by Anne Mather
‘No. Stelios did that.’
But Helen didn’t want to think about that now. It was enough to know that she could still smell the pool water on her body, could still feel the possessive touch of Milos’s hands, Milos’s mouth. What must he have thought when she’d scuttled into the cabana and pulled on her clothes without even taking a shower? What was she supposed to make of the look on his face when he was forced to bid her a public goodbye?
Shaking off the remembrance, she tried to speak casually. ‘I—er—I suppose we should be going, too.’
‘But we haven’t had lunch,’ objected Melissa at once, turning to Rhea for support. ‘You said Marisa would have everything ready.’
‘And I meant it.’ Rhea seemed to gather herself, putting out a hand towards Helen as if in apology. ‘My mother’s housekeeper will be most offended if you deny her the chance to show off her culinary skills,’ she insisted. But Helen was still left wondering if she truly wanted them to stay.
‘Well …’
She hesitated, and Melissa took the chance to speak again. ‘Come on, Mum,’ she persisted. ‘It’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do.’
Which was true, Helen admitted silently. Now that Milos had left the island, she didn’t have to worry about him turning up unexpectedly. She ought to have been feeling relieved that he was gone. But all she really felt was defeated.
‘All right,’ she said at last, earning herself a delighted whoop from Melissa. Her father was expecting them to stay, after all, and it would save a lot of unnecessary explanations.
And, in spite of her reluctance, the visit was not so bad. She’d expected to find it hard to talk to Milos’s sister, but she didn’t. The girl had evidently decided it wasn’t Helen’s fault that her brother had deserted them, and over a meal of stuffed vine leaves, a crisp green salad, and a sticky sweet dessert, she made an effort to be friendly.
She told Helen about the course she was taking at college and her plans to set up her own interior-decorating business as soon as she graduated. Her father had agreed to finance her for the first year, and Helen thought how lucky Rhea was to have such loving and supportive parents.
It made her wonder if she’d have felt differently about her own situation if she hadn’t cut her father out of her life. Would he have recommended that she marry Richard if she’d confided her pregnancy to him? Of course, her mother had been concerned about what other people were going to think when they discovered Helen was unmarried and expecting a baby. She’d never really got over the gossip that had ensued when Sam had walked out.
Of course, if her father hadn’t walked out, Helen would never have met Milos Stephanides. She’d never have found herself pregnant with a baby whose father’s identity she’d kept secret even from her mother …
‘Where are you going?’
Sheila Campbell turned from the television when Helen appeared in the sitting-room doorway. She was obviously surprised to see her daughter dressed and ready to go out when she’d said nothing about having a date earlier in the day.
‘I’m going to meet Sally at the coffee bar,’ said Helen quickly, mouthing the first lie that came into her head. She had thought of making Richard, her current boyfriend, her excuse, but her mother was bound to ask Richard about it later on and she couldn’t have that.
‘Sally? Sally who?’ Sheila frowned, and Helen wished her mother were not so interested in everything she did.
‘Sally Phillips,’ she said, hoping she sounded convincing. ‘You don’t know her. She’s in my English tutor group.’
‘Oh?’ Sheila shrugged and turned back to the television. ‘Well, don’t forget it’s a school night. I shall expect you home before half past ten.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ Helen gave a resigned sigh. ‘I’m not a child, you know.’
‘But you are still a student. And I don’t have time to haul you out of bed in the morning.’ She sniffed. ‘In any case, I thought you told me you preferred to see Richard at weekends.’
‘I do.’ Helen was indignant. ‘And I’m not meeting Richard Shaw. As I say, I’m going to the coffee bar. Is that all right?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Sheila was dismissive. ‘Oh, go on. Enjoy your evening. But don’t you miss the last bus home.’
‘I won’t,’ said Helen guiltily, wondering if Milos would bring her back to her door. Well, to the end of the street, anyway, she amended, feeling again the frisson of excited anticipation she’d felt since she’d agreed to have a drink with him.
They were meeting in the bar of his hotel and Helen wondered if she’d been entirely wise in agreeing to that. But at least she could be reasonably sure she wouldn’t see anyone she knew at the Cathay Intercontinental. The rates there were phenomenally high. Or so she’d always believed.
She just hoped that what she was wearing wouldn’t look totally out of place. She would have liked to have worn her new slip dress and the suede jacket she’d been saving up for for ages, but that would have been foolish and she knew it. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to become suspicious, so the tight-fitting jeans and black parka would have to do. But she had put on the purple silk shirt her mother had bought her for her last birthday under the parka, away from Sheila’s prying gaze.
Which made her feel really sneaky and she didn’t like it. She was no better than her father, she thought, keeping secrets from her mother.
But when she walked into the foyer of the Cathay Intercontinental and found Milos standing near the entrance waiting for her, she was selfishly glad she had deceived her. He looked so good in his dark suit and turtle-neck sweater, and she could hardly believe this gorgeous hunk was waiting for her.
But he was. He came towards her at once, his dark disturbing eyes making her whole body feel hot and alive. She tried to tell herself it was natural for him to look at a woman in that way. But there was something intensely personal in the melting heat of his gaze.
