by Julia James
Andrea saw the withdrawal in his eyes, and suddenly, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, she felt a chill emanate from him. Suddenly he wasn't just a breath-catchingly, heart-stoppingly handsome man, looking a million dollars, tall and lean—he was an icily formidable, hard-eyed, patrician-born captain of industry who looked on the rest of humanity as his inferior minions...
Well, tough! She tilted her head, almost coquettishly, letting her glorious hair riot over her shoulders. An intense desire to annoy him came over her.
'Hi,' she breathed huskily. 'We haven't met, have we? I'd remember, I know!' She let a gleam of appreciation enter her glowing eyes. That would annoy him even more; she instinctively knew.
She held her hand out. It was looking beautiful—Linda had given her a manicure the night before, smoothing the work-roughened skin and putting on nail extensions and a rich nail-varnish whose colour matched her hair.
Nikos ignored the hand. A revulsion against touching flesh that had caressed, for money, a rich old man, filled him. It didn't matter that half his body was registering renewed arousal at the sound of that breathy voice, the heady fragrance of her body as she approached him. He subdued it ruthlessly.
Besides, it had just registered with him that the woman was English. That would account for the auburn colouring.
Presumably, he found himself thinking, for a woman of her profession hair that colour would command a premium in lands where dark hair was the norm.
The man's rejection of her outstretched hand made Andrea falter. She let her hand fall to her side. But still, despite the shut-out, she refused to be intimidated. After all, if she failed at the first test—being sneered at by a complete stranger for being the bastard Coustakis granddaughter—then she would be doomed to fail in her mission. Intimidation was, she knew from the painfully extracted reminiscences of her mother's abrupt expulsion from Greece twenty-four years ago, the forte of the man who had summoned her here like a servant. She must not, above all, be intimidated by Yiorgos Coustakis as her mother had been. She must stand up to him—give him as good as she got. Tony's words echoed in her mind—if he had summoned her here, he wanted something. And that made her position powerful.
She had to remember that. Must remember that.
She was in enemy territory. Confidence was everything.
So now, in the face of the obvious disdain of this stunning stranger, she refused to be cowed. Instead, she gave that derisive little smile again, deliberately tossed her head and, shooting him a mocking glance, strolled right past him to take in the view over the grounds. She leant her palms on the stone balustrade, taking some of the weight off her legs. They were aching slightly, probably tension more than anything, because she'd been sitting down most of the day—first in the luxurious airline seat and then in the luxurious chauffeur-driven car. Still, she must do her exercises tonight—right after she'd phoned Tony, as they'd arranged.
Her mind raced, thinking about all the safety nets that she and Tony had planned out. The man behind her was totally forgotten. However good-looking he was—however scornful of the Coustakis bastard granddaughter—he was not important. What was important was going through, for the thousandth time, everything she and Tony had done to make sure that her grandfather could not outmanoeuvre her. Had they left any holes? Left anything uncovered?
Working on the premise that Yiorgos Coustakis was totally ruthless in getting what he wanted, she and Tony had planned elaborate measures to make sure that Andrea always had an escape route if she needed one. The first was to ensure that every evening of her stay in Greece she would phone Tony on the mobile he had lent her. If he did not hear from her by eleven p.m., he was to alert the British consul in Athens and tell them a British citizen was being forcibly held against her will. And if that did not do the trick—her mouth tightened— then Tony's second phone call would be to a popular British tabloid, spilling the whole story of how the granddaughter of one of the richest men in Europe came to be living on a council estate. Yiorgos Coustakis might be immune to bad publicity, but she wondered whether his shareholders would be as sanguine about the stink she could raise if she wanted...
And then, if her grandfather still didn't want to let her go, she had left her passport, together with seven hundred euros, plus her return ticket, in a secure locker at Athens airport—the key to which was in her make-up bag. She had also, not trusting her grandfather an inch, purchased a second, open-dated ticket to London while she was still at Heathrow, which she had not yet collected from the airline. She had paid for that one herself.
Andrea smiled grimly as she stared out over the ornate, fussily designed gardens. Though she hadn't been able to afford to buy the full-price ticket from her own meagre funds, she had come up with a brilliant idea for how to pay for it. The day that she and Tony and Linda had gone into the West End to buy her outfit, they had also visited the store's jewellery department. The balance from the five thousand pounds after buying the trouser suit and accessories had purchased a very nice pearl necklace—so nice that they had immediately taken it to another jewellery shop and sold it for cash. With the money they had bought the airline ticket, a wad of traveller's cheques, and split the rest into a combination of sterling, US dollars and euros. That, surely, she thought, her eyes quite unseeing of the view in front of her, should be enough to ensure that she could simply leave whenever she wanted.
Behind her, Nikos Vassilis had stiffened. The woman had simply walked past him as if he were no one! And that derisive little smile and mocking look of hers sent a shaft of anger through him! No woman did that to him! Certainly not one who stooped to earn her living in such a way. He stared after her, eyes narrowing.
Then a discreet cough a little way to his side caught his attention, as it was designed to do. The manservant was back, murmuring politely that Coustakis would see him now, if he would care to come this way.
