Mediterranean Mavericks: Greeks. Кейт Хьюит

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      Leah would have had her meeting with the retail buyer this afternoon.

      The small nugget jolted through Stavros’s subconscious like he had set up a reminder chip in his brain to go off every hour. All through his day, through numerous meetings, he found himself thinking of her, of how nervous she had been last night, of how he had seen her work long hours, only remembering to eat because Rosa threatened her.

      In the last two weeks, he had found that he couldn’t fault her dedication or hard work. And the night before last, learning that she had once again skipped her dinner, he had gone into her workroom.

      He had found himself on her doorstep, stunned into silence as Leah commanded Anna to turn around slowly. Being almost as tall as him, Anna was the perfect model to showcase a knee-length sheath dress in red silk.

      Simple yet chic, it touched Anna with sophistication she hadn’t possessed before.

      Suddenly, he was extremely glad that Giannis had pushed him and Dmitri to start their work at his textile factories on the sewing floor.

      In two weeks, he had learned how dedicated and hardworking she was, and in that moment, Stavros had no doubt of her talent.

      It was after six by the time the helicopter touched down at his estate. A curious eagerness buffeted him like the wind from the rotor blades.

      He headed directly for her workroom, seeing the light on as he approached the house.

      He found her at her drawing table, one hand around her nape, turning her head this way and then other. And then her face flopped down onto her table, her shoulders trembled, and a loud, rattling sigh escaped her.

      The depth of frustration in that sound startled him.

      She straightened up again, tore off sheets from her sketchpad, crumpled them and tossed them.

      He must have made a sound, because she suddenly turned then. “I’m so sorry, Anna, but I won’t have any work for you in the near—”

      In the few seconds before she realized that it was him, Stavros saw it. Distress and disappointment, which slowly cycled to wariness for him.

      She slid off the high stool, holding herself stiff. “I thought it was Anna.”

      “How did it go?” he said, his eagerness to know unprecedented.

      Folding her arms defensively, she shrugged. He saw her swallow, look away, and turn toward him again.

      When she met his gaze again, she looked ready to battle him. “You were right,” she said with bitterness coating it. “She didn’t like a single design. You’ll be happy to know—”

      “You think I would be happy that all your backbreaking work came to nothing?”

      She had the sense to look ashamed. Theos, she truly believed him to be a sadistic monster, didn’t she? Had he ever given her reason to believe otherwise?

      “How so?” he asked, noting the lines of strain around her mouth.

      Now, she looked stunned. “What do you mean?”

      “Why did she reject them? Did she give a reason?” When she still stared at him blankly, irritation touched him. “I’m trying to have a conversation, not attack you,” he burst out.

      “She thought they were far too high-end for her store, way too sophisticated and bohemian for the clientele that comes to her boutiques. Too geared toward the jet-setting club like your husband’s were her exact words.”