The Greek Millionaire's Mistress. Catherine Spencer

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СКАЧАТЬ a cameo brooch of matchless delicacy and beauty. Pure Anglo-Saxon elegance—except for the lush, passionate mouth and huge, dark eyes. Those, he decided, curbing a visceral tug of arousal, she must have inherited from some long-ago ancestors of Mediterranean origin.

      “I apologize also,” he told her, and meant it. “I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly.”

      “Don’t be sorry. You were merely doing what you’re paid to do, and you already told me that Mr. Tyros has earned your undying loyalty. I should have remembered that before I made such a thoughtless remark. Are the fishermen’s nets usually that orange color?”

      “That or a deeper terra cotta,” he said, recognizing her question for the deliberate shift of topic that it was, and finding it odd that she’d so easily abandon the subject she claimed had brought her to Greece. “But what has that to do with your assign—?”

      Anticipating his question, she cut him off before he could complete it. “Local color,” she said shortly. “It adds credibility to the article. Do they stay out all night—the fishermen, I mean?”

      “A good part of it, yes.”

      She shook her head, apparently mystified. “Doesn’t anyone in this country sleep at night?”

      “Not so much in the summer months, no. Instead we sleep several hours during the day. That way, we avoid the worst of the heat.”

      “So it’s quite normal for a little café like this to be open at dawn?”

      “Certainly. Any time now, the villagers will come down to buy fish. Once they’ve sold their catch and cleaned up their boats, the men will crowd in here to drink coffee and talk. But I say again, none of this has anything to do with Angelo Tyros. Why have you suddenly lost interest in him, Gina?”

      “Oh, I haven’t lost interest in him,” she said, with unexpected fervor. “I’m quite, um, fascinated by everything about him.”

      Something didn’t ring true in her reply. Her peculiar little pause wasn’t lost on him, nor the fact that she settled on “fascinated” as if it were the least offensive word she could come up with at short notice. “You almost sound as if you have reason to dislike Angelo,” he remarked, eyeing her intently, “but that hardly makes sense, does it, since you’ve never met him? Or am I wrong to assume that?”

      Stooping, she picked up a puppy that had wandered out of the kafenion, and snuggled it on her lap. “Not wrong at all,” she said, without the slightest hesitation this time. “Perhaps what you hear in my voice is disappointment that I’ve not had the pleasure. But that does bring up an interesting point. If he’s so reclusive, why did he authorize such a very public birthday celebration?”

      “‘Reclusive’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe him. As I mentioned before, he dislikes being alone and loves to be surrounded by friends. But like other very rich men, he’s made his share of enemies over the years. When he was younger, he took that in stride but, understandably at his age, he’s more cautious now and avoids strangers unless he’s assured they intend him no harm.”

      “To the point that he’s afraid to speak to someone as innocuous as me?” Too ladylike to snort with derision at such an idea, she did the next closest thing and wrinkled her elegant little nose. “What does he think I might do, stab him with my pencil?”

      “Anything’s possible,” he said, envying the puppy that was pawing at her breasts and trying to lick her neck. “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac to those who don’t have any, and that makes him a target of unscrupulous individuals wherever he goes.”

      She put the dog down and picked up her cup again. “What kind of target?”

      “Three attempts at extortion in the last month alone. Kidnapping. And, of course, he’s always being hounded by amateur entrepreneurs who come creeping out of the woodwork claiming to be long-lost relatives. If they were all to believed, he’d have sired at least five hundred sons and daughters in the last sixty-six years.”

      She choked on her coffee.

      “Sorry,” he said, when she managed to regain her breath. “I didn’t mean to make you laugh at the wrong time.”

      Except, he belatedly realized, she wasn’t laughing at all. If anything, she was thoroughly rattled, enough that she knocked her bag off the table. It fell open and spilled most of its contents over the terrace. A fortuitous accident, he thought, bending to retrieve a runaway lipstick before the pup ran off with it. When she found her room key was missing, he’d know exactly how to explain it.

      Apart from a facial tissue, which she used to mop up the tears pooling at the outer corners of her eyes, she rammed everything back in the bag, and favored him with a bloodshot glare. “Actually,” she wheezed, “I didn’t find it funny. In fact, nothing I’ve so far learned about Angelo Tyros strikes me as amusing. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t give you an answer.”

      “Perhaps it’s simply that you’re on overload and exhausted. You might see him in quite a different light after you’ve caught up on your sleep.”

      She smothered a yawn. “I am very tired, suddenly.”

      “In that case, we’ll head back to the city. The car’s on the road, but it’s a bit of a climb to get up there. Do you want to put on your shoes before tackling it?”

      She got up from her chair and made a face. “No, thanks! My feet are still in recovery and probably will be for the next week.”

      Stuffing his socks in his trouser pocket, he shoved his feet into his own shoes and reclaimed his jacket. “I guess that leaves me with only one option then,” he said, and ignoring her squeaks of protest, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and made his way to where his driver, face betraying no expression, stood holding open the car door.

      “That,” she huffed, landing on the back seat in a flurry of silk and indignation, “was completely unnecessary!”

      He averted his gaze, dangerously aroused by the shapely length of leg exposed as she tried to put her skirt to rights again. “Not from my point of view, Gina,” he said obliquely.

      She didn’t remember curling up against him. Had no recollection at all of his slipping his arm around her and drawing her head down to rest against his shoulder. Only when the blare of traffic horns penetrated her drowsy haze did she become aware of the smooth starched cotton of his shirt against her cheek, the muscled contours of his chest beneath her hand—and everywhere, everywhere that his body touched hers, the velvet heat of his skin.

      Opening her eyes, she ventured a glance up at him. He was staring out the window, his expression preoccupied. “I’m not very good company, am I?” she croaked, her voice rusty with sleep.

      He swung his gaze to meet hers and a smile lightened his face. “Do you hear me complaining?”

      “No.”

      But she wished he would. Wished he’d say something along the lines of, We wasted precious time while you slept. Instead, as the car turned into the forecourt of her hotel, his only comment was, “I kept you out too late. You look weary.”

      That was reassuring! Straightening, she fiddled self-consciously with her hair; wondered if her mascara had run, or her lipstick smudged. Had she drooled in her sleep? Worse yet, had СКАЧАТЬ