‘Hi,’ he said softly, and, although he made no attempt to touch her, Helen felt as if his hands had stroked over every inch of her skin. ‘I’m glad you came. I wondered if you would. I was afraid your mother would change your mind.’
‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’
Her denial was instinctive, and she thought how pathetic she must sound to a man like him. Dear God, he would think she didn’t have a mind or a will of her own. Or that she was scared to tell her mother something she knew she wouldn’t like.
Milos’s lips compressed. ‘So where does she think you are?’ he inquired, and Helen shifted somewhat unhappily beneath his curious stare.
‘At the coffee bar,’ she said quickly. Then, ‘I suppose you think I’m stupid, not telling her where I was going.’
Milos shook his head. ‘I think it was probably very wise,’ he said drily. ‘I got the distinct impression that your mother didn’t like me.’
Helen gave a rueful smile. ‘She has reason, don’t you think?’
‘Because I’ve invited you to have a drink with me?’ he asked. ‘Surely that’s not so unforgivable. I want to get to know you better. I’m hoping we can be friends.’
Friends?
Helen let that go, but she was under no illusion that her mother would ever allow her to be friends with a man who worked for her father. Still, it was nice to know that he didn’t have an ulterior motive, and she was woman enough to feel flattered that he should want to see her again.
‘Let me take your coat,’ he said now, and although Helen suspected she should keep it on—just in case—she obediently unfastened the zip. Besides, glancing about her at all the glamorously clad women entering and leaving the lobby, she could see that her parka was very much out of place. At least her shirt was new and fashionable, its deep vee neckline and string ties at the waist giving her a spurious look of maturity.
Her coat was deposited with the cloakroom attendant and then Milos directed her into the cocktail bar that adjoined the famous restaurant. A waiter, recognising her escort, immediately foun
d them a corner table, and Milos made sure she was seated comfortably and then ordered champagne.
With hindsight, Helen had realised that she shouldn’t have drunk any champagne. She wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol, for one thing, and, for another, she’d never tried anything but beer before. And then only at a party when she would have looked a prude to refuse it. But she hadn’t liked the taste on that occasion and had dumped most of the bottle down the loo.
Champagne, as she discovered, was different. It was much sweeter, and the bubbles fizzed pleasantly on her tongue. In addition to which, it seemed to give her confidence and she found herself chattering on about the subjects she was taking to A level, and her ambitions for the future, with an uncharacteristic lack of reticence.
In no time at all, it seemed, it was eight o’clock, and when Milos invited her to stay and have dinner with him it would have been churlish to refuse. Besides, she didn’t want to. She liked being with Milos; she liked the envious female eyes that were cast in her direction. But most of all she liked it that he made her feel like a woman, an attractive woman that he was proud to be with.
They struck a snag when Milos summoned the waiter and asked if he had a table in the restaurant. The man was most apologetic, but the earliest he could accommodate them was at half past nine, which Helen insisted was much too late. If, as she was considering, she intended telling her mother where she’d been after the event, she had to get home at an acceptable time.
‘Send the head waiter over, would you?’ Milos asked now, politely but a little autocratically, Helen thought, and almost immediately the maître d’ presented himself, looking decidedly embarrassed at having to disappoint an apparently important guest.
‘We knew you were staying in the hotel, Mr Stephanides,’ he said, pressing his hands together a little diffidently. ‘But you did not reserve a table, sir, and one of our other guests, Prince Halil Mohammad—’ he said the other man’s name with some deference ‘—made an unexpected late reservation for himself and his entourage to dine in the restaurant.’ He threw up his hands in apology. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’
Milos was regarding him coldly, and Helen was feeling almost sorry for the man himself when he said, ‘I suppose you would not consider dining in your suite, Mr Stephanides. I would be happy to arrange for you to be served immediately. With the management’s compliments, of course.’
Helen’s cheeks turned pink then. She knew what the man was saying was reasonable. If, as he said, Milos did have a suite of rooms, then it wasn’t as if he was suggesting they had dinner in Milos’s bedroom.
But before she could make any comment, Milos intervened. ‘I think not,’ he said curtly, obviously expecting her to object. ‘I suppose I’ll have to make other arrangements.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
Helen could hardly believe she’d said the words. But the knowledge that to refuse would make her look like the kid she was had her accepting the maître d’s suggestion with apparent ease.
‘You’re sure?’
Milos was looking at her now, and she felt the frisson of excitement she’d felt earlier stirring inside her again. It might be the champagne, but she didn’t regret coming here. This was so much more thrilling than spending an evening watching Richard getting progressively wasted.
So, ‘I’m sure,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t regret her recklessness. ‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILOS’S apartments were on the top floor of the hotel. Helen supposed it was a penthouse suite, with doublepanelled doors opening into a large sitting room. Other doors opened from the sitting room, one of them obviously being his bedroom, and she shivered a little uneasily as the heavy doors closed behind them.
They had ordered downstairs and the waiter had assured them they wouldn’t have to wait long for their food. Looking about her, Helen saw the table standing in the bay of the window with some relief. Obviously it was quite common to be served in the apartment and she made a determined effort to relax.
