by Kendrick, Sharon; Lawrence, Kim; Crews, Caitlin; Milburne, Melanie
‘Tempted?’ he questioned softly.
Oh, she was tempted, all right. Tempted to tell him that she’d never met anyone so charmless and insulting. Keeley felt her skin grow hot as she realised he was offering her a job as some kind of skivvy. Someone to get her hands dirty by tidying up after him and his fancy guests. To chop vegetables and change his bed while he cavorted on the silvery beach with whoever his current squeeze was—probably the stunning redhead he’d taken to the gallery opening with him. He was looking down his proud and patrician nose at her and she opened her mouth to say she’d rather starve than accept his offer until she reminded herself of the significant fact she’d been in danger of forgetting. Because it wasn’t just herself she had to consider, was it?
She stared down at one of the holes in the carpet as she thought of her mother and the little treats which added to her life, even though she was completely oblivious to them. The weekly manicure and occasional hairdo to primp those thinning curls into some sort of shape, so that in some ways she resembled the woman she had once been. Vivienne Turner didn’t know that these things were being done for her, but Keeley did. Sometimes she shuddered to imagine what her mother’s reaction would have been if she’d been able to look into a crystal ball and see the life she’d been condemned to live. But nobody had a crystal ball, thank goodness. Nobody could see what lay ahead. And when occasionally other patients’ relatives or members of staff recognised the shell of the woman who had once been Vivienne Turner, Keeley was proud that her mother looked as good as she possibly could. Because that would have mattered. To her.
So test him, she thought. See what the mighty Ariston Kavakos is putting on the table. See if it’s big enough to enable you to endure his company for longer than a minute. ‘How much,’ she said baldly, ‘are you offering me?’
Ariston swallowed down his distaste as he heard the shrewd note which had entered her voice and he realised that Keeley’s greed was as transparent as her mother’s. His mouth twisted. How he despised her and everything she stood for. Yet his natural revulsion was not enough to destroy his desire for her and his mouth grew dry as he thought about having sex with Keeley Turner. Because it was inconceivable that she would return to Lasia and not sleep with him. It would bring about satisfaction and closure—for both of them. The fever in his blood would be removed and afterwards she could be quietly airbrushed from all their lives. She would be rewarded with enough money to satisfy her. She would disappear into the sunset. Most important of all—Pavlos would never see her again.
He smiled as he mentioned a sum of money, expecting her simpering gratitude and instant acceptance, but instead he was met with a look from her green eyes which was almost glacial.
‘Double it,’ she said coolly.
Ariston’s smile died but he could feel the insistent beat of lust intensifying because her attitude made his callous plan a whole lot easier to execute. Every woman could be bought, he remembered bitterly. You just had to negotiate the right price.
‘You have a deal,’ he said softly.
CHAPTER THREE
LASIA WAS AS beautiful as Keeley remembered it. No. Maybe even more so. Because when you were eighteen you thought that sunny days would never end and beauty would last for ever. You never imagined that life could turn out so different from how you’d imagined. She’d thought the money would last. She’d thought…
No. She gazed out of the car window at the cloudless blue sky. She wasn’t going to do that thing. She wasn’t going to look back. She was here, on this stunning private island, to work for Ariston Kavakos and earn herself a nest egg for her poor, broken mother. Fixing her gaze on the dark blue line of the horizon, she reminded herself to start looking for the positives, not the negatives.
A fancy car had been waiting for her on Lasia’s only airstrip—its air-conditioned interior deliciously welcoming because, even though it was still only springtime, the midday sun was intense. During the flight over she’d wondered if any of Ariston’s staff might remember her and she was dreading any such recognition. But thankfully the driver was new—well, new to her—and his name was Stelios.
