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      Two hours later Jemma was back home in the small terraced house in Bayswater she had shared with Alan, curled up in bed.

      In his penthouse across town, Luke Devetzi studied Theo with some frustration. His grandfather had never said a word on the drive home. On arriving back at the apartment, Theo had poured them both a nightcap and simply said the villa was not for sale and he was no longer bothered. Now he was sitting on the sofa, his leg once more propped up on a footstool. His dark eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and the expression on his face was one of resigned acceptance.

      ‘Let me get this straight: after all the fuss you have made trying to buy the villa on Zante, now you’re telling me you don’t care any more?’

      ‘I do care. It’s just that I have finally realised it’s impossible,’ Theo said quietly. ‘Jemma explained to me tonight that she can’t sell it because her aunt left it in trust for her and her children, and her children’s children.’

      ‘Trusts can be broken,’ Luke suggested. ‘You don’t have to give up yet.’

      ‘Maybe.’ Theo sighed. ‘But it can take years to wade through legal red tape, and even if I live long enough—well, you’ve met Jemma—can you honestly see a beautiful, compassionate woman like her being a widow for much longer? I can’t. She is young, and her husband has been dead for over two years.’

      Luke sat down suddenly and almost choked on his whisky. So Jemma had not been married when he’d slept with her! ‘Two years, you say? Are you sure?’ he queried. He had made enough mistakes with Jemma, and he was determined to make no more. He could almost laugh at how wrong he’d been about her—except that it wasn’t funny. His grandfather had lost his dream, and he had bedded and then insulted the sexiest woman he had ever met.

      ‘Yes, she told me tonight as we were leaving. She may not realise it yet, but she has done her mourning. Unless all English men are blind, some guy will snap her up and she will almost certainly be married and with child long before the trust can be broken. It’s hopeless, and I am going to bed.’ Picking up his stick, he rose to his feet and hobbled up the steps. Stopping at the top, he turned and said, ‘Milo and I are going back to Greece in the morning. Goodnight.’ And he left.

      Luke saw the defeated droop to Theo’s shoulders as he left the room. He hated that his grandfather had been disappointed, but he had to admit the old man’s assessment was right—getting the villa did look pretty hopeless now.

      He saw again in his mind’s eye the beautiful Jemma, so calm and considerate with Theo, but so cool with him. His body hardened as he recalled her naked body in every minute detail—the silken softness of her skin, the sweet taste of her rose-tipped breasts, the almost dreamlike quality of their lovemaking which had grown into a white-hot, all-consuming passion.

      Restlessly he stood up again, about to pour another whisky. But he stopped. He didn’t need a drink; he needed to think. Maybe if he approached Jemma personally and offered her an enormous amount of money to break the trust she would agree. With the exception of his grandmother, he had never met a woman yet who did not love money. And if plan A failed—though he doubted it would—he needed a plan B. He was thirty-seven, past the age most men married. Perhaps it was time to take the plunge and marry. And if by marrying Jemma and producing a child that would also be Theo’s geat-grandchild to inherit the villa, then his grandfather would secure his heart’s desire—to keep the villa in the family—and that was all the better. Plus, Luke wanted Jemma back in his bed—and he was a man who always got what he wanted.

      There was only one huge flaw in plan B. Jemma wouldn’t give him the time of day because, apart from him virtually throwing her off his yacht a year ago, she knew he was dating her stepsister. Settling back down on the sofa, his broad brow creased in a frown, he replayed the events of the evening and the information he had gleaned in the last few days. His frown vanished and a predatory smile curved his sensuous mouth. His grey eyes were gleaming with the light of challenge as he rose to his feet and headed for bed. His mind was made up, his course of action determined.

      CHAPTER THREE

      JEMMA parked her small estate car in a resident’s parking space outside her own front door and, picking up her purse and a carrier bag full of garden vegetables from the passenger seat, got out of the car. Straightening up, she stretched her shoulders, her eyes sweeping over the small strip of front garden, which was a mass of colour in the June sun, and sighed contentedly. It had been a long drive to Eastbourne and back, but worth the travel.

      She had had a great day; she had helped Sid, her father-in-law, in the garden, and enjoyed a wonderful lunch prepared by his wife Mavis. Then all three of them had taken a walk on the beach, and finally visited Alan’s grave. Afterwards they had returned to the house and had tea.

      Jemma, her stomach full and her spirit restored by the kindness of Alan’s parents, had rationalised on the journey back to London the guilty memories that had kept her awake for hours the night before. Then she’d firmly pushed them back into the darkest corner of her mind, where they belonged.

      Luke Devetzi had been a horrendous mistake, brought about by depression and too much wine, and for someone like herself, who had no head for alcohol and rarely drank more than the occasional glass of wine, it wasn’t surprising she had acted so out of character—to the point of practically hallucinating.

      Totally oblivious to the sleek black car parked twenty yards up the street, Jemma searched in her purse for her door key, happy to be back to the house in Bayswater that she and Alan had bought when they married. She unlocked the door and walked into the hall. Placing the carrier bag on the floor, she turned to close the door behind her and let out a strangled yelp.

      ‘May I come in?’ Before she could catch her breath and respond, Luke Devetzi was in her hallway with the door closed behind him. ‘You and I need to talk, Jemma.’ One dark brow lifted wickedly. ‘Or perhaps I should call you Mimie?’

      Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, stunned by his totally unexpected appearance in her home. Then shock and a fast rising temper made her blush furiously. ‘I don’t want you to call me anything; just get the hell out of my house,’ she snapped angrily.

      ‘Such temper! You do surprise me—after all, what could be more natural when two old friends meet up again unexpectedly than to have a nice chat, as you English say?’ he drawled with cynical amusement.

      With a terrific effort of self-control, Jemma forced herself to think clearly. She wished she had never met Luke Devetzi, and she certainly didn’t want to talk to him. All she really wanted to do was throw him out. But one look at the grim determination on his attractive face and common sense told her he was far too big and strong, there was no chance of throwing him anywhere…

      He was casually dressed in a tan leather jacket, that fell smoothly from broad, powerful shoulders, and a white sports shirt, open at the neck, contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and the beginning of dark curling chest hair. The jacket was open, and a hide belt supported pleated trousers that hugged lean hips, powerful thighs and long legs. But there was nothing casual about his stance—with his legs slightly splayed, looming over her, he was awesomely male and decidedly threatening.

      Refusing to be intimidated in her own home, Jemma stiffened her spine. Tilting her head back, her amber eyes clashed with steel-grey, and she wondered how she had ever thought that Luke’s eyes were the same blue as her beloved Alan’s had been. She shivered slightly and squashed the unsettling memory. Keep cool, keep calm, she told herself. This was her stepsister’s boyfriend and he was nothing to do with her.

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