‘Would you like a drink while we wait?’ Milos suggested as she hovered near the window. ‘Some wine, perhaps. Or would you prefer some music?’ He bent to a sophisticated sound system and moments later the rhythmic sound of Santana filled the room.
Helen turned, her lips parted. ‘Oh, I love this,’ she said, unable to prevent the automatic shift her body made to the music. ‘Is it your CD?’
‘It is, actually,’ he said, coming towards her and holding out his arms. ‘Do you want to dance?’
‘Dance?’ Helen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Why not?’ he asked, catching both her hands in his and drawing her forward into the hypnotic beat. ‘Your body obviously wants to.’
Helen licked her lips. ‘I’ve just—never done anything like this before,’ she confessed.
‘I know,’ he said, making no attempt to pull her closer. ‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’
‘Fun?’ Helen’s response was breathless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Good.’
The knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen couldn’t exactly say she was sorry. Her legs had become increasingly shaky, and looking into Milos’s dark eyes was making her weak.
The waiter wheeled a trolley into the apartment and started setting the table. Pristine white place mats gleamed against the dark wood, silver tableware glinted in the light from candles set in the middle of the table, and tall wineglasses of the finest crystal prepared the way for wines of both white and red.
Their first course—a mousse of crab and lobster—was served and the waiter stood back, waiting for Milos’s instructions.
‘We’ll serve the rest ourselves,’ Milos told him as the crisp crackle of notes changed hands, and moments later the doors closed again and they were alone.
Later, Helen could hardly remember how the food tasted. It could have been arsenic or ambrosia, she doubted she’d have noticed. With Milos sitting beside her, his knee brushing hers, serving her tiny morsels of what he was eating from his plate, she was too bemused to pay attention to her own food. She only knew she was floating several inches above the table for most of the meal, the sensuous rhythm of the music and the disturbing directness of Milos’s gaze causing a sensation of elevation in the pit of her stomach.
After the meal was over, Helen needed to use the rest-room, and she discovered that one of the doors that opened off the living room led into a luxuriously appointed vanity-cum-bathroom. Lamp lit mirrors lined the walls, inviting inspection of her appearance, while the marble bathroom adjoining was as big as the largest bedroom back home.
She availed herself of the facilities and then paused for a moment beside the row of mirrors, intrigued by her appearance. She almost looked beautiful, she thought, touching the hectic colour in her cheeks, noticing how soft her lips looked in the flattering light. She also noticed that, despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, her nipples were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her shirt.
She crossed her arms over her chest and then let them fall again. Who was she kidding? she thought impatiently. If Milos was being unusually attentive to her it was because he’d promised her father he’d look after her. She shouldn’t run away with the idea that he was attracted to her. He was just being friendly, that was all.
The trolley had disappeared when she emerged from the bathroom. Either the waiter had been summoned to remove it, or Milos had pushed it out into the corridor himself. The table was now empty of everything except the wine and their glasses, but Helen, who had tried to drink sparingly during the meal, determined not to have any more.
Milos was standing by the white marble fireplace when she re-entered the room, but Helen moved to the windows, to stand looking down at the lights of Knightsbridge sparkling thirty floors below. It was quite a view, even though a light rain had come to slick the pavements. It blurred the image, making her feel as if she were watching it through a mirror.
She was so absorbed that she got quite a s
hock when Milos put his hand on her shoulder. She’d been unaware of him coming to stand beside her, and the warm strength of his fingers caused a ripple of excitement in her stomach.
She turned towards him a little breathlessly, her agitation showing in the eyes she turned up to his lean face. Her lips parted in an unknowing invitation and she saw the way his eyes darkened as they identified her expression.
‘Signomi. I’m sorry,’ he said, his low voice with its distinctive accent like velvet on her skin. ‘Did I frighten you?’
‘You—startled me,’ she amended, aware of the quickening beat of her heart. She nervously cleared her throat. ‘I—er—I was admiring the view.’
‘So was I,’ he said softly, and her stomach wobbled at the realisation that he wasn’t talking about the scene outside.
‘Um—I suppose I should be going,’ she said, half afraid of her own reaction to his words. He was only being polite, she told herself, trying to remember how she’d felt when he’d turned up on her doorstep. This man was not her friend, she reminded herself. Her mother would be horrified if she ever discovered that Helen had had dinner with him in his suite.
‘Oh—you must stay and have coffee,’ he protested now, nodding towards the sofa, and she saw the tray she hadn’t noticed before residing on the low table close by. ‘Come,’ he added. ‘Let us sit down. And don’t worry about getting home. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to be available when we need them.’
Helen hesitated only a moment before doing as he suggested. But as she sank into the soft cushions she couldn’t help wondering when he’d ordered a car. Had he intended her to have dinner with him all along?
It was a disturbing consideration and her teeth dug into her bottom lip as Milos seated himself beside her. What did she really know about this man? she asked herself uneasily. How did she know she could trust him?
Milos’s weight depressed the cushions deeper than hers did, and she felt herself slipping closer. It took all her ingenuity to sustain a little space between them without his being aware of it. Or perhaps he was. She couldn’t be sure.