With a last, ireful glance at the woman now leaning carelessly on the balustrade, totally ignoring him, her hair a glorious sunset cloud around her shoulders, Nikos stalked off into the house.
CHAPTER THREE
An hour later, as she was shown into the dim, shaded room, Andrea straightened her shoulders, ready for battle. At first it seemed the room was empty. Then a voice startled her.
'Come here.'
The voice was harsh, speaking in English. Clearly issuing an order.
She walked forward. She seemed to be in a sort of library, judging from the shelves of books layering every wall. Her heels sounded loud on the parquet flooring. She could see, now, that a large desk was positioned at the far end of the room, and behind it a man was sitting.
It seemed to take a long time to reach him. One part of her brain realised why—it was a deliberate ploy to put anyone entering the room at a disadvantage to the man already sitting at the desk.
As she walked forward she glanced around her, quite deliberately letting her head crane around, taking in her surroundings, as if the man at the desk were of no interest to her. Her heels clicked loudly.
She reached the front of the desk, and only then did she deign to look at the man who had summoned her.
It was the eyes she noticed first. They were deepset, in sunken sockets. His whole face was craggy and wrinkled, very old, but the eyes were alight. They were dark, almost black in this dim light, but they scoured her face.
'So,' said Yiorgos Coustakis to his granddaughter, whom he had never set eyes on till now, 'you are that slut's brat.' He nodded. 'Well, no matter. You'll do. You'll have to.'
His eyes went on scouring her face. Inside, as the frail bud of hope that maybe Yiorgos Coustakis had softened his hard heart died a swift, instant death, Andrea fought to quell the upsurge of blind rage as she heard him refer to her mother in such a way. With a struggle, she won the battle. Losing her temper and storming out now would get her nowhere except back to London empty-handed. Instead, she opted for silence.
She went on standing there, being i
nspected from head to toe.
‘Turn around.'
The order was harsh. She obeyed it.
'You walk perfectly well.'
The brief sentence was an accusation. Andrea said nothing.
'Have you a tongue in your head?' Yiorgos Coustakis demanded.
She went on looking at him.
Was a man's soul in his eyes, as the proverb said? she wondered. If so, then Yiorgos Coustakis's soul was in dire condition. The black eyes that rested on her were the most terrifying she had ever seen. They seemed to bore right into her—and, search as she would, she could see nothing in them to reassure her. Not a glimmer of kindness, of affection, even of humour, showed in them. A feeling of profound sadness filled her, and she realised that, despite all the evidence, something inside her had been hoping against hope that the man she had grown up hating and despising was not such a man after all.
But he was proving exactly the callous monster she had always thought him.
'Why did you bring me here?'
The question fell from her lips without her thinking. But instinctively she knew she had done the right thing in taking the battle—for this was a battle, no doubt about that now, none at all—to her grandfather.
He saw it, and the dark eyes darkened even more.
'Do not speak to me in that tone,' he snapped, throwing his head back.
Her chin lifted in response.
'I have come over a thousand miles at your bidding. I am entitled to know why.' Her voice was as steady as she could make it, though in her breast she could feel her heart beating
wildly.
His laugh came harsh, scornful.
'You are entitled to nothing! Nothing! Oh, I know why you came! The moment you caught a glimpse of the kind of money you could spend if you came here you changed your tune! Why do you think I sent you that store card? I knew that would flush you out!' He leant forward, his once-powerful arms leaning on the surface of the polished mahogany desk. 'But understand this, and understand it well! You will be on the first plane back to London unless you do exactly, exactly what I want you to do! Understand me?'
His eyes flashed at her. She held his gaze, though it was like a heavy weight on her. So, she thought, Tony had been right— he did want something from her. But what? She needed to know. Only when she knew what the man sitting there, who by a vile accident of fate just happened to be her grandfather, wanted of her could she start to bargain for the money she wanted from him.
Play it cool, girl...play it cool... She lifted an interrogative eyebrow. 'And what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?' His brows snapped together at the sarcastic emphasis she gave to echo his.
'You'll find out—when I want you to.' He held up a hand, silencing her. 'I've had enough of you for now. You will go to your room and prepare yourself for dinner. We will have a guest. With your upbringing you obviously won't know how to comport yourself, so I shall tell you now that you had better change your attitude! In this country a woman knows how to behave—see that you do not shame me in my own house! Now, go!'
Andrea turned and left. The walk back to the door seemed much further than it had in the opposite direction. Her heart was pounding.
It went on pounding all the way back upstairs to her room. She shut the door and leant against it. So, that was her grandfather! That was the man whose son had had a brief, whirlwind romance with her mother, who had thrown her, pregnant and penniless, out of the country, and left her to bear and raise his grandchild in poverty, refusing to acknowledge her existence.
She owed such a man nothing. Nothing! Not duty, nor respect—and certainly not loyalty or affection.
What does he want of me?
The question went round and round, unanswered. Fretting at her.
In the end, to calm herself down and pass the time, she decided to make use of the opulent bathroom. Inside its lavish, overdone interior she could not but help revel in the luxury it offered.
