—especially with her broken suitcase.

His eyes rested on her. She looked lost and helpless. And very, very lovely.

As before, sudden decision took him. There was a voice in his head telling him he was mad, behaving like an idiot, but he ignored it. Instead, he smiled suddenly.

‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Look, you can’t move that broken suitcase a metre, let alone trail around looking for a mythical cheap hotel in London! So here’s what I propose. Why not stay the night at my flat? I won’t be there,’ he added immediately, because instantly panic had filled her blue eyes, ‘so you’ll have the run of it. Then you can buy yourself a new suitcase in the morning and head to your agency.’ He smiled. ‘How would that be?’

She was staring at him as though she dared not believe what he was saying. ‘Are you sure?’ That disbelief was in her voice, but her panic was ebbing away.

‘I wouldn’t offer otherwise,’ Anatole replied.

‘It’s incredibly kind of you,’ she answered, her voice sounding husky, her eyes dropping away from his. ‘I’m being a total pain to you—’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘So, do you accept?’

He smiled again—the deliberate smile that he used when he wanted people to do what he wanted. It worked this time too. Tremulously she nodded.

Refusing to pay any attention to the voice in his head telling him he was an insane idiot to make such an offer to a complete stranger, however lovely, Anatole helped her back into the car and set off again, heading into Mayfair, where his flat was.

He glanced at her. She was sitting very still, hands in her lap, looking out through the windscreen, not at him. She still looked as if she could not believe this was really happening.

He took the next step in making it real for her. For him as well.

‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly? I’m Anatole Kyrgiakis.’

It was odd to say his own name, because he usually didn’t have to, and certainly when he did he expected his surname, at least, to be recognised instantly. Possibly followed by a quick glance to ascertain that he meant the Kyrgiakis family. This time, however, his name drew no reaction other than her turning her head to look at him as he spoke.

‘Tia Saunders,’ she responded shyly.

‘Hello, Tia,’ Anatole said in a low voice, with a flickering smile.

He saw a flush of colour in her cheeks, then had to pay attention to the traffic again. He let her be as he drove on, needing to concentrate now and wanting her to feel a little more relaxed about what was happening. But she was still clearly tense as he pulled up outside his elegant Georgian town house and guided her indoors, carrying her broken suitcase.

The greeting from the concierge at the desk in the wide hallway seemed to make her shrink against him, and as they entered his top-floor apartment she gave a gasp.

‘I can’t stay here!’ she exclaimed, dismay in her voice. ‘I might mess something up!’

Her eyes raced around, taking in a long white sofa, covered in silk cushions, a thick dove-grey carpet that matched the lavish drapes at the wide windows. It was like something out of a movie—absolutely immaculate and obviously incredibly expensive.

Anatole gave a laugh. ‘Just don’t spill coffee on anything,’ he said.

She shook her head violently. ‘Please, don’t even say that!’ she cried, aghast at the very thought.

His expression changed. She seemed genuinely worried. He walked up to her. Found himself taking her hand with his free one even without realising it. Patting it reassuringly.

‘Speaking of coffee... I could murder a cup! What about you?’

She nodded, swallowing. ‘Th...thank you,’ she stammered.

‘Good. I’ll get the machine going. But let me show you to your room first—and, look, why not take a shower, freshen up? You must have had a gruelling night, from what you’ve said.’

He relinquished her hand, hefted up the broken suitcase again, mentally deciding he’d get a new one delivered by the concierge within the hour, and carried it through to one of the guest bedrooms.

She followed after him, still glancing about her with an air of combined nervousness and wide-eyed amazement at her surroundings, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life. Which, he realised, she probably never had.

An unusual sense of satisfaction darted within him. It was a good feeling to give this impoverished, waiflike girl, who’d clearly had a pretty sad time of it—both parents dead and a poorly paid job involving distressing end-of-life care—a brief taste of luxury. He found himself wanting her to enjoy it.

Setting down the suitcase, which immediately sprang open again, he pointed out the en suite bathroom, then with another smile left her to it, heading for the kitchen.

Five minutes later the coffee was brewing and he was sprawled on the sofa, checking his emails—trying very, very hard not to let his mind wander to his unexpected guest taking her shower...

He wondered just how far her charms extended beyond her lovely face. He suspected a lot further. She was slender—he’d seen that instantly—but it hadn’t made her flat-chested. No, indeed, Even though she was wearing cheap, unflattering clothes, he’d seen the soft swell of her breasts beneath. And she was petite—much more so than the women he usually selected for himself.

Maybe that was because of his own height—over six foot—or maybe it was because the kind of women he went out with tended to be self-assured, self-confident high-achieving females who were his counterparts in many ways, striding through the world knowing their own worth, very sure of themselves and their attractions.

Women like Romola.

His expression changed. Before Tia had plunged in front of his car he’d made the decision to cut Romola out of his life—so why not do that right now? He’d text her to say he couldn’t see her tonight after all, that something had come up, and that it was unlikely he’d be back in London any time soon, Say that perhaps they should both accept their time together had run its course...

With a ruthlessness that he could easily exercise whenever he felt himself targeted by a woman wanting more of him than he cared to give, he sent the text, softening the blow with the despatch of a diamond bracelet as a farewell gift as a sop to Romola’s considerable ego. Then, with a sense of relief, he turned his thoughts back to tonight.

A smile started around his mouth, his eyes softening slightly. He’d already played out King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid in offering Tia the run of his flat, so why not go the whole hog and give her an evening she would always remember? Champagne, fine dining—the works!

