The Greek Tycoon's Reluctant Bride

Demos regarded her for a moment, and in the yellow wash of a passing car’s headlights Althea could see a considering gleam in his eyes. ‘There’s a little taverna on the next street,’ he said. ‘A quiet place, with good wine.’

Althea took a breath, tried not to think of the implications of his invitation. She made it a policy never to get this far, this close. Yet she’d broken that cardinal rule, and now she didn’t know what to do. How to act.

He’d led her through a maze of twisting alleys and streets and she had no idea how to get back to the club, or even to a thoroughfare that would have reliable taxis. She nodded slowly, and then forced herself to shrug. ‘Fine.’

He held out his hand, and with another shrug and a little smile Althea took it. She shouldn’t like the way his hand felt encasing hers, she knew, warm and dry and safe. She shouldn’t curl her fingers around his as if she wanted him to keep holding her, touching her. Yet she did.

A few minutes later they arrived at the promised taverna, a narrow, quaint place, crammed with tables and rickety chairs, dusty bottles lining the walls. The proprietor, a tall, gangling man in a three-piece suit and apron, welcomed them in.

‘Demos! Long time, eh? What brings you here?’

‘A party,’ Demos said with a shrug, but he clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Good to see you, Andreolos.’

Althea was surprised. From the innate grace and arrogance with which he’d strode through the club, not to mention dealt with Angelos, she’d expected him to entertain at five-star hotels on the Plaka, not dusty holes-in-the-wall in Psiri.

Andreolos ushered them to a table tucked in the corner, gave them menus and went to fetch a bottle of wine from under the bar. Althea wrapped her spangled shawl more modestly around herself, conscious yet again of how tarty she must appear.

‘Regretting your choice of attire?’ Demos asked, and she heard a mocking note in his voice that made her flush. Then he surprised her by adding quietly, ‘You look beautiful.’

In the dim intimacy of the taverna, with their knees touching under the tiny table, she took a moment to study the man whose attention and interest she’d captured. And had he captured hers? She considered the question reluctantly; she didn’t like to think that a man—any man—could have a hold over any part of her. Body, mind, heart.

Yet she’d gone with him; she’d been planning to go with him even before Angelos had intercepted their exit. She’d wanted to.

Why?

She thought of that deep shaft of pleasure-pain she’d felt when he looked at her, touched her, and then shoved the memory away with resolute determination.

She couldn’t afford memories like that.

He glanced down at the laminated menu, giving her ample time to study his features.

He was good-looking, undoubtedly, although not in the stylised, almost feminine way most of the young men of her circle were.

His face wasn’t beautiful; it was too rugged and individual for that. His hair was dark, longer than most men’s, touching his collar, raked arrogantly back from his face. His eyes were silvery grey under fierce arching brows. His nose would have been straight and perfect if not for a slight crook in the middle, suggesting it had been broken at some time in the distant past. And his mouth…lips that were sculpted, full. Surprisingly soft in such a hard face.

She tried to remember what the tabloids said about him, but the details escaped her. She tried never to read the gossip rags anyway. She knew all too well how they twisted the truth and lied outright. And she let them.

Andreolos came with the bottle of wine and two glasses, and they were both silent as he poured. Demos smiled his thanks at the man, then lifted his glass in a toast, the ruby-coloured liquid glinting in the lamplight.

‘Yasas,’ he said, in the familiar drinking toast, and Althea murmured it back before she took a sip. ‘So,’ he said musingly, and Althea tensed. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She took another sip of wine. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Your name, to start.’

Althea smiled mischievously. ‘I thought we agreed it would be better if you didn’t know.’

His mouth quirked in an answering smile. ‘Woman of mystery?’

‘Of course.’

He chuckled, and Althea wondered why it mattered. It didn’t make sense; he could find her name out easily enough by asking anyone in that club. She was surprised that he didn’t know it already, and that she’d never seen him outside the tabloids before.

She noticed now a few grey streaks at his temples, and wondered how old he was. Older than most of her crowd, at any rate. Older and more experienced—more sophisticated. More dangerous, she reminded herself.

She took another sip of wine.

