Rumors Behind the Greek's Wedding

by Pippa Roscoe

  She followed behind the two men weaving between tables where hushed conversations, romantic assignations and even a few business deals appeared to be taking place and smiled thankfully at the now chastised man who pulled a chair out for her as if she were royal.

  ‘May I offer you the carte des vins?’

  ‘That will not be necessary. A bottle of the Pouilly-Fuissé and whatever fish main you have today.’

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  ‘Merci,’ Célia added just before the man could beat a hasty retreat with the unseen menus. After all, she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Loukis’s abruptness. Choosing to ignore the fact that he had not even thought to ask her wine preferences, let alone food wishes, or even possible allergies, she attempted to take at least some control back of her hijacked evening. Attempted to pull around her some of the confidence and self-assurance she felt when dealing with the charities that were her much preferred interaction.

  ‘So, Mr Liordis, what is it that you wish to discuss?’

  ‘I need another event.’

  ‘Okay, did you have something in mind?’

  He shook his head, his lips pulling into another moue of carelessness. ‘Not particularly. Only that it must be within the next few weeks.’

  * * *

  Loukis watched Célia take in his directive, silently, but mind clearly racing. He had expected outrage, immediate dismissal, and certainly a great deal of objection, but no.

  ‘It would not be realistic to expect to do so again with the Erythra Foundation.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, not to be petulant, but genuinely curious.

  ‘In order to ensure that there was no oversaturation or fatigue with donations and press. Do you have another charity in mind?’

  ‘No. But ideally it would be Greek.’

  Célia nodded, pressing her hand to her rosebud lips and looking off to the side. At this angle, the length and curve of her neck were on exquisite display and he found himself almost thankful that she was wearing the horrid beige round-necked T-shirt.

  The first time he’d met her, in the offices in Paris, he’d had to force himself to wrench his eyes away from her. Instantly he’d felt a pull of desire so strong and so sure that he’d been shaken by it. But even then he’d known that he couldn’t entertain such a thing. Not only were they working together, but he just couldn’t risk it. Not then, and certainly not now.

  He was in the process of once again forcing his gaze away from that alluring curve when she turned her attention back to him.

  ‘I would need more time than a few weeks. What is your absolute deadline?’

  Loukis couldn’t quite account for why her practical, no-nonsense, down-to-business approach to this conversation bothered him so much. After all, it was what he had wanted, and what he usually demanded from those he got into business with. But on Célia it seemed...unsatisfying.

  ‘I need it done by the end of—’ He cut himself off short, before revealing too much, and silently cursed the strange reaction she was provoking in him. ‘By the end of June.’ He had nearly said by the end of the school term. And that would have been unacceptable. It was utterly imperative that he did not reveal a single thing about why he needed this event to happen so quickly. Even the smallest detail would put everything at risk—and that he could simply not allow.

  ‘So I have four weeks.’

  ‘Nai—yes.’

  ‘Do you have a preference over the type of event?’

  ‘Only that it be as public and positive as possible.’

  ‘How do you feel about art?’

  ‘I have a few investment pieces.’

  ‘Would you be willing to part with them?’

  ‘If I have to.’ He would be willing to part with anything if it helped his cause.

  Célia’s rapid round of questions was brought to a halt by the appearance of the sommelier. He proffered the bottle to him, but Loukis directed the tasting to Célia. He watched as she swirled the wine once and inhaled before tasting, then nodding her approval. Again, Loukis found himself bemused by a woman who looked as if her entire dress that evening was cheaper than the price of the bottle of wine they were about to drink. A feeling apparently shared by the sommelier, who filled their glasses modestly and left.

  ‘What is more important to you in this event, the clientele and publicity or the funds raised for the charity?’

  He knew that she would prefer the latter, but he couldn’t jeopardise this. It was his last chance to bolster a ravaged reputation. Delaying the moment her displeasure would be revealed, he sidestepped the answer.

  ‘Is this a test?’

  ‘No, it helps determine what kind of charity to approach. If your goal is to make the greatest impact on the charity, then it would be best to approach one in great need, even if it were something that perhaps might not be on many people’s radar. If, however, as I am inclined to believe, you are looking for a great personal impact, then a charity that could draw many celebrities, and therefore attention, would be where I start looking.’

  If there was any hint of censure in her tone, Loukis could not detect it. ‘No way to do both, I suppose?’

  ‘Mr Liordis—I, we, match business leaders with charities. All money raised is a gift to them. And trust me, I will be charging you an obscene amount of money in order to achieve this. Money that will go towards the future investment of more money for more charities. Our endeavour may be hopeful and charitable but, make no mistake, it is also business minded.’

  She was such a strange combination of steel encased in silk that he had to work hard to focus on the issue at hand and not on Célia herself.

  ‘How obscene?’

