by Julia James
'Out!'
The order was given imperiously. She ignored it. She surged forward.
'This man,' she burst out, gesturing wildly behind her to where Nikos had paused in the doorway, following her dramatic entrance, 'has announced that he will be marrying me! I want you to tell him right now that it's not going to happen!'
Her grandfather's face had hardened.
'You heard him correctly. Why else would I send for you? Now, leave—you are disturbing me.'
The sick hollowness caverned in Andrea's stomach.
'Are you completely out of your mind?' Her voice was hard—hard, and trembling with fury. 'Are you completely insane—to bring me here, spring this on me and think I'd go along with it? What the hell do you think you're playing at?'
Yiorgos Coustakis got to his feet. He was no taller than his granddaughter, but his bulk was considerable.
And suddenly very, very formidable.
Almost she faltered. Almost she quailed beneath the look of excoriation on his lined, powerful face. But rage carried her forward.
'You must be mad to think you can do this! You must be completely ma—'
Her denunciation was cut short. A look of blinding fury flashed across Yiorgos Coustakis's face.
'Be silent!' he snarled. 'You will not speak in such a fashion! Go to your room! I will deal with you in the morning!'
She stopped dead.
'Excuse me?' Her eyes were wide with disbelief. 'You think you can give me orders? I am not one of your hapless lackeys!'
'No, you are my granddaughter, and as such I demand obedience!'
Andrea's mouth fell open.
'Demand away,' she told him scornfully. 'Obedience isn't a word in my vocabulary.'
Behind her, Nikos's eyes narrowed. He was witnessing, he knew, something that very few people had ever seen—someone standing up to the vicious, domineering and totally ruthless head of Coustakis Industries.
For a brief, fleeting second Andrea could see by the expression in her grandfather's heavy hooded eyes that he had never been spoken to in such a fashion. Then, swiftly, his face hardened into implacable fury at her defiance of him.
'You will leave this room now or I will have you removed! Do you understand?*
He jabbed his finger at an intercom button on his desk and snarled something into the speaker in Greek. Then he turned his attention back to Andrea.
She was in front of the wide desk now, adrenaline running in every vein. She was simply too furious to be frightened. Besides, deep down in her consciousness she knew that if for a moment she gave in to her grandfather, let herself be cowed by him, it would all be over. He would have won and she would have been reduced to a terrified, intimidated wreck. Just the way he had terrified and intimated her mother. Well, he was not going to do the same to her! No way! It was essential, absolutely essential, that she outface him.
And she had every right to be angry—every right! The very idea that he had been discussing marriage... marriage!... at all, let alone behind her back like this, was so appalling she could hardly believe it to be true. It couldn't be true! It just couldn't!
'I'll go when I'm ready!' she bit at him. 'When you tell me that this lunatic you invited here is out of his mind!'
She had enraged her grandfather all over again.
'Silence! You will not shame me in my own home, you mannerless brat! And you will not speak of your betrothed husband like that!' The flat of his hand slammed on the surface of his desk to emphasise his anger.
Andrea's eyes widened with shock. 'You don't mean that,' she said. 'You don't seriously mean that. You can't! Tell me this is some kind of idiotic joke the two of you are playing!'
Yiorgos Coustakis's face was like stone.
'How dare you raise your voice to me? Why do you think you are here? You are betrothed to Nikos Vassilis and will marry him next week. Anything else is not your concern! That is an end to it! Now, go to your room!'
Faintness drummed at her. This was unreal. It had to be. It just had to be...
'You can't possibly have brought me here for such an outrageous idea,' she said. Her breathing was heavy, heart pounding in her chest. 'It's the most insane thing I've ever heard in my life! And you must be insane to think I'd go along with it!'
Somewhere, behind her, she could hear a sharp intake of breath. She didn't care. A whole lot of anger was coming out now—twenty-five years' worth of anger against the man who had behaved so unforgivably to her mother. She owed him nothing—nothing at all.
And as for this insane idea of his...
Her grandfather was standing up, coming out from behind his desk. His face was almost purple with anger.
The blow to the side of her head sent her reeling. She gasped with the pain and the shock, unable to believe that she had just been struck. Automatically she stepped back, almost tripping in her long tight skirt, raising her right forearm into a blocking gesture.
'Go to your room! This instant!' snarled Yiorgos Coustakis again. His eyes cut into her like knives.
Lowering her guard by merely a fraction, Andrea thrust her head forward. ‘If you ever hit me again I'll send you flying, so help me! You're a vile, callous bastard, and you don't push me around, not ever, so get that through your head right now!'
'Get out of here!' A stream of vituperative Greek poured out of Yiorgos Coustakis's mouth.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I'm going. Don't worry! But before I go,' she said, her jaw tight with controlled rage, 'you had better understand something! I am not some pawn, some patsy for your vile machinations! The very idea that you seriously thought you could marry me off like some chattel is so ludicrous I can't believe you even entertained it for a second! So go take a hike, Yiorgos Coustakis!'