‘All right, Woman of Mystery,’ Demos said, his tone lazy and languorous, ‘I suppose I’ll have to think of a name for you myself.’

Althea’s lips curved. ‘Such as?’

He studied her, his eyes heavy-lidded over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Elpis,’ he finally said at last, and Althea let out a short laugh of disbelief.

‘That’s an interesting choice.’

‘Do you know who she is?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Hope. The only thing left in Pandora’s box.’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know who she is?’

He laughed, and she could tell he had recognised how he’d patronised her. ‘Vaguely,’ he admitted, his eyes glinting in the dim light, sending a strange shiver of foreboding through Althea. She shouldn’t let him affect her like this…even if he was different.

‘So.’ She placed her wine glass on the table and leaned forward, her wrap slipping off one shoulder. ‘What kind of hope do I give you?’ she asked, and there was a knowing, sardonic edge to her voice that had his eyebrows rising in surprise.

His eyes flicked over her, resting briefly on her bare shoulder. ‘I think you know,’ he murmured.

She smiled, leaned back, and said nothing. She felt the slight, stupid sting of disappointment. It was about sex. Always about sex. Just sex. Of course. Had she thought for a moment he wanted something more? Had she hoped for it? Why?

Maybe he wasn’t so different after all.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ she said after a moment. Demos shrugged.

‘I’m a yacht designer. I also run a business letting luxury yachts to the discerning customer.’ He smiled and she nodded, her interest piqued. He wasn’t another boy intent on spending his father’s inheritance. He was a man who had presumably made his own money.

‘You like it?’ she asked.

‘Very much.’

‘Why?’

The question surprised him, she could tell. He took a sip of wine before speaking. ‘I like to see the designs come to life. From nothing, to lines on paper, to something made of steel and glass—something that races across the sea.’ He gave a little smile, almost of embarrassment, as if he’d said too much.

‘That must be a nice feeling,’ Althea agreed, and she couldn’t quite keep the wistful note from her voice. ‘To create something.’

‘And what do you do? Besides play and party.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I need to do anything else?’

‘A beautiful woman need only exist,’ Demos replied smoothly. Too smoothly.

‘An ornament, you mean?’ Althea said flatly, and she could tell he was surprised. He thought he’d been complimenting her.

‘So tell me what you do, then,’ he said, a cool note entering his voice.

Althea smiled sardonically, although she kept her voice light. ‘I exist, of course.’ Exist. So much less than living, loving. Nothing more than a state of being.

She could feel Demos’s eyes on her—felt his curiosity, his interest and, worse, a flicker of compassion. Pity.

‘Are you happy?’ he asked, and Althea realised no one had ever asked that before.

She looked up, saw him smile and laughed—a hard, brittle sound. ‘Of course I am. Look at me.’ She raised her arms. ‘Do you honestly think a woman like me could be unhappy?’

It was a bold question, one she didn’t want answered. She was beautiful; she knew that. Beautiful people didn’t have problems. Beautiful people were always happy. They had to be.

Demos’s gaze moved over her slowly, thoughtfully. Althea watched and waited. She wanted to look away; she wanted to hide. She hated feeling examined, explained away, yet for some reason Demos didn’t look like a man trying to find answers. He looked more in search of questions. ‘I would find it difficult to believe,’ he finally said, and Althea dropped her arms.

‘There you are, then,’ she said, and drained her glass.

The ensuing silence hummed and buzzed between them with expectation, and Althea toyed with the stem of her wine glass. ‘Are you married?’ she asked after a moment.

Demos’s own glass slammed onto the table with enough force to send liquid sloshing over the rim. Andreolos hurried forward and dabbed at the spill before retiring once more.

‘What the hell kind of question is that?’

Althea shrugged. ‘I have to ask.’

‘Do married men pick you up in clubs often?’ he asked, and she wondered if the distaste thickening his tone was for her or for the married men.

‘I try to stay away from wedding rings,’ she replied.

Demos arched one eyebrow. ‘Even on your own finger?’

‘Absolutely.’

He paused, his eyes hard and bright with speculative satisfaction. ‘Then we shouldn’t have a problem.’