  ‘Very,’ she said, with the smallest of smiles curving the rosebud lips upwards enticingly. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes narrowing a fraction, before putting the glass back down on the table.

  ‘You don’t like the wine?’

  ‘I had started out the evening looking forward to an Australian Pinot Gris, a small bowl of soup and perhaps one episode of the period drama I’m currently watching. And yet...’ She shrugged, her hands open before her as if to say, Here we are.

  ‘Surely that is sacrilegious?’

  ‘My preference in wine?’

  He cocked his head to one side in answer to her question.

  ‘Only for purists.’

  It was on his tongue to probe the question of her purity further and realised instantly that he would not be talking about the wine. Three years ago nothing would have stopped the line falling from his lips. But three years ago he had been a very different man. At least the spell she seemed to have woven over him had not yet quite short-circuited his sense of decorum.

  As if that self-imposed morality had returned, he suddenly felt guilty for disrupting an evening she seemed to have very much wanted. And for the first time that evening, he took in the signs of exhaustion about her eyes. Very well disguised, but still they were signs that he recognised, certainly in the first few months, if not more, when his life had been turned upside down by his mother three years ago. Not that he would take them back for a second. And that timely reminder put him back on track. Célia and her tiredness didn’t matter. That she delivered what he needed did. Very much.

  ‘So, you will arrange the event and the charity for the end of June?’

  ‘Yes. On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you are present this time, Mr Liordis.’

  * * *

  Célia watched his eyes narrow. For a moment, it felt almost as if they had breached the business talk, as if Loukis’s ruthless pursuit of a positive reputation had been forgotten. She’d felt as if he’d been about to ask something...but whatever softness, whatever sense of unmasking she had sensed had quickly withdrawn behind a look of fury.

  ‘I
do not make that request to be difficult,’ she quickly added. ‘If you are to achieve what you desire, then it is important that you are there.’

  ‘I will be.’

  The waiter arrived with their meals, but suddenly Célia was no longer hungry. The smell from the scallop and lobster tortellini with a bisque broth was incredible, but she couldn’t shake Loukis’s steady gaze. She forced herself to pick up her fork, cut into the silky pasta and the soft mousse of the filling, and as she raised it to her mouth she looked up to find his hawklike eyes still on her. As if daring her to consume it beneath his gaze.

  Never had she been around a man who wielded his sensuality like an extension of himself. She couldn’t deny the effect he had on her. But that didn’t mean she needed to succumb to it.

  The last time she had, it had proved devastating when she had realised it was not her but her father’s money, her father’s approval that had been her ex’s end goal. She had vowed not to make the same mistake again and hadn’t yet.

  With that last determined cry ringing in her mind, she ate the first, second and third mouthfuls without acknowledging Loukis at all. She had focused her gaze on the plate before her and knew that the delicious meal was utterly wasted on her as her thoughts blocked the pleasure of taste.

  Célia was so focused on getting to the end of the meal that, when she laid her fork down, she realised that Loukis had not only finished but was placing an alarmingly large number of euros onto the table.

  ‘I will take you home,’ he said, without sparing her a glance. Given where her thoughts had been it was hardly surprising that Célia momentarily thought he intended something else.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she claimed, having absolutely no intention of letting Loukis Liordis anywhere near her apartment.

  He pierced her with a look that she was sure would have wilted many a woman throughout the years. ‘That is not how I was raised.’

  ‘And that has nothing to do with me. I can find my own way home, but thank you for the offer.’

  He followed so close behind her as they wound their way out of the restaurant that Célia was sure that she could feel the heat of his body pressing against her, speeding her departure from Comte Croix.

  He waited until she had arranged for the valet to call her a cab, spinning his keys around his forefinger not with impatience, but habit, she supposed. When the car arrived, he opened the door for her, and left it open as she settled into the sleek town car.

  ‘I look forward to hearing from you as the plans develop for the event. In the meantime, Ms d’Argent, do yourself and the world a favour and burn that T-shirt.’

  He closed the door before she could even respond and disappeared into the night.

  The absolute gall of the man!

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWENTY-FIVE DAYS, four hundred and thirty-three emails, one hundred and twenty-eight hours of meetings, one hundred and nineteen invitations, and two flights later, Célia found herself in a stunning white-walled exhibition space overlooking the Acropolis in Athens.

  If she had been tired the evening she had gone for dinner with Loukis, she was exhausted tonight. But in just a few hours, the event Liordis had demanded, negotiated, tweaked, argued and begrudgingly agreed to, would be over. And she could sleep. Finally. Perhaps even have one day where she didn’t have to have a single tense conversation with the Greek billionaire.

  Still, she could argue that what they had managed to achieve together in such an impossibly brief time was nothing short of miraculous. She might have managed to sound confident back in the Comte Croix in Paris, but the panic that had beset her once the anger from his comment about her clothing had receded along with the image of him standing there watching the car turn the corner had been swift and intense. And certainly enough to distract her from the devastating effect he’d had on her in person.