He seemed content to remain silent and Keeley said nothing as the powerful car snaked its way through the mountain roads towards the Kavakos complex on the other side of the island. But although outwardly calm, inside she was quaking for all kinds of reasons. For a start, she’d lost her job at the supermarket. Her manager had reacted with incredulity when she’d asked for a month’s unpaid holiday, telling her that she must have taken leave of her senses if she expected those kinds of perks. He’d added rather triumphantly that she was in the wrong job, but deep down Keeley had already known that. Because no matter how hard she’d tried, she’d never fitted in. Not there. Not anywhere if she stopped to think about it—and certainly not here, on this private paradise which exuded untold wealth and privilege. Where costly yachts bobbed on the azure sea as carelessly as a baby floated toys in the bathtub. She leaned forward to get a better look as the car rounded the bend and made its slow descent towards the complex she’d last seen when she was eighteen, blinking her eyes in surprise because everything looked so different.
Oh, not Assimenos Bay—that hadn’t changed. The natural cove with its silvery sand was as stunning as ever, but the vast house which had once dominated it had gone. The beachside mansion was no more and in its place stood an imposing building which seemed composed mainly of glass. Modern and magnificent, the transparent walls and curved windows reflected back the different hues of sea and sky so that Keeley’s first impression was that everything looked so blue. As blue as Ariston’s eyes, she found herself thinking, before reminding herself furiously that she wasn’t here to fantasise about him.
And then, as if she had conjured him up from her restless imagination, she saw the Greek tycoon standing at one of the vast windows on the first floor of the house. Standing watching her—his stance as unmoving as a statue. A ripple of unwilling awareness ran through her body as she stared up at him because even at a distance he dominated everything. Even though she was surrounded by so much natural beauty and the kind of scenery she hadn’t seen in a long time it still took a huge effort to drag her gaze away from him. And she mustn’t be seen ogling him like some helpless fan-girl. Hadn’t she made that mistake once before? And look where that had got her. This was her chance to redeem herself and the only way she could achieve that was by remaining immune to him and his effortless charisma. To show him she no longer wanted him—that ship had sailed—because she wasn’t into cruel billionaires who treated you with zero respect.
The car stopped and Stelios opened the door and Keeley could smell lemons and pine and the salty tang of the nearby sea as she stepped onto the sun-baked courtyard.
‘Here’s Demetra,’ said Stelios as a middle-aged woman in a crisp white uniform began walking through the shimmering heat towards them. ‘She’s the cook—but basically she’s in charge! Even Ariston listens when Demetra speaks. She’ll show you to your accommodation. You’re pretty lucky to be staying here,’ he observed. ‘All the other staff live in the village.’
‘Thank you.’ Keeley turned to him in surprise. ‘You speak perfect English!’
‘Pretty much. I lived in London for a while. Used to drive taxis for a living.’ Stelios gave an inscrutable smile. ‘Though the boss doesn’t like me to publicise it too much.’
No, she’d bet he didn’t. A silent but understanding driver would be an asset for a control freak like Ariston, thought Keeley wryly. Someone able to eavesdrop on the conversation of his English-speaking guests should the need arise. Yet she heard the obvious affection in the driver’s voice as he referred to his boss and wondered what the autocratic ship-owner had ever done to deserve it, apart from be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But everyone liked you when you had money, she reminded herself. The world was full of hangers-on who were mesmerised by the lure of
wealth. The same hangers-on who would drop you like a hot potato when all that wealth had gone.
She smiled as the cook approached, reminding herself it was important to be accepted by the people she was going to be working with and to show them she wasn’t afraid of hard work.
‘Kalispera, Demetra,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Keeley. Keeley Turner.’
‘Kalispera,’ said the cook, looking pleased. ‘You speak Greek?’
‘Not really. Only a couple of phrases.’ Keeley pulled a face. ‘But I’d love to learn more. Do you speak English?’
‘Neh. Kyrios Kavakos likes all his staff to speak English.’ She smiled. ‘We help each other. Come. I show you your house.’
