Marriage Of Convenience: The Andreou Marriage Arrangement / The Replacement Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d shared Loukas’ company, he’d been attentive, an interesting conversationalist, knowledgeable, intelligent, focused.

      Sexy, a silent imp added, in a leashed, almost primitive manner that hinted at much and promised more.

      Alesha closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again.

       Where had that come from?

      Oh, for heaven’s sake, admit it. There had been a time when she’d wondered what it would be like to have his mouth close over her own, and savour, taste…persuade. To lean in against his body and absorb his strength, and discover…what? Attraction, more?

      She’d caught a sense of it, become fascinated by him, even curious…aware he met with her parents’ approval. A man of independent wealth and substance. Attentive, watchful, almost waiting, she reflected. For what? For her to make the first move?

      Except she hadn’t. Instinctively aware if she did, there would be no going back.

      Perhaps, she allowed in retrospect, Dimitri had begun to hope, to plan…even then.

      Except Seth had already been on the scene, sweeping her off her feet with glib words and false promises. Words and promises she had believed to be genuine, in spite of her parents’ caution.

      From beautiful to battered bride in the space of a heartbeat…okay, weeks, Alesha corrected grimly as she closed the water dial, caught up a towel and wrapped it round her slender curves.

      Leading, she admitted, to the most painful months of her life as she had weathered the aftermath, regained her self-respect…dammit, her very identity.

      Together with a resolve never to allow anyone to get close enough to earn her personal trust again. A fact she’d set down in stone, with a frozen heart and a cool, determined brain.

      The evening stretched ahead, and one she’d choose to fill after a light meal with a few hours spent on her laptop, catch the late news on television…then bed.

      It seemed like a plan, albeit a familiar one as she swept the length of her hair into a careless knot, donned underwear before adding comfortable jeans and a singlet top.

      The message light was blinking on her answering machine as she entered the kitchen, and she crossed to the servery, took up a pen, pulled the message pad forward and pressed the play button.

      “Alesha. Loukas Andreou.” His voice was deep, husky, with a slight accented inflection that curled round her nerve-ends and tugged a little. It wasn’t a feeling she coveted, and she drew in a calming breath as she noted down the number he recited. “Call me.”

      A soft curse emerged from her lips, and she rolled her eyes in silent self-castigation. He wasn’t wasting any time.

      So make the call. The sooner she dealt with him, the better.

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

      ‘Alesha,’ she informed him matter-of-factly.

      ‘Have you eaten?’

      ‘I’m about to.’ It would take only minutes to assemble a salad and enjoy her solitary meal. ‘Why?’

      ‘I’ll collect you in ten minutes.’

      Who does he think he is? Don’t go there.

      ‘If you’re issuing an invitation,’ she managed silkily, ‘it’s polite to request, not demand.’

      ‘I’ll make a note of it.’

      Was there a smidgen of mild amusement apparent in his response?

      ‘Ten minutes.’ He cut the connection, and left her silently fuming and on the verge of calling back to insist she meet him at a nominated venue.

      Except it would seem petty, and not the action of a woman in control. Or one determined to treat this meeting with prosaic common sense.

      There was the need to change. Comfortable well-worn jeans, a casual top, her dark hair caught in a careless knot and anchored there with a large clip, bare feet, and no make-up didn’t comprise fitting attire in which to dine out.

      There was a part of her that felt inclined to slip her feet into trainers, collect her car keys, wallet, and leave.

      Except her absence wouldn’t achieve a thing.

      So, get over it, she admonished silently as she changed into tailored trousers and a buttoned blouse. She added a dash of colour to her lips, fixed her hair, then selected a fashionable jacket and slid her feet into killer heels.

      Her intercom buzzed as she collected a clutch purse, and she picked up, clarified Loukas Andreou’s image on the security monitor, then uttered a brisk—‘I’m on my way down.’

      His height and breadth of shoulder seemed vaguely intimidating, his hard, strong-boned facial features arresting in the early evening light. Black tailored trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and a black butter-soft leather jacket lent a casual sophisticated look…one she knew to be deceiving, given the power he wielded in the business arena.

      ‘Loukas.’ Her greeting was polite, almost formal as dark eyes seared her own, and for a moment she experienced the strangest feeling that time stood still. Then it was gone.

      ‘Shall we get this over and done with?’

      Was that a faint edge of humour apparent, or simply a trick of the light? She couldn’t be sure in the brief instant before he stood to one side and indicated the black Aston Martin parked in the forecourt.

      She walked at his side to the car, aware of his close proximity as he opened the passenger door and saw her seated before crossing to slip in behind the wheel.

      There was an unwanted sense of nervousness she strove hard to hide as he fired the engine and eased the powerful car onto the road.

      A shared meal, during which she’d state her perspective, negotiate…and hopefully resolve the terms of Dimitri’s will to their mutual satisfaction.

      In a short space of time Loukas drew the Aston Martin to a halt at the entrance to the Ritz-Carlton hotel and organized valet parking.

      Pleasant choice, Alesha approved, having dined in the restaurant on a few occasions.

      Except once inside the foyer Loukas indicated the lift.

      ‘My suite will afford us some privacy.’

      Her nerve-ends coiled in painful protest at the thought of being alone with him. ‘I’d prefer the restaurant.’

      ‘And risk public scrutiny?’ he elaborated quietly. ‘Possibly be overheard or photographed discussing a private matter?’

      The fact that he was right didn’t help much. Speculation would run rife soon enough when Loukas Andreou’s continued presence in Sydney was noted. Especially when his extensive shareholding in Karsouli became known.

      There was little she could do but acquiesce, albeit СКАЧАТЬ