She saw his hand lift again and threw her arm back up to block him just in time. The blow landed on her arm-bone, jarring it painfully, but it had shielded her face.
She screamed, in shock, rage, pain and horror, and then suddenly her left arm was being taken in a grip she could not shake off, her right arm forcibly lowered from its blocking position.
'Enough—'
Nikos's voice was harsh and imperative. It was directed at both of them.
Yiorgos's face was contorted, eyes alight with a viciousness that would have scared her had she not been so overwhelmed. Then his eyes shot past her, towards the door. Two men were standing there, deferentially awaiting further orders. Nikos's head swivelled around to look at them. Security guards.
'Get her out of here,' Yiorgos Coustakis instructed them curtly. His breathing was heavy, his colour dangerously high. The two men started towards Andrea.
'Stop.' Nikos's voice held the note of command and it stopped the men in their tracks.
Andrea twisted in Nikos's unshakeable grip, taking in the uniformed men. Her eyes had widened yet again, in even greater disbelief.
'This is not necessary, Yiorgos,' said Nikos tightly.
'Then you get her out,' growled his host. 'And you had best take a whip to her to control her! She needs a good beating!' He raised his hand again, as if he would start the process himself, and willingly.
'You bastard!’ spat Andrea at her grandfather.
Nikos jerked her backwards, turning her around to get her out of the room.
She went. Getting away from that vile, ugly scene was suddenly the most urgent thing in the world. As she was frogmarched out she tried to shake herself free.
'Let me go! I'm getting out of here!'
As they entered the hallway, the two security guards stepping smartly aside to let them pass, Nikos released her.
'You little savage! What were you thinking of, behaving like that? Do you run so wild you can't have a civil discussion without yelling your head off?'
Her eyes flared.
'He hit me! He hit me and you defend him?'
Nikos, exasperated, gave a sharp intake of breath. 'No, of course I do not defend him, but—'
The t
wo security staff walked by, heading back to their own quarters. Nikos waited till they were out of earshot. He knew the type. Utterly professional, utterly incurious. They would do the bidding of their employer, whatever orders they were given. Manhandling a young woman upstairs to her bedroom would have been a piece of cake for them.
A thought struck him and he called out after the men as they were about to disappear. Old Man Coustakis had looked fit to have a seizure—him dropping dead right now would be highly inconvenient.
'Send Kyrios Coustakis's valet to him—he may need attention.'
One of the men paused and nodded, then went off with his companion. Nikos glanced back at the woman he had agreed to marry for the sake of Coustakis Industries. His mouth tightened.
Andrea was holding the back of her hand to her reddened cheek. Her own colour was high, irrespective of the blow she had taken. Theos, she had obviously inherited the old man's temper, thought Nikos. What a termagant!
An immense sense of exasperation overcame him. What the hell was he doing here, stuck in the middle of a battle between Old Man Coustakis and his spitting she-wolf of a granddaughter? Why the hell couldn't the old man have sorted it out first with the girl, telling her about the husband he had chosen for her instead of letting him get caught in the cross-fire like this?
He needed a drink. A strong one. Perhaps that would calm the girl down as well.
She was still trembling with anger. His frown deepened. Her ear and cheek were still red where Yiorgos's hand had impacted.
He tilted her face into the light. 'Let me see.'
She brushed his arm aside, and jerked free. 'Don't touch me!' she spat.
She was still in complete meltdown, chest heaving, stomach churning, adrenaline going crazy inside her.
'You need a drink—it will calm you down.' He spoke grimly.
He took her elbow again, and this time Andrea let herself be led back into the drawing room. She collapsed down on a silk-upholstered sofa while Nikos went to raid the antique inlaid drinks cabinet. He returned with two generous measures of brandy.
'Drink,' he ordered, handing Andrea one of the glasses.
She took a sip, finding her hands were shaking. The fiery liquid seemed to steady her, and she took another sip. Across the room Nikos was standing, his expression closed and moody, one hand pushing back his tuxedo jacket, resting on the waistband of his trousers. Absently she noticed the way the white lawn shirt showed the darker shading of chest hair, the way the material stretched across toned pecs and abs.
She dragged her eyes away and rubbed again at her stinging cheek. She was in shock, as well as everything else, she knew.
I've got to get out of here, she thought wildly. She would leave, first thing in the morning, and head back to London. To home, to sanity.
It was the only thing to do.
She still couldn't take it in. Couldn't believe it.
'Is it true? Tell me?' She heard the question burst from her.
Nikos frowned.
'That you and he have hatched some idea of me...me marrying... marrying you?' She could hardly get the words out.
'Yes.' Nikos's voice was terse. Dear God, what an unholy mess! 'I had thought,' he went on, openly sarcastic, 'that you had just obtained irrefutable corroboration from your grandfather?'