It was something he’d take a bet that she’d never experienced in her deprived life before.

Of course it went without saying that that would be all he’d be offering her. He himself would not be staying here—he’d make his way over to the Mayfair hotel where his father kept a permanent suite. Of course he would.

Anything else was completely out of the question—however lovely she was.

Completely out, he told himself sternly.

CHAPTER TWO

TIA STOOD IN a state of physical bliss as the hot water poured over her body, foaming into rich suds the shampoo and body wash she’d found in the basket of expensive-looking toiletries on the marble-topped vanity unit. Never in her whole life had she had such a lavish, luxurious shower.

By the time she stepped out, her hair wrapped up in a fleecy towel, another huge bath sheet wrapped around her, she felt reborn. She still hadn’t really got her head around what was happening because it all just seemed like a fairytale—swept off by a prince who took her breath away.

He’s just so gorgeous! So incredibly gorgeous! And he’s being so kind! He could just as easily have left me on the pavement with my broken suitcase. Driven away and not cared!

But he hadn’t driven away—he’d brought her here, and how could she possibly have said no? In all her confined, unexciting life, dedicated to caring for her poor mother and for others, when had anything like this ever happened except in her daydreams?

She lifted her chin, staring at her reflection, resolve in her eyes. Whatever was happening, she was going to seize this moment!

She whirled about, yanking off the turban towel, letting her damp hair tumble down, then rapidly sorting through her clothes, desperate to find something—anything—that was more worthy of the occasion than her ancient jeans and baggy top. Of course she had nothing at all that was remotely suitable, but at least she had something that was an improvement. She might never hope to be able to look like a fairytale princess, but she’d do her damnedest!

As she walked back into that pristine, palatial lounge her eyes went straight to the darkly sprawling figure relaxed on the white sofa. Dear Lord, but he was unutterably gorgeous!

He’d shed his formal business jacket and loosened his tie, undone his top button and turned up his cuffs. And through her veins came that same devastating rush she’d felt before, weakening her limbs, making her dizzy with its impact.

He rose to his feet. ‘There you are.’ He smiled. ‘Come and sit down and have your coffee.’

He nodded to where he’d set out a plate of pastries, extracted from the freezer and microwaved by his own fair hand into tempting, fragrant warmth. Two had already been consumed, but there were plenty left.

‘Are you on a diet?’ he asked convivially. ‘Or can I tempt you?’

Anatole watched with a sense of familiarity as the colour rushed into her face and then out again. Maybe he shouldn’t have used the word ‘tempt’. He had the damnedest feeling that it wasn’t the thought of the pastries that were making her colour up like that.

Snap!

Because if she was experiencing temptation, then he knew for sure that he was as well. And with good reason...

She’d changed her clothes and, although they were still clearly cheap and high street, they were a definite improvement. She’d put on a skirt—a floaty cotton one, in Indian print—and topped it with a turquoise tee shirt that gave her a whole lot more figure than the baggy jumper she’d had on previously. On top of that, her freshly washed hair was loose now, still damp, but curling in a tousled mane around her shoulders. The redness had finally gone from her eyes, and her skin was clear and unblemished. Her lips rosy, tender...

Still the ingénue, definitely...but no longer a sad waif.

With an expression of intense self-consciousness on her face, she gingerly sat herself down on the sofa, slanting her slender legs. He saw her hands were shaking slightly as she took the coffee he’d poured with a low murmur of thanks.

She drank it thirstily, hoping it would steady her wildly jangling nerves, and her eyes jumped again to Anatole to drink in the gorgeous reality of his presence. Her eyes met his and she realised he was watching her, a smile playing around his mouth. It was a smile that sent little quivers shimmering through her and made her breath shallow.

‘Have a pastry,’ he said, pushing the plate towards her.

Their warm, yeasty cinnamon scent caught at her, reminding her that she’d not had a chance to eat all day. She took one, grabbing a thick, richly patterned paper napkin as she did so, terrified of dropping buttery flakes on the pristine upholstery or the carpet.

Anatole watched her polish off the pastry, letting his eyes drift over the sweet perfection of her heart-shaped face, the cerulean eyes, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curls of her fair hair.

She is breathtakingly lovely—and she is taking my breath away just looking at her...

He glanced at his watch. It was coming up to seven, though the evenings were still light. They could drink champagne on his roof terrace. But first...best to order dinner.

He reached for his laptop, brought up the website for the service he used when dining in, then tilted the screen towards her. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, ‘and see what you’d like for dinner. I’m going to order in.’

Immediately—predictably—she shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please—not for me. I’m absolutely fine just eating these pastries.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not,’ he rejoined affably. ‘Come on—take a look. What sort of food do you like best? And do not,’ he added sternly, ‘say pizza! Or Indian. Or Chinese. I’m talking gourmet food here—take your pick.’

Wide-eyed, Tia stared at the long page of menu options on the screen. She couldn’t understand most of them. She swallowed.

‘Will you let me choose for you?’ Anatole asked, realising her dilemma.

She nodded gratefully.

‘Anything you’re allergic to?’ he asked.

She shook her head, but all the same he chose relatively safe options—no shellfish, no nuts. A midnight dash to A&E was not the way he wanted this evening to end.

And you’re not going to let it end the way you’re thinking right now either! his conscience admonished him sternly.

Not even when he was leaning towards her, and she towards him, so they could both read the screen, and he could catch the fresh scent of her body. All he would have to do to touch her would be to lift his hand, let it slide through those softly drying curls, splay his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw that sweet, tender mouth to his...

