Bought by the Greek Tycoon

by Jacqueline Baird

  Luke Devetzi had been a horrendous mistake, brought about by depression and too much wine, and for someone like herself, who had no head for alcohol and rarely drank more than the occasional glass of wine, it wasn't surprising she had acted so out of character—to the point of practically hallucinating.

  Totally oblivious to the sleek black car parked twenty yards up the street, Jemma searched in her purse for her door key, happy to be back to the house in Bayswater that she and Alan had bought when they married. She unlocked the door and walked into the hall. Placing the carrier bag on the floor, she turned to close the door behind her and let out a strangled yelp.

  'May I come in?' Before she could catch her breath and respond, Luke Devetzi was in her hallway with the door closed behind him. 'You and I need to talk, Jemma.' One dark brow lifted wickedly. 'Or perhaps I should call you Mimie?'

  Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, stunned by his totally unexpected appearance in her home. Then shock and a fast rising temper made her blush furiously. 'I don't want you to call me anything; just get the hell out of my house,' she snapped angrily.

  'Such temper! You do surprise me—after all, what could be more natural when two old friends meet up again unexpectedly than to have a nice chat, as you English say?' he drawled with cynical amusement.

  With a terrific effort of self-control, Jemma forced herself to think clearly. She wished she had never met Luke Devetzi, and she certainly didn't want to talk to him. All she really wanted to do was throw him out. But one look at the grim determination on his attractive face and common sense told her he was far too big and strong, there was no chance of throwing him anywhere…

  He was casually dressed in a tan leather jacket, that fell smoothly from broad, powerful shoulders, and a white sports shirt, open at the neck, contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and the beginning of dark curling chest hair. The jacket was open, and a hide belt supported pleated trousers that hugged lean hips, powerful thighs and long legs. But there was nothing casual about his stance—with his legs slightly splayed, looming over her, he was awesomely male and decidedly threatening.

  Refusing to be intimidated in her own home, Jemma stiffened her spine. Tilting her head back, her amber eyes clashed with steel-grey, and she wondered how she had ever thought that Luke's eyes were the same blue as her beloved Alan's had been. She shivered slightly and squashed the unsettling memory. Keep cool, keep calm, she told herself. This was her stepsister's boyfriend and he was nothing to do with her.

  'I don't know how you found out where I live, and I don't appreciate you bursting into my home. I have nothing to say to you, and I would like you to leave.'

  'Jan told me—in fact she was quite informative—and I'm sorry to disappoint you, Jemma, but I have no intention of leaving until you have answered a few questions,' Luke said smoothly.

  Her flash of temper had revealed that she was not as immune to him as she would have him believe. His eyes narrowed speculatively on her beautiful face and then roamed lower over her luscious body. Her shining mass of hair had been caught by a yellow ribbon at the nape of her elegant neck to fall in a long silken banner down her back. She was wearing a buttercup coloured cropped top that clung lovingly to her high breasts, and she was obviously braless, the sweet nipples that tormented his night dreams more often than he cared to admit clearly outlined by the fine cotton. A tempting strip of smooth flesh was revealed as the top barely met the white trousers that clung to her slim hips and legs. On her feet she wore flat sandals, with her cute pink toes on display again. He was definitely a breast and leg man—so when had he developed a foot fetish? Luke wondered wryly as his whole body tensed in an effort to control his overactive libido.

  He looked up and saw the flicker of something very like fear in the golden eyes that met his. Jemma Barnes had good reason to be afraid; she had lied to him about her name, and lied to him about her marriage. He had taken Jan to lunch a few hours ago, to tactfully let her know that he thought of her only as an old friend. She had taken it remarkably well, especially when he'd offered to invest in her agency, and during the conversation that followed, with some subtle questioning, he had discovered from her that Jemma's passion was plants and that for the past two years she had apparently lived the life of a nun. So either Jemma was a great liar, or a great actress, or both.

  Trust Jan to open her big mouth, Jemma thought, the silence lengthening as they stared at each other, the tension stretching between them an almost tangible thing. It was Jemma who looked away first.