Keeley followed the cook down a narrow sandy path leading directly to the beach, until they reached a small whitewashed cottage. She could hear the waves lapping against the shore and could see the moving glimmer of sunlight on the water, but, although she was surrounded by so much beauty, all she could remember was the uproar and the chaos. Because wasn’t it over there beside that crop of rocks that Ariston pulled her into his arms for that tantalisingly sweet taste of pleasure, before thrusting her away again? She closed her eyes as goosebumps shivered over her bare arms, despite the heat of the day. How could the memory of something which had happened so long ago still be so vivid?
‘You like it?’ questioned Demetra, obviously misinterpreting her silence.
‘Oh, gosh, yes. It’s…beautiful,’ said Keeley quickly.
Demetra smiled. ‘Oreos. All Lasia is oreos. Come to the house when you are ready and I show you everything.’
After Demetra had gone, Keeley went inside the cottage—leaving the door open so she could hear the waves as she set about exploring her temporary home. It didn’t take long to get her bearings because, although it was small and compact, it was still bigger than her home in London. There was a sitting room and a small kitchen, while upstairs was a bedroom with space for little more than a large bed. The bathroom was surprisingly sophisticated and the whole place was simple and clean, with walls painted white and completely bare of decoration. But the light which flooded into every room was incredible—bright and clear and shot with the dancing reflection of the waves. Who needed pictures on the walls when you had that?
Keeley unpacked, showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt—and was just making her way downstairs when she saw Ariston walking towards her cottage. And try as she might, she could do nothing to prevent the powerful squeeze of her heart and the molten tug deep inside her.
She wanted to turn away. To close her eyes and shut him out…yet she wanted to watch him like the rerun of a favourite TV show. The powerful thrust of his thighs as he walked. The broadness of his shoulders and the bunched muscle of his arms. The way his white T-shirt contrasted with the darkness of his olive skin. Her mouth dried as she noticed the narrow band of skin showing above the low-slung waistband of his faded jeans. Because this was Ariston as she remembered him—not wearing a sophisticated suit which seemed to constrain him, but looking as if he could have just finished work on one of the fishing boats.
He was the most alpha male she’d ever seen but it was vital he didn’t guess she thought that way. She was going to have to respond to him indifferently—betraying none of her uneasy emotions whenever he came close. She needed to pretend he was just like any other man—even though he wasn’t. Because no other man had ever made her feel this way. She sucked in an unsteady breath as he approached, because the most important thing she needed to remember was that she didn’t actually like him.
‘So. Here you are,’ he observed, his blue eyes moving over her with their strange, cold fire.
‘Here I am.’ Feeling curiously insubstantial, she tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘Maybe I am. Part of me wondered whether you might change your mind at the last minute and not bother coming.’
‘Should I have done?’ She fixed him with a questioning gaze. ‘Would it have been wiser to have dismissed your generous job offer and carried on with my life the way it was, Kyrios Kavakos?’
As she stared at him so fearlessly, her bright green eyes so cat-like and entrancing, Ariston thought about the answers he could have given her. If she was someone he cared about he would have told her that, yes, she should have stayed well away from his island and the doomed orbit of a man like him. But the point was that he didn’t care. She was a commodity. A woman he intended to seduce and finish what she had started all those years ago. Why warn her to be on her guard against something which was going to bring them both a great deal of pleasure?
And closure, he reminded himself grimly. Because wasn’t closure equally important?
He stared at the thick pale hair which hung in a twisted rope over one shoulder, wondering why he found it so difficult to tear his eyes away from her. He’d known women more beautiful. He’d certainly known women more suitable than some washed-up ex-party-girl with dollar signs in her eyes. Yet knowing that did nothing to diminish her impact on him. Her lush breasts were pushing against a T-shirt the colour of the lemons which grew in the hills behind the house and a pair of cotton shorts skimmed her shapely hips and legs. She’d slipped her bare feet into a pair of sparkly flip-flops so that she looked unexpectedly carefree—and young—as if she hadn’t made the slightest effort to impress him with her appearance and the unexpectedness of this made desire spiral up inside him even more.
