The Greek Tycoon's Reluctant Bride. Kate Hewitt

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