  'In that case,' she said, as she bent down and picked up the bag of vegetables to avoid his too intent gaze. 'You'd better follow me into the kitchen. You can tell me what you have to say while I put these away.' And she walked along the hall, past the stairs, to the back of the house and the kitchen.

  She didn't want Luke in her living room—she didn't want him in her house—but the kitchen was suitably impersonal, she figured. Skirting the centrally placed breakfast table, she placed the bag on the bench beneath the window.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she sensed Luke's presence behind her. Perhaps the small kitchen had not been such a good idea, she thought as she withdrew the vegetables from the carrier bag. The fridge was on the opposite wall, and reluctantly she turned around, a lettuce in her hand, and came face to face with Luke again.

  'Excuse me—I need the fridge,' she said politely.

  You and me both,' Luke said with dry self-mockery, gleaming grey eyes inviting her to share his humour.

  But Jemma was not impressed by the double entendre. He was only inches away, and she felt at a distinct disadvantage with his great body towering over her. Instinctively she took a step back, and came to a halt against the bench. With nowhere to go, she ignored his innuendo and glanced up at him. 'Then let me pass and I'll get you a cold drink,' she said coolly, with a sarcastic tilt of one delicate brow.

  He was too close, his glittering silver gaze too knowing, and suddenly the evocative scent of his cologne reminded her of another time, another place—the close confines of a yacht's cabin. She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. No—she wasn't going there…

  'I don't want a cold drink, Jemma,' Luke refused, determined to be reasonable even though his baser instincts were telling him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. 'What I want is to discuss the possibility of breaking the trust on the house you own in Zante so my grandfather can buy it. Plus, I want an explanation as to why you told me you were married when we met on the island a year ago.' He paused, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. 'And I want you, of course…but not necessarily in that order.' He smiled and took the lettuce from her suddenly nerveless fingers and placed it on the bench behind her, then rested his hands on the bench at either side of her shapely body, effectively trapping her.

  Keep calm, keep cool. Jemma silently repeated her mantra, but without much success as fear fuelled her temper and she responded angrily. 'Not in any order. There's no question of breaking my aunt's trust—the house can't be sold—and I don't owe you an explanation. In fact, I don't even owe you the time of day, given that you're dating my stepsister. But if you're afraid I might tell Jan of our extremely brief and incredibly unfortunate liaison, let me set your mind at rest. I would rather cut out my tongue than admit to so much as touching you.'

  'Then asking you to marry me is out of the question, I take it?' Luke asked, progressing straight to plan B with a hint of amusement in his tone.

  'You've got that right! I wouldn't marry a lecherous, womanising swine like you if you were the last man on earth!' Jemma shot back furiously. She lifted her hands to push him away, but as she flattened her palms on his chest she knew she had made a big mistake. His dark head jerked back and all trace of amusement vanished as his eyes, now glittering with silver shards of icy fury, bored into hers.

  'If that is your opinion of me, then I have nothing to lose, have I?' he snarled, and two strong arms wrapped around her and hauled her hard against his powerful fra
me. His dark head swooped suddenly and his sensuous mouth captured hers with a driving passion that owed more to an urge to dominate than to desire.

  With her arms pinned to her side, trapped in the cradle of his thighs, she was helpless to escape. She tried to turn her head away from his, but with a speed that overwhelmed her one hand slid up her back and grasped the thick swathe of hair at her nape, holding her immobile beneath his furious onslaught. She felt the fierce tension in every inch of his body, and the thrusting strength of his arousal against her belly. Then, shockingly, as his tongue plundered the moist interior of her mouth, a responding surge of awareness sizzled through her, taking her breath away.

  This was what she had tried to banish from her mind for twelve months…what she had been afraid of… The total seduction of her senses… But she was tempted; heat pooled in her pelvis and, helpless to control her traitorous body, she involuntarily swayed into him. Sensing her surrender, he gentled, his tongue teasing and licking with an erotic expertise that sent her already racing pulse into overdrive.