He straightened abruptly, busying himself with putting the order through, then closing his laptop. Time to fetch the champagne.

He returned a few moments later, with a bottle at the perfect temperature from his thermostatically controlled wine store and two flutes dangling from his hand. He crossed to the picture window, sliding it open.

‘Come and see the view,’ he said invitingly.

Tia got to her feet, following him out on to a roofline terrace with a stone balustrade along it. She was still in a daze. Was he really intending to have dinner with her? Drink champagne with her? Her heart was beating faster, she knew, just at the very thought of it.

As she stepped out the warm evening air enveloped her. Sunshine was still catching the tops of the trees visible in the park beyond. Nor was that the only greenery visible—copious large stone pots adorned the terrace, lush with plants, creating a little oasis.

‘Oh, it’s so lovely!’ she exclaimed spontaneously, her face lighting up.

Anatole smiled, feeling a kick go through him at her visible pleasure, at how it made her eyes shine, and set down the champagne and flutes on a little ironwork table flanked by two chairs.

‘A private green haven,’ he said. ‘Cities aren’t my favourite places, so when I’m forced to be in them—which is all too often, alas—I like to be as green as I can. It’s one of the reasons,’ he went on, ‘that I like penthouse apartments—they come with roof terraces.’

He paused to open the champagne with a soft pop of the cork, then handed her one of the empty flutes.

‘Keep it slightly tilted,’ he instructed as he poured it half full, letting the liquid foam, but not too much. Then he filled his own glass and lifted it to her, looking down at her. She really was petite, he found himself thinking again. And for some reason it made him feel...protective.

It was an odd thought. Unfamiliar to him when it came to women.

He smiled down at her. She was gazing up at him, and the expression in her eyes sent that kick through him again. He lifted his glass, indicating that she should do the same, which she did, glancing at the foaming liquid as if she could not believe it was in her hand.

‘Yammas,’ he said.

She looked confused.

‘It’s cheers in Greek,’ he elucidated.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s what you are! I knew you must be foreign, because of your name, but I didn’t know what—’

She coloured. Had she sounded rude? She hadn’t meant to. London was incredibly multicultural—there had been no reason to say he was ‘foreign’. He was probably as British as she was—

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking dismayed. ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘No,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘I am foreign. I’m a Greek national. But I do a lot of work in London because it’s a major financial hub. I live in Greece, though.’ He smiled again, wanting to set her at her ease. ‘Have you ever been to Greece? For a holiday, maybe?’

Tia shook her head. ‘We went to Spain when I was little,’ she said. ‘When my dad was still alive and before mum got MS.’ She swallowed, looking away.

‘It’s good to have memories,’ Anatole said quietly. ‘Especially of family holidays as a child.’

Yes—it was good to have such memories. Except he didn’t have any. His school holidays—breaks from boarding at the exclusive international school in Switzerland he’d attended from the age of seven—had been spent either at friends’ houses or rattling around the huge Kyrgiakis mansion in Athens, with no one except the servants around.

His parents had been busy with their own more important lives.

When he’d reached his teens he’d taken to spending a few weeks with his uncle—his father’s older brother. Vasilis had never been interested in business or finance. He was a scholar, content to bury himself in libraries and museums, using the Kyrgiakis money to fund archaeological research and sponsor the arts. He disapproved of his younger brother’s amatory dissoluteness, but never criticised him openly. He was a lifelong bachelor, and Anatole had found him kindly, but remote—though very helpful in coaching him in exam revision and for university entrance.

Anatole had come to value him increasingly for his wise, quiet good sense.

He cleared his thoughts. ‘Well, here’s to your first trip to Greece—which I’m sure you’ll make one day.’ He smiled, tilting his glass again at Tia, then taking a mouthful of the softly beading champagne. He watched her do likewise, very tentatively, as if she could not believe she was doing so.

‘Is this real champagne?’ she asked as she lowered her glass again.

Anatole’s mouth twitched. ‘Definitely,’ he assured her. ‘Do you like it?’

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge smile split her face, transforming the wary nervousness of her expression. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ she exclaimed.

Just like you are!

Those were the words blazing in her head, as she gazed at the man who was standing there, who had scooped up the crumpled heap she’d made on the road and brought her here, to this beautiful apartment, to drink champagne—the first champagne she’d ever tasted.

Should I pinch myself? Is this real—is this really, really real?

She wanted it to be—oh, how she wanted it to be! But she could scarcely believe it.

Maybe the single mouthful of champagne had made her bold. ‘This is so incredibly kind of you!’ she said in a rush.

Kind? The word resonated in Anatole’s head. Was he being kind? He’d told himself he was, but was the truth different?

Am I just being incredibly, recklessly self-indulgent?

He lifted his glass again. Right now he didn’t care. His only focus was on this lovely woman—so young, so fresh, so breathtakingly captivating in her simple natural beauty.

She is practising no arts to attract me, making no eyes at me, and she asks nothing of me—

He smiled, his expression softening, a tinge of humour at his mouth. ‘Drink up,’ he said, ‘we’ve a whole bottle to get through!’

He took another mouthful of the fine vintage, encouraging her to do likewise.

She was looking around her as she sipped, out over the rooftops of the houses nearby. ‘It’s nice to think,’ she heard herself say, ‘that even though up here used to be the attics, where the servants lived, they got this view!’

