What the Greek's Wife Needs
Page 18
‘What?’
‘Just in case it isn’t only conversation and you leave before we’re back from the dance floor, message me his name and a photo, and call me in the morning.’
* * *
Oblivious to the energy and buzz surrounding him, Finn Calvert stared unseeingly into his drink, his usually ordered thoughts a jumble, his legendary focus blitzed.
Twelve months. Eighteen at most. That was how long his father had left.
Details of the phone call he’d received an hour ago, which had ripped him apart and shattered his world, ricocheted around his head.
Four weeks ago, unbeknownst to him, his father had gone to his doctor complaining of a prolonged cough and shortness of breath. Subsequent tests had revealed lung cancer. Metastasised. Incurable.
Devastating.
Ever since his mother’s death when he was young his father had been his only family. He’d been the one who’d brought him up and who’d fished him out of the trouble he’d got into as an angry teenager. When, at eighteen, Finn had announced he wanted to buy the bar where he’d been working and which was up for sale, his father had been his initial investor. Over the years he’d subsequently proved a solid sounding board and his staunchest supporter, and the bond they shared was deep and unassailable.
Now he was dying, and there wasn’t a thing he—Finn—with all his wealth and influence, success and power, could do about it.
His jaw clenched and his fingers tightened around the glass as he fought back a hot surge of emotion, a tangle of helplessness, injustice and rage. Why had his father waited so long before seeing his GP? Why hadn’t ever he said anything about not feeling well?
And how had he not noticed that anything had been wrong? His father could be guarded at times and had practically invented the stiff upper lip, but that was no excuse. Nor was the acquisition of a hugely grand yet derelict Parisian hotel, the renovation of which had become so complex that Finn had barely had a moment’s thought for anything else. He should have made time. He should have visited his father more often. Then he might have seen that something wasn’t right.
But he hadn’t and now it was too late, and the guilt and the regret were crucifying him in a way that, contrary to his hopes, alcohol was doing nothing to dull. All he wanted from the whisky he was drinking was oblivion. Just for tonight. There’d be time for stoicism and practicality in the morning. But the whisky might as well have been water because the pain was as excoriating as it had been an hour ago and his chest still felt as if it were caught in an ever-tightening vice.
By coming here he’d chosen the wrong place, he thought, downing the remainder of his drink and feeling the burn momentarily scythe through the turmoil. It was convenient, certainly, but it was too loud, too damn full of fun and laughter. He ought to leave and go in search of a darker, quieter, harder bar, one where he could sit on his own in the shadows and the alcohol would flow without question.
And he ought to leave now.
‘Hi.’
The soft voice came from his right, puncturing the fog swirling around in his head and freezing him mid-move. The sexy, feminine timbre of it hit him low in the gut and wound through him from there, heating the blood suddenly rushing through his veins and reigniting sensation everywhere.
Automatically, Finn lifted his head and turned it in her direction. She was standing a foot from him, enveloping him with an intoxicating combination of heat and scent, confidence and vibrancy. His gaze locked onto hers, and in that instant the overall impression he had of dark, tousled hair, dazzling smile and a short black sequinned dress was pulverised by a punch of lust so strong it nearly knocked him off his stool.
Lost in the soft brown depths of her eyes and unable to look away, he felt his pulse slow right down. The noise and activity of the club faded. His surroundings disappeared. His head emptied of everything but a strange sense of recognition.
Which was absurd, he told himself, getting a grip and blinking to snap the connection. His foundations had been rocked. His defences were weak. Recognition? No way. They didn’t know each other.
But they could.
They could get to know each other very well.
Because the intense attraction that had hit him like the blow of a hammer was not one-sided, he realised as he let his gaze drift over her in a leisurely assessment. She felt it too. Quite apart from the fact that she’d been the one to approach him, he could see it in the dilation of her pupils and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. In the flush on her cheeks and the accelerated flutter of the pulse at the base of her neck. He could hear it in the hitch of her breath and feel it in the way she was now very slightly leaning towards him.
And it occurred to him then that perhaps there were other ways to achieve the mindlessness he craved. Perhaps a night of hot sex and dizzying pleasure would succeed where alcohol had failed. Just the thought of it was pushing aside his father’s devastating diagnosis and his own reaction to it. Imagine the reality. If he switched his focus and put his mind to it he wouldn’t even have to imagine.
‘Hello,’ he said, giving her a slow smile that had felled many a woman over the years and was clearly no less effective tonight, if the sparkle that appeared in her eyes was anything to go by.
‘Would you mind if I joined you?’
‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’
Copyright © 2020 by Lucy King
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ISBN-13: 9781488073007
What the Greek’s Wife Needs
Copyright © 2020 by Dani Collins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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