Her face hardened.
'That bastard!'
Nikos's expression iced. He had no love for Coustakis—he doubted if anyone in the world did, now that his poor besotted wife was dead!—and certainly he should not have hit her, but Andrea must be stupid indeed if she did not realise that her grandfather would not tolerate her shouting defiance at him, let alone in front of another male, and her selected husband to boot! Yiorgos Coustakis would never permit himself to lose face in front of the man he had accepted would run the empire he had amassed. Moreover, whatever his faults, Andrea should be mindful of the fact that it was Yiorgos's money that kept her in her luxurious Mestyle, and that she owed him courtesy, if nothing else.
'You will not use such language.'
'Or what?' she spat. 'You'll take a whip to me like he told you to?'
Nikos swore. He wanted out, right now. He wanted to be miles from here, away from this madhouse! The thought of Xanthe Palloupis hovered tantalisingly in his mind. She would be soft, and warm, and soothing, and cosseting. She would sit him down and make him comfortable, and relaxed, and speak only when he wanted her to speak, and never say a word otherwise, would know instinctively, from long practice, what he wanted, what he did not want...
But he. wasn't with Xanthe; he was listening to this redheaded hot-head spitting venom.
'You certainly need something to stop you behaving like a foul-mouthed spoilt brat!' he barked back at her.
She got to her feet. 'I suggest you leave, Mr Vassilis,' she said. 'And I also suggest, next time you get around to thinking of marrying someone, you have the courtesy to ask her first before announcing a done deal! However much you want to get your greedy hands on Coustakis Industries, I'm not available—especially not to some pretty-boy fortune-hunter like you!'
She slammed the brandy glass down on the sideboard, not caring that the liquid slopped on to the marquetry surface, spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, clattering up the marble staircase to get to her room as soon as she could.
Behind her, Nikos's face was rigid with fury. Ten seconds later he was out of the house and gunning his Ferrari down the driveway as if possessed by demons.
Andrea's fingers were trembling as she punched the buttons on the mobile phone Tony had leant her. Reaction had set in with a vengeance, and she felt as weak as a kitten.
The conversation was brief and to the point—if for no other reason than she did not want to run up Tony's phone bill more than she had to.
'Tony—it hasn't worked out. I'm going to have to come home. Tomorrow. Don't worry.' She swallowed, not daring to let herself start on what had happened. 'It's nothing drastic, but I'm just going to come home anyway. OK?' She paused fractionally. 'Look, if you don't hear from me from Athens airport tomorrow, go on yellow alert, will you? And if I don't show up at Heathrow—or, worse, don't phone tomorrow evening— go to red, OK? I've met my beloved grandfather and he's—' she swallowed '—running to type.'
After she'd hung up, desperately grateful not only to have heard Tony's familiar calming voice, but also just to have been reminded that a sane, reasonable world existed outside the confines of this palatial madhouse, Andrea realised her hands were still trembling.
How she managed to get any sleep at all that night she didn't know. She awoke late in the morning, with a jolt, woken by Zoe gently shaking her shoulder. Her grandfather, it seemed, wished to see her. Immediately.
Oh, does he? Well, as it happens, I want to see him as well! To order a car to take me to the airport!
He was in his bedchamber, Andrea discovered as, grim- faced, hastily dressed in a cheap blouse and cotton trousers of her own, she followed the maid along the corridor. With clammy hands she walked into the room.
Her grandfather was sitting up, propped on an array of pillows, ensconced in a huge tester bed that would not have looked out of place in Versailles. He did not look well, Andrea registered, and for the first time she realised that he was an old man not in the best of health.
I’ll do this civilly, she thought. I can manage that if I try.
She approached the foot of the bed. Dark, hooded eyes bored into her. Yiorgos Coustakis might be confined to his bed, but the power he could wield had not lessened an iota.
'So,' he said heavily, 'you are worse than I ever feared. Insolent beyond belief! I should have taken you from your slut of a mother and raised you myself! You would have learned proper respect from the back of my hand!'
Every good intention vanished from Andrea's breast instantly. She felt the fury surge in her veins. But this time she would not lose control.
Instead she simply stood there, looking at the man who had
fathered her father. It seemed unbelievable that they should be related in any way.
'Silent at last! A pity you could not have held that helh'sh tongue of yours last night, instead of showing yourself up so abominably in front of your husband!'
'Nikos Vassilis is not my husband, and he never will be,' replied Andrea. Her anger was like ice running in her blood.
Yiorgos Coustakis made a rasping sound in his throat.
'And you could whistle for him now! No man would touch you after witnessing your despicable display last night! But then—' his dark eyes filled with contempt '—without Coustakis Industries as your dowry you would be fit only to warm a man's bed for hard cash, like your whore of a mother!'