Anatole laughed. ‘Well, the attics have certainly gone up in the world since then!’ he answered, thinking of the multi-million-pound price tag this apartment had come with. ‘And it’s good that those days are gone. Any house staff these days get a lot better than attics to live in, and they are very decently paid.’

Probably, he found himself adding silently, a lot more than you get as a care worker...

He frowned. Essential though such work was, surely it would be good if she aspired to something more in her life?

‘Tell me,’ he said, taking some more of his champagne, then topping up both their glasses, ‘what do you want to do with your life? I know care work is important, but surely you won’t want to do it for ever?’

Even as he asked the question it dawned on him that never in his life had he come across anyone from her background. All the women he knew were either in high-powered careers or trust fund princesses. Completely a different species from this young woman with her sad, impoverished, hard-working life.

Tia bit her lip, feeling awkward suddenly. ‘Well, because I was off school a lot, looking after Mum, I never passed my exams, so I can’t really go to college. And, though I’m saving from my wages, I can’t afford accommodation of my own yet.’

‘Have you no family at all to help you?’ Anatole frowned.

She shook her head. ‘It was just Dad, Mum, and me.’

She looked at him. Nearly a glass down on the champagne and she was definitely feeling bold. This might be a daydream, but she was going to indulge herself to the hilt with it.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t Greek families huge?’

Anatole gave a thin smile. ‘Not mine,’ he said tersely. ‘I’m an only child too.’ He looked into his champagne flute. ‘My parents are divorced, and both of them are married to other people now. I don’t see much of them.’

That was from choice. His and theirs. The only regular Kyrgiakis family gathering was the annual board meeting when all the shareholders gathered—himself, his parents and his uncle, and a few distant cousins as well. All of them looked to him to find out how much more money he’d poured into the family coffers, thanks to his business acumen.

‘Oh,’ Tia said, sympathetically, ‘that’s a shame.’

An unwelcome flicker went through her. She didn’t want to think that fantasy males like this one could have dysfunctional families like ordinary people. Surely when they lived in fantastic, deluxe places like this, and drank vintage champagne, they couldn’t have problems like other people?

Anatole gave another thin smile. ‘Not particularly,’ he countered. ‘I’m used to it.’

Absently, he wondered why he’d talked about his family at all. He never did that with women. He glanced at his watch. They should go indoors. Dinner would be arriving shortly and he didn’t want to think about his family—or his lack of any that he bothered about. Even Vasilis, kindly though he was, lived in a world of his own, content with his books and his philanthropic activities in the arts world.

He guided his guest indoors. Dusk was gathering outside and he switched on the terrace lighting, casting low pools of soft light around the greenery, giving it an elvish glow.

Once again, Tia was enchanted. ‘Oh, that’s so pretty!’ she exclaimed, as the effect sprang to life. ‘It looks like a fairyland!’

She immediately felt childish saying such a thing, even if it were true, but Anatole laughed, clearly amused.

The house phone rang, alerting him that dinner was on its way up, and five minutes later he and Tia were seated, tucking in to their first course—a delicate white fish terrine.

‘This is delicious!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up as she ate.

She said the same thing about the chicken bathed in a creamy sauce, with tiny new potatoes and fresh green beans—simple, but beautifully cooked.

Anatole smiled indulgently. ‘Eat up,’ he urged.

It was good to see a woman eating with appetite, not picking at her food. Good, too, to see the open pleasure in her face at dining with him, her appreciation of everything. Including the champagne as he topped up her glass yet again.

Careful. He heard the warning voice in his head. Don’t give her more than she can handle.

Or, indeed, more than he could handle either—not when he still had to get to the hotel for the night. But that wasn’t yet, and for now he could continue to enjoy every moment of their evening.

A sense of well-being settled over him. Deliberately, he kept the conversation between them light, doing most of the talking himself, but drawing her out as well, intent on making her feel relaxed and comfortable.

‘If you do ever manage to get to Greece for a holiday, what kind of thing would you most like doing? Are you a beach bunny or do you like sightseeing? There’s plenty of both across the mainland and the islands. And if you like ancient history there’s no better place in the world than Greece, to my mind!’ he said lightly.

‘I don’t really know anything about ancient history,’ she answered, colouring slightly.

She felt uncomfortable, being reminded of her lack of education. Such realities got in the way of this wonderful, blissful daydream she was having. This real-life fairytale.

‘You’ve heard of the Parthenon?’ Anatole prompted.

A look of confusion passed over Tia’s face. ‘Um...is it a temple?’

‘Yes, the most famous in the world—on the Acropolis in Athens. A lot of tall stone pillars around a rectangular ruin.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen pictures!’ she acknowledged, relieved that she’d been right.

‘Well, there you are, then.’ He smiled, and went on to tell her the kind of information most tourists gathered from a visit to the site, then moved on to the other attractions that his homeland offered.

Whether or not she took it all in, he didn’t know. Mostly she just gazed at him, her beautiful blue eyes wide—something he found himself enjoying. Especially when he held her gaze and saw the flush of colour mount in her cheeks, her hand reaching hurriedly for the glass of iced water beside her champagne flute.

As they moved on to the final course—a light-as-air pavlova—he opened a bottle of sweet dessert wine, calculating that she would find it more palatable than port.

Which, indeed, she did, sipping the honeyed liquid with appreciation.

When all the pavlova was gone, Anatole got to his feet. He’d set coffee to brew when he’d fetched the dessert wine, and now he collected it, setting it down on the coffee table by the sofa.

He held his hand out to Tia. ‘Come and sit down,’ he invited.