He smiled, and she watched as he poured her more wine. No problem, she thought, because he had no intention of marrying. No intention, perhaps, of even calling her or seeing her again. A few preliminaries, the standard ‘tell me about yourself’, and then his undoubtedly well-used one-liner about Pandora’s box. Hope.

For heaven’s sake. She’d almost fallen for it, almost wondered—believed—that he was different.

That she was.

Althea closed her eyes briefly; she felt a sudden sorrowful weariness that threatened to wash over her in an endless tide. She was so tired of men like Demos. So tired of nights like this. So tired of being the party princess who never said no to a drink, a dance.

Who didn’t know how.

She opened her eyes and saw Demos looking at her with far too much perception—and yet not nearly enough. Had she thought he might understand? Might want to? Was that why she’d come out with him alone, unescorted, unprotected? Dancing in a club was safe. Flirting, partying, promising. All safe.

This wasn’t.

She needed safety. She needed escape. She needed it now.

She flicked her hair back with a little smile, her decision made. ‘Where’s the ladies’ room in a place like this?’

‘It’s a closet in the back,’ Demos replied. His eyes narrowed slightly as he added, ‘Probably not what you’re used to.’

‘Not to worry.’ Althea slid from her chair, taking her wrap and her tiny beaded bag, trying to act casual. Her heart was starting to thump so loudly she was sure Demos could hear it, see it through her skimpy dress. ‘Be back in a moment,’ she promised with a little smile, and he nodded.

She wove her way through the tables, down a narrow corridor to the bathroom at the back. She could see a few men in greasy aprons cooking in the tiny kitchen at the end of the hallway. They glanced up as she approached, then turned back to their flaming skillets. There was a door, she saw with relief, to a back courtyard.

She waited a moment, until she couldn’t see anyone either in front or behind, and then strode quickly to the back door. For a second, no more, she imagined turning around and going back to the table. Sitting with Demos, drinking good wine, talking, laughing, learning about each other.

And where would it lead? Where would he expect it to lead? Where did he intend for it to lead? He’d already told her. Hope.

Ha.

With a grim little smile she clenched the knob and wrenched the door open. Outside in the cramped courtyard she breathed in a lungful of greasy fumes; the vent from the kitchen blew out into the cluttered space. There was an overflowing skip of rubbish next to the door, a couple of rickety chairs, no doubt placed for the waiters to have their cigarette breaks, and high, soot-stained stone walls separating the courtyard from those of the neighbouring buildings. On every side.

There was no way out.

Althea slowly circled the courtyard before cursing aloud. She was trapped.

‘Going somewhere, Elpis?’

Her breath came out in a startled rush and her eyes flew to Demos, now lounging in the doorway, a sardonic smile curving that mobile mouth, his eyes glinting in the darkness. He looked lazily amused, yet underneath Althea sensed something deeper, darker.

She swallowed and opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The evidence was obvious. Impossible to deny. She’d been trying to run out on him.

He uncoiled himself from his relaxed pose and closed the space between them in a couple of strides.

‘I don’t think you were skipping out on the bill,’ he murmured, though she heard the edge in his voice. Felt it. He was close enough that his breath ruffled her hair. ‘So you must have been skipping out on me.’ He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and Althea shivered. ‘And I’m wondering why.’

He stood so close to her she could feel his heat. She felt her mind go numb. Blank.

‘Cold feet?’ he whispered against her hair, mockery hardening his tone. ‘Or are you just playing a game?’

Althea was tall, but she still wasn’t at eye-level with him. She stared straight ahead at the collar of his shirt, opened at the throat, saw the sharp line of his collarbone, the skin tanned a deep, working man’s brown. She swallowed and said nothing.

Demos lifted his hand, trailed his fingers lightly down her cheek. ‘You intrigue me, Elpis,’ he whispered. ‘You’re different from most of the spoiled socialites I meet. I think you might be as bored with the club scene as I am.’ She arced her head away from him, and his fingers closed around her chin, tilting it so she was forced to meet his iron gaze. ‘But I don’t play games, so you’d better not try them with me.’

Something sparked to life and she jerked her chin from his grip. ‘All of this is a game.’

‘Is it?’ His eyes fastened on hers, searching, demanding. ‘And who wins, I wonder?’