  She passed between the two large stone columns that would greet their guests and onwards into the open white-walled space, contrasting against the dark granite flooring and rough concrete ceiling that lined the repurposed warehouse. It was a fairly new gallery, but absolutely perfect for the event.

  The clean tones offset the collection of admittedly impressive pieces Loukis had managed to get his hands on, either from his own collection or donated from equally wealthy contributors. Bright colours screamed from the canvases of some of the world’s most famous modern artists. Muted tones soothed from older masterpieces, and shadows were cast from inconceivable sculptures from throughout the last century.

  For a moment, Célia was lost in the sheer beauty of what surrounded her until the click of high heels made their way towards her. She turned to find Sia Keating, the art valuer from the privately owned international auction house Bonnaire. As always, Célia found herself unable to look away from the glorious titian hair that haloed her face and neck.

  ‘Célia, I’m so pleased I got to see you before I left,’ Sia said as she took Célia into a warm embrace.

  ‘Me too,’ she replied. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this at such short notice.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, and for a very good cause. Is everything in place?’

  ‘Yes, each piece’s documentation is present and correct and, if I may say so, very impressive.’

  Célia smiled. That final check meant that the event could go ahead as planned. ‘And having Bonnaire as backers for it is a real coup.’

  Sia’s smile dimmed a little. ‘Well, they were happy to do so, provided I took the valuation on my own time.’

  Célia frowned. ‘On your own time?’

  ‘I had lots of holiday to use anyway. And it’s almost on the way to the Emirates.’

  ‘I’m sure we could—’

  ‘No,’ Sia said with a genuine smile this time. ‘Really, it’s fine. It’s nice to be part of something like this. And frankly I was lucky enough to get a job with them anyway.’

  Célia placed a comforting hand on Sia’s. They had become fast friends since first meeting at a charity gala event a few years ago and bonded over the difficulties with their parents.

  ‘Dare I ask?’ Sia questioned.

  ‘I haven’t seen either of them in five years,’ Célia replied, knowing that Sia was asking after her parents.

  An alarm beeped on Sia’s phone and she looked apologetic as she reached into her handbag to retrieve it. Shaking her head again, ‘I’m so sorry. The flight is due to leave in just a few hours.’

  Wishing Célia the best of luck for the evening, Sia departed with promises to meet up soon in Paris.

  Once again Célia was alone in the grand space. Only this time echoes of an old hurt were her companion. She flicked out her fingers from her hands as if she could expel the painful sensation gathering within her body as she walked amongst the pieces of art that would hopefully net the charity a large sum of money and, of course, garner a great deal of positive press for Loukis.

  Three rooms over, towards the back of the gallery, there were forty-five staff hired for the evening preparing canapés and drinks for the attendees. The master of ceremonies for the evening had arrived and was getting himself ready. But just for a moment, Célia had the space to herself and she drew in a deep breath to calm the nerves roiling in her stomach.

  Rarely had she been at the front and centre of events like this. Ella usually gloried in this role. Ella, who had been worried when Célia had called to update her on the event. She hadn’t missed the brief pause that spoke of her concerns. She hadn’t missed the carefully constructed sentences gently probing if she might be taking on too much, or whether she might actually not be able to pull it off.

  All of which had only driven Célia further. She now had as much invested in the event as Loukis. A brief flare of irritation welled in her chest as her thoughts turned to him, especially as since she had last seen him, far too much of her time had suddenly seemed preocc
upied with her own clothing.

  She pulled a slight grimace as she looked down at her black trousers and white silky top. It was definitely better than the beige T-shirt but she was sure that Loukis would manage to find fault with it. A part of her had wanted to find something that would wipe the disdain from his face the next time they met, but she had neither the time nor the money to do so.

  Every bit she earned went into either the company or her home. Living in Paris, alone now—without Ella to share the rent—she’d had to move into a new apartment and, although she loved it dearly, it was still a drain on her earnings. Ella and Roman had offered to buy somewhere in Paris but Célia couldn’t, wouldn’t, take that. It wasn’t so much a case of cutting her nose off out of spite, more an awareness of how much she valued her own independence after all those years. Her father would be horrified to see the small loft apartment she had squeezed herself into. It was a far cry from the palatial estate she had grown up in as a child, before being sent to boarding school. And while it had been the height of luxury and status, she shivered at the memory of the way silence had echoed amongst the rooms. Seen and not heard, had been her father’s idiom. And for the millionth time, she wondered if it would have been different had she been born the son that her father had so desperately wanted. The heir to the business that was her father’s sole focus. Would that have prevented the endless well of disapproval she had felt from her father—even as she tried to emulate his path by going into computer sciences and engineering?