She got up from the table, suddenly aware that her head was feeling as if there was a very slight swirl inside it. Just how much of that gorgeous champagne had she drunk? she wondered. It seemed to be fizzing in her veins, making her feel breathless, weightless. As if she were floating in a blissful haze. But she didn’t care. How could she? An evening like this—something out of fairyland—would never come again!

With a little contented sigh she sank down on the sofa, the dessert wine glass in her hand, her light cotton skirt billowing around her.

Anatole came and sat down beside her. ‘Time to relax,’ he said genially, flicking on the TV with a remote.

He hefted his feet up onto the coffee table, disposing of his tie over the back of the sofa. He wanted to be totally comfortable. The mix of champagne and sweet wine was creaming pleasantly in his veins. He hoped it was doing so in Tia, as well, allowing her to enjoy the rest of the evening with him before he took himself off to his hotel.

Idly, he wondered whether he should phone and tell them to expect him, but then he decided not to bother. Instead he amused himself by channel-surfing until he chanced upon a channel that made his unexpected guest exclaim, ‘Oh, I love this movie!’

It was a rom-com, perfectly watchable, and he was happy to do so. Happy to see Tia curl her bare feet under her skirt on the sofa and lean back into the cushions, her eyes on the screen.

At what point, Anatole wondered as he topped up her glass again, had he moved closer to her? At what point, as he’d stretched and flexed his legs, had he also stretched and flexed his arms, so that one of them was now resting along the back of the sofa, his fingertips grazing the top of her shoulder?

At what point had his fingers started idly playing with the now dry silky-soft pale curls around her neck?

At what point had he accepted that he had no desire—none whatsoever—to go anywhere else tonight?

And all the caution and the warnings sounding in his head, in what remained of his conscience, were falling on ears that were totally, profoundly deaf...

The film came to its sentimental end, with the hero sweeping the heroine up into his arms, lavishing an extravagant kiss upon her upturned face, and the music soared into the credits. A huge sigh of satisfaction was breathed from Tia, and she set down her now empty glass, turning back towards Anatole.

Emotion was coursing through her, mingling with the champagne and with that deliciously sweet wine she’d been drinking, with the gorgeous food she’d eaten—the best she’d ever tasted—all set off by candles and soft music and with her very own prince to keep her company.

It was foaming in her bloodstream, shining from her eyes. The rom-com they’d watched was one of her favourites, sighed over many times, but this—this now, here, right now—with her very own gorgeous, incredibly handsome man sitting beside her, oh, so tantalisingly close, was real! No fairytale, no fantasy—real. She’d never been this physically close to a man before—let alone a man like this! A man who could make fairytales come true...

And she knew how fairytales culminated! With the hero kissing the heroine...

Excitement, wonder—hope—filled her, and her eyes were shining like stars as she gazed up into the face of this glorious, gorgeous man who represented to her everything she had ever longed for, dreamt of, yearned for.

The man who was looking down at her, his dark eyes lustrous, his lashes long and lush, his sculpted mouth so beautiful, so sensual—

She felt a little thrill just thinking of it, her breath catching, her eyes widening as she looked up to his.

Anatole looked down at her, seeing the loveliness of her face, of the loose, long pale hair waving like silk over her slender shoulders, seeing how the sweet mounds of her breasts were pressed against the contours of her cotton tee shirt, how her soft tender lips were parted, how her celestial blue eyes were wide, gazing at him with an expression that told him exactly what she wanted.

For one long, endless moment he stayed motionless, while a million conflicting thoughts battled in his head over what he should do next. What he should do versus what he wanted to do.

Yet still he held back, knowing that what he wanted so badly to do he should not. He should instead pull back, make some gesture of withdrawal from her, get up, get to his feet, increase the distance between them. Because if he didn’t right now, then—

Her hand lifted, almost quivering, and with trembling fingers she let the delicate tips touch his jaw, feather-light, scarcely making contact, as if she hardly dared believe that this was what she was doing. She said his name. Breathed it. Her eyes were pools of longing. Her lips were parted, eyes half closed now. Waiting—yearning... For him.

And Anatole lost it. Lost all remaining shreds of conscience or consciousness.

He leaned towards her. The hand behind her head grazed her nape, his other hand slid along her cheek, his fingers gentle in her hair, cupping her face. Her eyes were wide, like saucers, and in them starlight shone like beacons, drawing him into her, into doing what she so blazingly wanted him to do.

His eyes washed over her, his pulse quickening. She was so lovely. And she so wanted him to kiss her... He could see it in her eyes, in her parted lips, in the quivering pulse in her delicate white throat.

His lashes swept down over his eyes as his mouth touched hers, soft as velvet, tasting the sweet wine on her lips, the warmth of her mouth as he opened it to his questing silken touch. He heard her give a little moan, deep in her throat, and he felt his own pulse surge, arousal spearing within him.

She was so soft to kiss, and he deepened his kiss automatically, instinctively, his hand sliding down over the curve of her shoulder, turning her towards him as he leant into her, drawing her to him, drawing her across him, so that her hand now braced itself against the hard wall of his chest, so that one slender thigh was against his.

He heard her moan again and it quickened his arousal. He said her name, told her how sweet she was, how very lovely. If he spoke in Greek he didn’t realise it—didn’t realise anything except that the wine was coursing in his bloodstream, recklessness was heady in his smitten synapses, and in his arms was a woman he desired.

Who desired him.

Because that was what her tender, lissom body was telling him—that was what the sudden engorgement of her breasts was showing him in the cresting of her nipples that were somehow beneath the palm of his hand.

