The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      Could she demand a correction?

      Sure, and pigs might fly! The newspaper editor would fall about laughing.

      He had no conception of the effect that particular photo, caption and text would have on her life, or any knowledge her ex-fiancé was a practised chameleon capable of extreme rage.

      A waiter delivered her food, and she looked at the Caesar salad, then forced herself to fork a few mouthfuls before pushing the plate to one side, her appetite gone.

      Ilana paid her bill and walked towards her apartment building. Nervous tension tightened the muscles in her stomach to a painful degree, and it wasn’t until she was safely inside that the tension began to ease a little.

      The light was blinking on her answering machine, and she hit the play-back function, pen in hand.

      A message from Liliana, one from Micki, a few congratulatory calls, then Grant’s voice—

      ‘I’m watching you.’

      Her landline was ex-directory, and it unnerved her Grant had managed to access it.

      Anger meshed with very real fear as she retrieved Xandro’s card and dialled his cellphone.

      He picked up on the third ring. ‘Ilana.’

      Her fingers tightened on the phone. ‘Do you have any idea what problems the newspaper photograph and idle social supposition has caused?’ Her voice was tight, controlled and angry. ‘Or its ramifications?’

      ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

      ‘You can’t—’

      ‘Ten minutes, Ilana.’

      The call disconnected, and she hit redial, heard it ring, then it went direct to message-bank.

      A very unladylike oath fell from her lips.

      Damn him!

      If he arrived at her apartment building and Grant was watching…

      Without thought she collected her bag and keys, then took the lift down to the lobby.

      She was a mass of nerves by the time Xandro’s Bentley swept into the entrance, and she had to consciously force her feet to walk at a normal pace, when every nerve-end suggested she run.

      Calm, she must remain calm, she told herself as she reached the car, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

      ‘Please. Can we get away from here?’

      Xandro wanted to demand an answer, and he would…soon. But for now he did as she asked, and drove until he reached Double Bay, then he cut the engine.

      ‘Let’s go.’

      ‘I don’t want—’

      ‘We’ll relax, eat, and you can tell me what’s worrying you.’

      She flung him a cautious look. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

      He crossed round to her side of the car and opened the door. ‘Maybe you’ll be tempted by an entrée.’

      Minutes later they entered a charming restaurant where the maître d’ greeted Xandro with the deference of a valued patron, seated them, then sent the wine steward to their table.

      Ilana declined in favour of chilled water, and Xandro joined her before perusing the menu and ordering for both of them.

      The waiter retreated, and Xandro regarded her carefully, noting the agitated way the pulse beat at the base of her throat. The barely controlled anxiety emanating from her slender frame.

      ‘The photograph in today’s newspaper,’ he prompted.

      Where did she begin? And how much did she explain?

      Enough…just enough to have him understand.

      ‘My ex-fiancé made certain…threats, when I cancelled the wedding.’

      ‘And you’re concerned the photograph will reach his attention?’

      Ilana hesitated a fraction too long, and his eyes narrowed. ‘It already has?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Problems?’

      She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly as she inclined her head.

      He regarded her carefully. ‘As in?’

      ‘Please…just accept my word for it.’