‘No, I think you’re in exactly the right place,’ he said evenly. ‘So let’s go into the house and I’ll show you around. I think you’ll find things have changed quite a lot since last time you were here.’
‘No, honestly. You don’t have to do that,’ she said. ‘Demetra has already offered.’
‘But I’m offering now.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Surely it would be more appropriate if another member of staff took me round? You must have plenty of other things you’d rather be doing—a busy man like you, with a great empire to control.’
‘I don’t care whether or not it’s appropriate, Keeley. I happen to be a very hands-on employer.’
‘And what you say goes, right?’
‘Exactly. So why don’t you just accept that, and do what I say?’
He was so ridiculously masterful, Keeley thought resentfully. Didn’t he realise how out of touch and outdated he sounded when he spoke like that? But even though she objected to his overbearing attitude, she couldn’t deny its effect on her. It was as if her body had been programmed to respond to his masculine dominance and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her face was hot as she shut the cottage door and followed him across the beach towards his home, her flip-flops sinking into the soft sand as she scurried to match his pace.
‘Any questions you want to ask?’ he said, glancing down at her.
There were a million. She wanted to know why—at thirty-five and surely one of the world’s most eligible bachelors—he still wasn’t married. She wanted to know what made him so hard and cold and proud. She wanted to know if he ever laughed and if so, what made those sensual lips curve with humour. But she bit all those questions back because she had no right to ask them. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What made you knock the old house down?’
Ariston felt a pulse flicker at his temple as he lessened his stride so she could keep up with him. How ironic that she should choose a subject which still had the power to make him feel uncomfortable. He remembered the disbelief he’d faced when he’d proposed demolition of the old house, which had been rich in history. How people had thought he was acting out of a sense of misplaced grief after the death of his father. But it had been nothing to do with that. For him it had been a necessary rebirth. Should he tell her that he’d wanted to raze away the past along with those impressive walls? As if believing that those dark memories could be reduced to rubble, just
like the bricks. That he’d wanted to forget the house where his mother had played with him until the day she’d walked away—leaving him and Pavlos in the care of their father. Just as he wanted to forget the parties and sickly-sweet stench of marijuana and the women flown in from destinations all over Europe—their given brief to ‘entertain’ his father and his jaded friends. Why would he tell Keeley Turner something like that—when she and her mother had been exactly those kind of women?
‘New broom, new era,’ he said, with a hard smile. ‘When my father died I decided I needed to make a few changes. To put my own stamp on the place.’
She was staring up at the wide glass structure. ‘Well, you’ve certainly done that.’
Her cooing words sounded speculative—the instinctive reaction of an avaricious woman confronted by affluence—but that didn’t quite cancel out the pleasure Ariston got from her praise. Or stop him thinking how much he’d like to hear that soft English voice whispering some very different things in his ear. Was she one of those women who talked during sex? he wondered. Or did she keep quiet until she started to come, gasping out her joyful pleasure into the man’s ear? His lips curved into a speculative smile. He couldn’t wait to find out.
He gestured for her to precede him though her wiggling bottom made it difficult for him to concentrate on the tour. He showed her the tennis court, the gym, his office and two of the smaller reception rooms—but decided against taking her upstairs to each of the seven en-suite bedrooms or, indeed, his own master suite. His throat tightened. Demetra could do that later.
At last he led her into the main sitting room, which was the focal point of the house, carefully watching her reaction as she was confronted by the sea view which dominated three of the massive glass walls. For a moment she stood there motionless—not appearing to notice the priceless Fabergé eggs which lay on one of the low tables, nor the rare Lysippos statue which he’d bought from under the noses of international dealers in an auction house in New York and which had sealed his reputation as a connoisseur of fine art.