  'God, Jemma!' he husked against her mouth, one hand slipping up to stroke across her breasts, his fingers grazing the burgeoning nipples through the soft cotton of her top. 'Or Mimie—whatever you call yourself. I've never forgotten the last time you were in my arms, and I want you again—badly.' His dark head lifted and he fixed her with a piercing silver gaze. 'Say yes.'

  It was Luke calling her Mimie that shocked Jemma brutally back from the brink of shameful compliance. Only Alan had ever called her Mimie. When Aunt Mary had introduced her to Alan as 'my niece Jemima', Alan had declared it was a bit of a mouthful and so he would call her Mimie—and he had, until the day he died. To hear it on Luke's tongue now seemed like the worst kind of betrayal.

  'Don't you dare call me Mimie!' she yelled, and with a frantic shove that knocked him back on his heels she wriggled free from his hold. On shaking legs she spun across the kitchen to put the width of the breakfast table between them. Flushed and furious, and with her heart pounding madly, she grasped the back of one of the pine chairs to steady herself.

  Luke turned around and leant casually back against the bench. He saw her white-knuckled grip on the chair, the anger and the fear in her huge eyes, and cursed under his breath. He should never have pounced on her so fiercely. But she had enraged him with her estimation of his character and he had completely lost control, which was most unlike him.

  'A simple "no" would have done, Jemma,' he drawled. Why she objected to the name Mimie he was determined to discover. But now was not the time. 'I've never had to pressure a woman into bed and I don't intend to start with you, so you can relax your grip on the chair and get me that drink you offered.'

  'The drink I offered?' Jemma echoed in an incredulous tone, the nerve of the man astounding her. 'Are you crazy? I want you out of my house now.'

  'Now, is that any way to treat a guest?' Luke straightened and strolled forward. 'Think what your father would say if he heard his daughter had behaved with such an appalling lack of manners to the grandson of one of his major shareholders. Then there's Jan as well, as you were so kind to point out.' He stopped beside her, his grey eyes narrowing on her flushed face.

  'My father… Jan…?' Jemma repeated. What was he going on about? And why did she have the uneasy feeling there was a threat in there somewhere?

  'Jan is under the impression—along with everyone else—that you're one step removed from a saint and have lived the life of a nun since the death of your husband. So, as for you not telling her about our one-night stand—that you would cut out your tongue rather than tell her, I believe you said—well, I have no such qualms. I will quite happily tell the whole world I made love to you last year. Though it might spoil your grieving widow act somewhat.'

  His callous comment hurt her deeply—her grief was not an act. Jemma missed her late husband every day; she missed his kindness, his comfort, his conversation, and the sense of absolute love and security that Alan had provided. Yet this arrogant, conceited jerk, who had probably never loved anyone in his life, had the nerve to mock her loss.

  Luke's deriding of her grief transformed her hurt into a cold, defiant anger. Releasing her grip on the chair, slowly Jemma turned and squared her shoulders. 'You would do that? You would deliberately upset Jan in that way? Now, why doesn't that surprise me?' she jeered, giving a disgusted shake of her head. Not waiting for his response, she added, 'Follow me and I'll get you that drink.' Completely ignoring him, she walked out of the kitchen and opened the door into the living room, knowing exactly what he would see.

  She crossed to a small antique bureau that doubled as a drinks cabinet and filled a crystal glass with a shot of whisky.

  'I only have whisky, I'm afraid.' She turned and walked back to where Luke was standing, looking curiously around. 'Here.' She held out the glass and made sure her fingers did not touch his as he took it from her with a brief 'Thanks' and a knowing lift of one dark brow that simply reinforced her determination to be rid of him once and for all.

  'It's a very good Irish malt, I believe—not that I drink it,' she continued, crossing to sit down on one of the large sofas that framed the ornate Victorian fireplace. 'But it was Alan's favourite and he was quite a connoisseur. Now, remind me, what was it you thought so urgent that you had to barge into my house to talk to me?' She watched as he prowled around the room, glass in hand. The room she had thought was spacious suddenly seemed to take on the dimensions of a doll's house with Luke Devetzi's presence, and as the silence lengthened she shifted uncomfortably and finally added, 'Please take a seat.'