The bath was vast, and it had, she discovered, sinking into its deep scented depths, whirling jets that massaged her body, easing the aching muscles in her tense legs. Blissfully, she gave herself to the wonderful sensation. Towering bubbles from the half a bottle of bath foam she'd emptied in veiled her whole body, from breasts to feet.
You walk perfectly well...
She heard the harsh accusation ring in her head again, and her mouth tightened.
When she emerged from the bathroom, entering her lavishly decorated bedroom suite, swathed in a floor-length towel, it was to see a maid at the open door of her closet, hanging up clothes. The girl turned, bobbing a brief curtsey, and hesitantly informed Andrea that she was here to help her dress.
'I don't need any help,' said Andrea tersely.
The girl looked subdued, and Andrea immediately regretted her tone of voice.
'Please,' she said temporisingly, 'it's quite unnecessary.'
She walked past the huge bed, covered in a heavy gold and white patterned bedspread, and across to the room-sized closet. Whatever Yiorgos Coustakis had imagined she'd bought with her gleaming gold store card, all she was going to appear for dinner wearing was a chainstore skirt and blouse. But suddenly she stopped dead.
The racks were full, weighed down with plastic-swathed clothes.
'What— ?'
'Kyrios Coustakis ordered them to be purchased for you, kyria. They were delivered just now by a personal shopper. There are accessories and lingerie as well,' said the maid's softly accented voice behind her. 'Which dress would you like to wear tonight?'
'None of them,' said Andrea tightly. She reached for the hanger carrying her own humble skirt and blouse.
The maid looked aghast. 'But...but it is a formal dinner, tonight, kyria,' she stammered. 'Kyrios Coustakis would be very angry if you did not dress appropriately...'
Andrea looked at the maid. The expression on the girl's face made her pause. There was only one word for the expression, and it was fear.
She gave in. She could defy her grandfather's anger, but she was damned if he would get the chance to terrorise one of his own staff on her account.
'Very well. Choose something for me.'
She went and sat back on the bed while the girl leafed through the clothes hanging from the rail. After a few moments she emerged with two, deftly removing the protective wrapping from them and laying them carefully across the foot of the bed. Andrea inspected them. Both were clearly very expensive, and although it was the short but high-necked cocktail length one that she preferred for style, she nodded at the other one, a full-length gown.
'That one,' she said.
It was emerald-green, cut on the bias, with a soft, folding bodice and a long, slinky skirt. Andrea found her hand reaching out to touch the silky folds.
'It is very beautiful, ne?’ said the maid, and sounded wistful as well as admiring.
'Very,' agreed Andrea. She glanced at the girl. 'I don't know your name,' she said.
'Zoe, kyria,'' said the girl.
'Andrea,' she replied. 'And I don't believe in servants.' Some twenty minutes later, staring at herself in the long mirror set into the door of the closet, Andrea was stunned.
She looked—fantastic! That was the only word for it. The dress was a miracle of the couturier's art, its soft folds contrasting with the rich vividness of its colour. True, the bodice, held up by tiny shoestring straps, was draped dangerously low over her full breasts, encased in a fragile, strapless bra, but she had to admit the effect was very...well, effective^. It gave the dress the finishing touch to the 'wow' impact it made.
She had scooped her hair up into a knot on her head, with tendrils loosening around the nape of her neck and gracing her cheeks and forehead, and she'd redone her make-up to match the impact of the dress.
With a final look at her reflection, she turned and headed towards the door, where the manservant who had come to summon her stood waiting. Staff though he was, she could see the admiration in his eyes. For an instant, in he
r mind's eye, it was not one of the house staff who stood there, but the man she had encountered on the terrace that afternoon, looking at her with those powerful grey eyes, making her stomach give a little skip...
She bestowed a slight, polite smile on the manservant, and headed towards the curving marble staircase. It was time to go into battle once more...
Nikos Vassilis stepped on the accelerator, changed gear and heard the powerful note of the engine of the Ferrari change pitch. He was not in a good mood. Twice in one day now he'd made the journey out of Athens at the behest of Yiorgos Coustakis. Tonight was not a good night to be dining with the old man. He'd planned a leisurely evening with Xanthe, whose petite, curvaceous body was, he had discovered, a pleasant alternative to Esme Vandersee's greyhound leanness. Xanthe was proving very attentive—she was clearly keen to take his mind off Esme Vandersee, and was now pulling out all the stops to renew Nikos's interest. Which meant, he mused, that she was coming up with some very interesting ideas indeed to do so... A smile indented his mouth. Last night with Xanthe had been very enjoyable—she had seen to that. Ah, he thought pleasur-ably, there was nothing like a Greek woman for making a man feel good! Yes, Esme Vandersee might be eager for him, he was certainly a catch for her, but as an American she suffered that infernal affliction of thinking that a woman had a right to give a man a hard time if she chose! Usually, of course, any petulance that Esme displayed he disposed of very swiftly— she was as sexy as a cat and getting her horizontal soon improved her mood...