Without realisation, she was winding her hand around his waist. He laid her back across his lap, half supported on his arm as he kissed her still, one hand palming her swelling breast until she moaned, eyes closed, her face filled with an expression of bliss he would have had to be blind not to see. He lifted his mouth from hers, let his eyes feast on her a moment, before his mouth descended yet again to graze on the line of her cheekbones, to nip at the tender lobes of her ears.

He let his hand slip reluctantly from her breast and then slide languorously along her flank to rest on her thigh, to smooth away the light cotton of her skirt until his hand found the bare skin beneath. To stroke and to caress and to hear her moan again, to feel her thigh strain against him—feel, too, his own body surge to full arousal.

Desire flamed in him...strong, impossible to resist...

And yet he must. This was too fast, too intense. He was letting his overpowering desire for her carry him away and he must draw back.

Heart pounding, he set her aside.

‘Tia—’ His voice was broken, his hand raised as if to ward her off. To hold himself back from her.

He saw her face fill with anguish. It caught at him like a blow.

‘Don’t...don’t you want me?’ There was dismay in her voice, which was a muted whisper.

He gave a groan. ‘Tia—I mustn’t. This isn’t right. I can’t take advantage of you like this!’

Immediately she cried out, ‘But you aren’t! Oh, please, please don’t tell me you don’t want me! I couldn’t bear it!’

Her hand flew to her mouth and her look of anguish intensified. Her breathing was fast and breathless and she felt bereft—lost and abandoned.

He caught her face between his hands. ‘Tia—I want you very, very much, but—’

But there’s more than one bedroom in this apartment and we have to be in separate bedrooms tonight—we just have to be! Because anything else would be...would be...

Her face had lit like a beacon again. ‘Please...please!’ she begged. Her face worked. ‘This whole evening with you has been incredible! Fantastic! Wonderful! And now...with you...it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced in all my life! You are like no one I’ve ever met! I’ll never meet anyone else like you again, and this...all this...’

She gestured at the room, softly lit with table lamps, at the candles still on the dining table, the empty bottle of champagne, the glow of the lights on the terrace beyond.

‘All this will never happen to me again!’ She bit her lip, mouth quivering. ‘I want this so much,’ she said huskily, her eyes pleading with him, her hand fastening on his strong arm as if she might draw him back to her again. ‘Please,’ she begged again. ‘Please don’t turn me away—please!’

And yet again Anatole lost it.

Unable to resist what he did not want to resist, what he could not bear to resist, he swept her back up to him, his mouth descending to taste again the honeyed sweetness of her mouth which opened to his instantly, eagerly...hungrily.

She wants this—she wants this as much as I do. And, however briefly we have known each other, my desire for her is overpowering. And so is hers for me. And because of that...

Because of that, with a rasp deep in his throat, he hefted to his feet, holding her in his arms, his hand sweeping under her knees to cradle her against him as he carried her away.

Away not to the guest room but to his own master suite, where he ripped back the bedcovers to lay her gently upon cool sheets. She was gazing up at him, blindness in her eyes, her pupils flared, lips bee-stung, breasts straining against the moulding of the cotton tee.

He wanted it gone. Wanted all her clothes gone, and all his—wanted no barriers between himself and this lovely woman he wanted now...right now...

CHAPTER THREE

TIA GAZED UP at him—at this incredible, unbearably devastating man—her mind in whiteout. Her body seemed to be on fire, with a soft, velvet flame, glowing with a sensual awareness that was possessing her utterly. She reached her arms up to him, yearning for him, beseeching him to take her back in his arms, to kiss and caress her, to sweep her off into the gorgeous bliss of his touch, his desire for her.

He was stripping off his clothes and she could feel her eyes widen as his shirt revealed the smooth, taut contours of his chest. And then his fingers were at his belt, snaking it free...

She gave a little cry, turning her head into the pillow, suddenly desperately shy. She had never dreamt that a man like this would ever be real in her life, and he was suddenly only too real.

Then she felt the mattress dip, felt his weight coming down beside her, heard him murmur soft words, urgent words, seductive, irresistible...and then his hand was curving her face back towards his, and he was so close to her, so very close, and in his eyes was a light she had never seen in a man’s eyes before. She’d never seen a man’s eyes so filled with blazing, burning fire...

I can’t stop this—I can’t stop it—and I don’t want to! Oh, I don’t want to!

She wanted it to happen, wanted what would happen now—what must happen now—wanted it with all her being, yearned and longed for it. It had come out of nowhere—just as the whole encounter with this amazing, fabulous man had come out of nowhere.

And I can’t say no to it. I can’t and I don’t want to. I want to say yes—only yes...

Her eyes fluttered closed and she felt his mouth feather-light on hers, like swansdown. She felt his hands move to her waist, lift the material of her tee shirt from her, easing it over her head with hardly a pause in his sweet kissing. She felt his hands—warm, strong, skilled—slide around her back, unfasten her bra and slip it from her, discarding it somewhere. She knew not where and she did not care—did not care at all except that now he was doing the same with her skirt, skimming it from her, and then... Oh, then he was easing her panties from her quickening thighs.

He lifted himself from her, one hand splaying into her hair as it spread in tumbling golden curls across the pillow. His eyes burned into hers. ‘You are so, so beautiful,’ he said. ‘So beautiful...’

She could say nothing, could only gaze upwards, hearing her mind echoing his words... He was beautiful! He with his sable hair and his sculpted cheekbones, with eyes you could drown in. His hard, lean body that her hands were now lifting themselves to of their own accord.