  'I'd rather stand, thank you.' One look around the room had been enough to tell Luke the place was a virtual shrine to the late, lamented Alan Barnes… He picked up a framed wedding photograph from among the dozen or more framed photographs arranged on top of a beautifully inlaid console table and grimaced. The bride was Jemma, and she was gazing up into the face of her groom with a totally besotted smile on her face. The tender but triumphant smile on the man's face said it all. The fact that he was quite good-looking, with brown curly hair and laughing blue eyes, did nothing to improve Luke's mood. 'You were a beautiful bride,' he said finally, glancing across at her. She calmly nodded her head in thanks but said not word.

  He put the picture back down and glanced over the others. There was a group photo of the wedding; it had obviously been a big affair. There were more pictures of the happy couple with a crowd of friends at a barbecue, and one of Jemma at her husband's side by a swimming pool, holding his hand and laughing. The image of a near naked Jemma in a tiny bikini darkened his mood still further.

  Frowning, he abruptly turned away and took a swallow of the whisky; there was no denying it was good malt. But he was drinking another man's whisky, lusting after a dead man's wife, and somehow it left a nasty taste in his mouth. He strolled back to where Jemma sat watching him with cool, guarded eyes and lowered his long frame down on the sofa opposite her.

  'Your husband was an attractive man; how long had you known him before you married?' Luke asked, not really sure why. But Jemma fascinated him in a way no woman had in years—if ever, he wryly conceded. Serene and beautiful she might be on the outside, but he knew she was a burning cauldron of passion within.

  'You want a potted history of my life? Then will you get out of it?' she demanded bluntly.

  'If that is what you want…yes.' Luke agreed.

  Taking him at his word, Jemma launched into speech. 'I met Alan when I was twelve and he was twenty-one, working for my Aunt Mary as a researcher. He became my best friend, and later my boyfriend when I was at college. He encouraged my interest in floristry, and when I graduated he encouraged me to set up in business with Liz. He was kind, loving, and totally supportive. We married when I was twenty-two. Four years later he was killed in a gliding accident.'

  'He might have been a paragon of virtue, but he was also a fool to risk his life gliding with a passionate, sexy woman like you at home to warm his bed,' Luke
murmured.

  She didn't like the 'passionate, sexy' bit, that was not Jemma at all, but she let nothing show on her face as she responded coolly, 'You never knew him, so your opinion is irrelevant.'

  'Was he a passionate lover?'

  'That's none of your business,' she snapped, outraged that he dared ask. 'And now I've told you what you wanted to know, will you please leave?'

  'Surely I'm allowed to finish my whisky first?' He raised his glass to her, then took a sip and lounged back on the sofa, stretching his long legs out before him with nonchalant ease.

  Jemma might have guessed it had been too good to be true when he'd agreed to leave so readily. She hoped the whisky choked the damn man. But with a patently false smile she said sweetly, 'If you must.'

  'Thank you. I must say your husband did have great taste in whisky—among other things,' Luke taunted, allowing his eyes to roam slowly over her in blatant masculine appraisal of her gorgeous body.

  She was sitting there so prim, so cool and yet he knew she was anything but… Her back was ramrod-straight, her arms were folded across her lush breasts and her knees were pressed tightly together. If she'd been any more on the defensive she would have been carrying a shield and sword. He wondered why… She wasn't a young girl—she had to be twenty-eight, by his reckoning—and she was certainly no virgin, so why was she intent on denying the sexual chemistry between them?

  'Have you slept with any other man besides me since your husband died?' he asked, and saw the flash of temper in the golden depths of her eyes.

  'Certainly not,' Jemma said without thinking.

  'I see—so why me?' Luke asked, holding her angry gaze with his own. 'I'm entitled to know, Jemma—after all, it's not every day a man picks up a beautiful woman and makes love to her, and then afterwards she slips a wedding ring on her finger and declares that she is married.'

  'Decent men don't pick up women.' she bit out, amazed at his effrontery in asking so many personal questions.