Althea’s lips curved in a smile. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sick. She shook her hair back, smiled again. She let the smile play about her lips, let Demos notice, saw his own eyes darken with desire even as his mouth remained unsmiling and hard. ‘And the game is over, Demos,’ she whispered. ‘For tonight. If I intrigue you so much you’ll have to work a little harder. Find out my name first…and it’s not Elpis.’ Then, driven by a need she couldn’t even name, she stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward, meaning only to brush her lips with his in the barest kiss of farewell.

She planned on never seeing him again. Certainly not alone.

Demos stilled her, his hands curling around her shoulders. Their lips were a breath apart. ‘Are you sure this is how you want to end tonight?’ he asked in a lazy murmur, and Althea felt control trickling away, felt her body and mind freeze once more. ‘Because,’ Demos continued, ‘I’ve been wondering what it will feel like to kiss you all evening. What you taste like. And I think you’ve been wondering the same thing.’

She couldn’t open her mouth to deny it; his lips were too close.

‘And I think,’ Demos continued with a knowing edge, his lips almost—almost—brushing hers as he spoke, ‘I’m going to let you wonder a little bit more. You want me, Elpis. You want me as much as I want you. I can tell.’

Althea wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to deny it with as much scathing disdain as she could muster. And yet she couldn’t quite make herself say the words.

She’d never wanted anyone. Any man. And she sure as hell wouldn’t want this arrogant ass either.

Demos’s mouth hovered over hers a second longer, long enough for Althea’s lips to part in instinctive invitation, even though her mind was screaming its useless denial. She felt him smile against her mouth, and then he stepped back and released her.

‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

For a shattered second all Althea could do was stare, blink, her mind and body shocked and numb. Then she nodded mutely, still unable to form a thought, much less a sound. She knew it would be difficult for her to get a taxi in this part of Psiri—a woman alone on the street. And she wanted to go home…alone. Even if Demos had won this round. Even if she was left wondering, wanting, unsure and unsated.

She followed Demos through the taverna, weaving her way through the tables, and tried to ignore Andreolos and the other waiters’ speculative looks.

Out in the street a couple staggered past them, laughing uproariously and clearly drunk.

Althea wrapped her arms around herself. The wind had picked up and was now slicing through her skimpy dress.

Demos hailed a taxi in a matter of seconds—an admirable accomplishment in any part of Athens, and certainly in this neighbourhood.

Althea pushed past him without a word, too frozen in body and spirit even to offer her thanks. She felt something heavy drop over her shoulders and she stiffened in surprise.

It was his blazer.

‘You’re shivering,’ he said, and handed the taxi driver a wad of euros.

‘I don’t—’

‘Yes,’ he replied with flat certainty, ‘you do.’ He closed the door in her face, leaving her alone in the darkened taxi, speeding away, his jacket still on her shoulders.

* * *

Demos watched the taxi disappear around the corner and wondered where she was going. He wondered who she was.

He was intrigued by her spirit, her sass, as well as by the hidden depths in those jewel-like eyes. She wasn’t, he mused, an empty-headed socialite—even though she pretended to be one. He had a feeling she wasn’t the easy slut Angelos had claimed her to be either.

So who was she? And why did he want her so much?

Was it the challenge, the mystery? Or the simple fact that he was currently unattached and bored?

No, it had to be more than that; there had been at least a dozen debutantes in that forsaken club that would have gladly come home with him. He hadn’t given them a single look. They hadn’t been worth a single thought.

But her…

She’d been going to run out on him. He smiled at her sheer audacity and nerve, even though he’d been furious—furious and stupidly a little hurt—at the time.

Why had she been sneaking out? Had she been bored? Provocative? Or something else altogether? He didn’t like games. He should have left her there—alone, humiliated. Yet he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.

She had courage. She was beautiful. He wanted her.

Three reasons to make her his, however he could. But first he needed a name.

It didn’t take long. Nothing ever did when you had determination. Demos had discovered that long ago. He paid the bouncer at the club fifty euros to find Angelos and bring him outside.

Demos leaned against the graffiti-splattered brick wall as Angelos came out, looking surly and suspicious.