Her fingertips traced every line, every contour of the smooth, honed muscles. He seemed to shudder and she felt his muscles clench, as if what she was doing was unbearable, and then his mouth descended again.

Hungry...oh, so hungry.

And there was a hunger in her too. A ravening hunger that was as instinctive, as overpowering, as her need to be held and kissed and caressed by this most blissfully seductive of men. It was making her body arch to his, the blood rush like a torrent in her veins, drowning her senses, turning her into living flame. Never had she imagined that passion could feel like this! Never had her daydreams known what it was to be like this, in the arms of a man filled with urgent desire.

And she desired him.

She clung to him, not knowing what she was doing, only that it was what she burned to do. Her body arched to his, her thighs parting. She heard him say something but was lost to all coherence.

He seemed to pause, pull away from her, and it was unbearable not to have his warm, strong body over hers. And then, with a rush of relief, she felt him there again, kissing her again, his hands urgent, every muscle in his body tautening. She felt his body ease between hers, felt his hips move against hers, felt—

Pain! A sudden, piercing stab of pain!

She cried out, freezing, and he froze too. He gazed down at her, his eyes blind, then clearing into vision. Words escaped him. He was shocked.

He lifted from her and the pain vanished. Her hands reached for him, her head lifting blindly to catch his mouth again. But he was still withdrawn from her.

‘I didn’t know—I didn’t realise—’ The words fell from him. Shocked. Abrupt.

She could only gaze up at him. Devastation was flooding through her.

‘Don’t you want me?’ It was all that was in her head now—the devastation of his rejection before.

‘Tia...’ He said her name again. ‘I didn’t realise that I would be the first man for you—’

Her hands pressed into his bare shoulders. ‘I want you to be! Only you! Please—oh, please!’

Conflict seared in him. He burned for her, and yet—

But she was pressing her body against his, crushing her breasts against the wall of his chest. Lifting her hips to his in an age-old invitation of woman to man, to possess and be possessed.

‘Please...’ she said, her voice a low husk, a plea. ‘Please—I want this so much—I want you so much.’

Her hand slid around the base of his skull, pressing against it, drawing his head down. She reached up with her mouth, feeling as her lips touched his a relief go through her that sated all her ardent yearning, all her desperate desire.

She opened his mouth under hers and Anatole, with a low, helpless groan, abandoned all his inner conflict, let himself yield to what he so wanted to do...to make her his.

* * *

It was morning. The undrawn curtains were letting in the light of dawn. Drowsily, wonderingly, Tia lay in Anatole’s arms. There had been no more pain, and he had been as gentle with her as if she were made of porcelain—though the soft tenderness of her body now proclaimed that she was flesh and blood. But there was only a fading ache now, and in the cocoon of his strong arms it mattered not at all.

His arm was beneath her shoulder, her head lax upon it, and she smiled up at him, bemused, enchanted. His dark eyes were moving over her face, his other hand smoothing the tendrils of her silken hair from her cheeks. He was smiling back at her—a smile of intimacy, endearment. It made her feel weak with longing.

Bliss enveloped her, and a wonder so great that she could scarcely dare to believe that it was true, what had happened.

‘Do you have to return to work?’ Anatole was asking her.

She frowned a little, not understanding. ‘The agency will open again at nine,’ she said.

Anatole shook her head. ‘I mean, do you have to take up another position? Are you booked to be a carer for someone else?’

Her frown deepened. She was understanding even less.

He smoothed her silken hair again, his eyes searching her face. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said to her. ‘I want you to stay with me.’

He watched her expression change. Watched it transform before his very eyes. Saw her cerulean blue eyes widen as she took in the meaning of what he’d said.

His smile deepened. Became assured. ‘I have to go to Athens this week. Come with me—’

Come with me.

The words echoed in his head. He was sure of them—absolutely, totally sure. He felt a wash of desire go through him—not for consummation but for continuation.

I don’t want to let her go—I want to keep her with me.

The realisation was absolute. The clarity of his desire incontrovertible.

‘Do you mean it?’

Her words were so faint he could hardly hear them. But he could hear the emotion in her voice, see how her expression had changed, how her eyes were flaring wide, and in them hope blazed, dimmed only by confusion.

He brushed her parted lips. ‘I would not ask you otherwise,’ he said, knowing that to be true.

His arm around her tightened. She was so soft in his arms, so tiny, it seemed to him, nestling up against him.

He smiled at her. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Will you come with me?’

The shadow of confusion, of fear that she had misunderstood, that he did not really mean what he’d said, vanished. Like the sun coming out, her smile lit up her face.

‘Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes!’

He laughed. He had had no fear that she would say no—why should she? The night they had spent together had been wondrous for her—he knew that—and he knew that he had coaxed her unschooled body to an ecstasy that had shocked her with its intensity. Knew that her ardent, bemused gaze in the sweet, exhausted aftermath of his lovemaking betokened just what effect he’d had on her.

And if he wanted proof of that today—well, here it was. She was gazing at him now with a look on her face that spread warmth through his whole being.

He brushed her lips with his again. Felt arousal—drowsy, dormant, but still present—start to stir. He deepened his kiss, using slow, sensuous, feather-light touches to stir within her an answering response. He would need to be gentle—very careful indeed—and take account of the dramatic changes to her body after their first union.

He felt her fingertips steal over his body, exploring...daring...fuelling his arousal with every tentative touch and glide...

With a deep, abiding satisfaction he started to make love to her again.