‘You…!’ he said in disbelief, and then looked quickly around, noticing that the bouncer had stepped closely behind him. ‘What do you want?’

‘A name.’

Angelos shook his head, nonplussed and not a little drunk. ‘What?’

‘The name,’ Demos repeated softly, ‘of the woman I was with tonight.’

Angelos snorted. ‘You didn’t even get her name?’ He glanced around, saw that Althea was absent. ‘She tired of you quick, hey? She’ll come running to me. Althea and I go way back.’

‘Althea,’ Demos repeated in satisfaction. It suited her.

‘Althea Paranoussis,’ Angelos confirmed with a shrug. ‘Daddy’s little rich girl. Stupid sl—’

‘Don’t,’ Demos warned him. ‘Don’t speak of her again. Ever.’

‘What do you care?’ Angelos took a step backwards, and came up against the bouncer. ‘She left you anyway. She’s good at that.’

‘I’m finished here.’ Demos addressed the bouncer, then started down the street. He didn’t look back as Angelos was hustled into the club.

Althea Paranoussis. He had a name. He knew how to find her. And he would, Demos thought with satisfaction. Soon.

CHAPTER TWO

SUNLIGHT poured through the wide windows of Althea’s bedroom, touching the single bed and the girlish white bureau with gold.

Althea lay flat on her back, unmoving, her eyes focused on the blank ceiling. She heard the deliberate heavy tread of her father down the front stairs of their town house and knew he was up, early as always, ready to take a cup of black tea and a koulourakia in the dining room, as he’d done every day of his adult life.

Althea let her breath out slowly but still did not move. She wondered if her father was still angry about her return last night. She hadn’t been out all that late, but he’d clearly been waiting for her to come home, and every second so spent had strained his patience.

He was tired of her. Tired of her parties, her late nights, her increasingly wild reputation. Althea smiled grimly. She was tired too.

‘This has to stop, Althea,’ Spiros Paranoussis had said last night. He’d been in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his white hair thin and wispy, his face flushed with anger. ‘You stop this behaviour or I shall have to stop it myself.’

‘I’m a grown woman, Father,’ Althea replied coolly. She’d stopped calling him Papa when she was twelve.

‘Acting like a spoiled child! Every day there is another story in the tabloids about what you’ve done, who you’ve been with. How am I to hold my head up in town? At work?’

Althea shrugged. ‘That’s not my concern.’

‘It is, alas, mine,’ Spiros said coldly. ‘And if you cannot see fit to curb your behaviour then I shall have to do so for you…by whatever means necessary.’

Althea had shrugged again and gone upstairs. He’d been threatening her for years with consequences he never cared to enforce. She refused to take her father seriously, refused to grant him the respect he demanded—the respect he felt he deserved—and it infuriated him. But he’d lost the right to her respect too many years ago for her to even consider giving it to him now.

With another sigh Althea swung her legs out of bed. She felt woozy, even though she hadn’t had much to drink last night. Just the cocktail and the glass of wine provided by Demos.

Demos… The mere thought of him caused her to wrap her arms around herself in a movement guided by self-protection. Safety.

He’d affected her too much. Made her think, made her feel, and she didn’t want to do either. She thought of the way his lips had almost—almost—brushed hers last night, and even now a deep, stabbing shaft of need made her realise she’d wanted his kiss.

She still did.

With a sigh she pushed her hair from her face and gazed dispiritedly at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale—too pale. The freckles were standing out on her cheeks and nose, her eyes burning bright and blue, and her hair a tangled mass pushed carelessly away from her face. She looked like the unruly child her father had accused her of being last night.

Althea’s mouth twisted. Yet what recourse did she have? Living in her father’s house, a high school drop-out, with no education, no money, no hope.

Hope.

Elpis.

He’d never been so far from the truth.

She slipped into a pair of skinny jeans and a close-fitting cashmere sweater in a soft, comforting grey, then tied her hair back with a scarf and slapped on a bit of make-up.

As she left the room she paused by the blazer she’d slung on a low settee. Against her better judgement she picked it up and held it to her face. It smelled of the nightclub, of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. But underneath those familiar and unpalatable scents was something deeper, foreign yet intimate. Demos.