* * *

It was several days before they went to Athens. Days in which Tia knew she had, without the slightest doubt, been transported to a fantasy land.

How could she be anywhere else? She had been transported there by the most gorgeous, the most wonderful, the most shiveringly fabulous man she could ever have imagined! A man who had cast a glittering net of enchantment over her life.

That first morning, after he had made love to her again—and how was it possible for her body to feel what it did? She’d never known, never guessed that it was so—they’d breakfasted out on the little terrace, with the morning sun illuming them.

Then he’d whisked her off to one of the most famous luxury department stores in the world, from which she’d emerged, several hours later, with countless carrier bags of designer clothes and a new hairstyle—barely shorter, but so cunningly cut it had felt feather-light on her head, floating over her shoulders. Her make-up had been applied by an expert, and Anatole had smiled in triumphant satisfaction when he saw her.

I knew she could look fantastic with the right clothes and styling!

His eyes had worked over her openly, and he’d seen the flush of pleasure in her face. The glow in her eyes. Felt the warmth of it.

I’ve done the right thing—absolutely the right thing.

The certainty of that had streamed through him. This breathtakingly lovely creature that he’d scooped off the road and taken into his life was exactly right for him.

And so it had proved.

Taking Tia to Athens would only be the first of it.

He’d sorted out a passport for her—or rather, his office had—and they were now flying out...first class obviously.

For the entire flight she sat beside him in a state of stupefied bliss, sipping at her glass of champagne and gazing out through the porthole with a look of enchanted disbelief that this could really be happening to her.

In Athens, his chauffeured car was waiting to take him to his apartment—he did not use the Kyrgiakis mansion, far preferring his own palatial flat, with its stunning views of the Acropolis.

‘Didn’t I tell you that you should see the Parthenon one day?’ he quizzed her smilingly, indicating the famous ruins visible from all around. ‘It’s not in the best of shape because the Ottomans used it as a gunpowder store, which exploded...’ He grimaced. ‘But it’s being preserved as well as possible.’

‘Ottomans?’ Tia queried.

‘They came out of what is now Turkey and conquered Greece in the fifteenth century—it took us four hundred years to be free.’ Anatole explained.

Tia looked at him uncertainly. ‘Was that Alexander the Great?’ she asked tentatively, knowing that the famous character must come into Greek history somewhere.

Anatole’s mouth twitched. ‘Out by over two thousand years, I’m afraid. Alexander was before the Romans. Greece only became independent in modern times—during the nineteenth century.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s a huge amount of history in Greece. You’ll get the hang of it eventually. I’ll take you to the Parthenon while we’re here.’

But in the end he didn’t, because instead, business matters having been attended to, he decided to charter a yacht and take her off on an Aegean cruise.

His father had commandeered the Kyrgiakis yacht, but the one upon which he and Tia sailed off into the sunset was every bit as luxurious, and it reduced Tia to open-mouthed, saucer-eyed amazement.

‘It’s got a helicopter!’ she breathed. ‘And a swimming pool!’

‘And another one indoors, in case it ever rains,’ Anatole grinned. ‘We’ll go skinny-dipping in both!’

Colour flushed in her cheeks, and he found it endearing. He found everything about her endearing. Despite the fact that after a fortnight together she was way past being the virginal ingénue she’d been that first amazing night together, she was still delightfully shy.

But not so shy that she refused to go for a starlit swim with him—the crew having been ordered to keep well below decks—nor declined to let him make love to her in the water, until she cried out with a smothered cry, her head falling back as he lifted her up onto his waiting body.

For ten days they meandered around the Aegean, calling in at little islands where he and Tia strolled along the waterfront, lunching in harbourside restaurants, or drove inland to picnic beneath olive groves, with the endless hum of the cicadas all about them.

Simple pleasures...and Anatole wondered when he had last done anything so peaceful with any female. Certainly not with any female who was as boundlessly appreciative as Tia was.

She adored everything they did together. Was thrilled by everything—whether it was taking the yacht’s sailing dinghy to skim over the azure water to a tiny cove on a half-deserted island, where they lunched on fresh bread and olives and ripest peaches and then made love on the sand, washing off in the waves thereafter, or whether, like today, it was drinking a glass of Kir Royale and watching the sun set over a harbour bar, before returning to the yacht, moored out in the bay, for a five-course gourmet meal served on the upper deck by the soft-footed, incredibly attentive staff aboard, while music played from unseen speakers all around, the yacht moved on the slow swell of the sea and the moon rose out of the iridescent waters.

Tia gazed at Anatole across the damask tablecloth, over the candlelight between them.

‘This is the most wonderful holiday I could ever have imagined!’ she breathed.

Adoration was obvious in her eyes—for how could it not be? How could she not reveal all that she felt for this wonderful, incredible man who had brought her here? Emotion swelled within her like a billowing wave, almost overpowering her.

Anatole’s dark eyes lingered on her lovely face. A warm, honeyed tan had turned her skin to gold, and her hair was even paler now from the sun’s rays. He felt desire cream within him. How good she was for him, and how good he felt about her...about having her in his life.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you ever been to Paris?’

Tia shook her head.

Anatole’s smile deepened. ‘Well, I have to go there on business. You’ll love it!’

It felt good to know that he would be the first man to show her the City of Light. Just as it had felt good to take her on this cruise, to see her enjoy the luxury of his lifestyle. Good to see her eyes widen, her intake of breath—good to bestow his largesse upon her, for she was so appreciative of it.

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