by Pippa Roscoe
‘But I—’
‘I told you to burn that T-shirt.’
It had been perverse of her to insist on wearing it today, she’d known that. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. It was an act of defiance. An act of revenge that for some reason had given her just a little of the strength she’d needed to get onto the plane in the first place.
Until the moment she saw herself through his eyes. Standing in his exquisite Athenian estate where sophistication practically dripped from the modern glass chandelier, beautiful swathes of cream and grey adding a surprising warmth to the impersonal wealth she found herself surrounded by, she felt...uncouth.
But more than that she felt hurt. That familiar sting that she had been found wanting. That once again, she wasn’t living up to the perfection people wanted from her. People like her father, Marc, and now Loukis. She knew that Loukis wasn’t being personal, but practical. And it shouldn’t hurt, but it did. Now the T-shirt just felt petty. All her pride and defiance melted away and she gripped her jaw against the swelling tide of emotion she desperately wanted to put down to jet lag.
She cast about for a distraction. Anything that would remove the microscope from her and onto something new.
‘Is Annabelle here?’
‘She is in Texas.’ His clipped tones as harsh as the sounds of his fingers bashing against the keypad of his laptop.
‘Really?’ she replied, half fearful and half disappointed that there wouldn’t be a natural buffer between her and her new fiancé.
‘The visit with Meredith was court appointed. And trust me, I tried to fight it.’
‘Is she okay? You’ve spoken to her?’
* * *
Loukis didn’t miss the concern in her voice and it touched him. He might not have set out on this path wanting a fiancée, but the fact that Célia, who by unhappy circumstances had unwittingly entered into that role, clearly valued his sister’s happiness was a gift.
He just wished that he had more time. More time to get to know Célia, to have vetted her, to have...thought it through a little more? He hadn’t invited a woman back to his estate ever. His affairs had been conducted far away from here. And that was before Annabelle.
Whatever the press might think, it had been three years since he’d lived up to his playboy reputation. A reputation he’d indulged and enjoyed greatly—as had the women who had graced his bed—until the moment he realised the damage it had done to his future.
But it was the damage from his past that had designed his present. All he had known of marriage had been harshly shouted arguments heard from his hiding place on the staircase. His nights were consumed with them. They would start almost immediately after his bedtime. He would be in that lovely hazy moment of near sleep when they would begin. His father complaining about his mother’s drinking, which would escalate to her blaming him for the demise of her modelling career—and by extension Loukis. Then his father would retaliate by raging about her less than private affairs, her extended absence from the family home. On and on, through the nights and years they would go. Throwing verbal barbs and opening wounds, apparently careless of whether their son might be listening.
Marriage, to Loukis, had seemed a battleground. Relationships had become something that he’d never wanted to willingly entertain. Oh, he knew there were instances of couples that seemed to have found their joy in each other. But they were few and far between and dissipated beneath the pain and ferocity of his parents’ own relationship.
But, as Célia peered at him from her stance taken up in the doorway as if ready to bolt at any moment, he reminded himself that he wasn’t getting married. That this was a fake engagement to ensure that his sister never bore witness to such a thing. Was never tainted by that same feeling that he had been.
Meredith’s abandonment of her three years before had already done enough damage. His sole focus, now, was to ensure that no more harm could be done to his sister.
‘I’m due to speak to her later tonight. But she has arrived and is...well. With them.’
‘Them?’
‘Meredith has apparently found herself a rich Texan oil baron as her latest victim. I can only imagine that the man has strong family values, otherwise Meredith would never have returned for Annabelle. Children—according to my mother—have an aging affect that is deplorable to her.’
He recited the line by rote. One of the many accusations she had hurled at his father.
‘I’m sorry, Loukis.’
He must have given himself away. Perhaps his mask had slipped to reveal emotions that were far too close to the surface for his liking.
‘My housekeeper will show you to our room. Your bags should already—’
‘Our?’
He frowned, wondering what had been unclear about his statement. ‘Yes, “our” room.’
He could have laughed at the shocked look on her face, widening her beautiful amber eyes with something akin to horror. That was new. He’d never had that reaction to the suggestion he share a bed with a woman before.
‘I’m not sharing a...room with you,’ she replied, clearly stumbling over the moment she might have said bed.
Instantly the misstep threw up a riotous display of imagery, Loukis peeling away the straps of her bra, placing kisses across the delicate line of her collarbone, leading down over the gentle slope of her breast to—
Loukis cut off the errant chain of thought, desperately fighting the shocking streak of arousal that had shot through him and instead casting his gaze to the hallway to make sure that no staff were within hearing distance.
‘Would you care to sit for this conversation?’ he asked, gesturing to the seat opposite him.
‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she replied, as if waiting, bracing herself for some kind of penance.
‘Célia, let me explain something to you. You have agreed to become my fiancée.’
‘I don’t remember being given much choice.’
‘And as such,’ he pressed on as if she had not interrupted, ‘we need to be seen as a couple very much in love and ready to spend the rest of our lives together. And when I say “be seen”, I do not mean just when we’re out in public. Everything I have, everything I love, is riding on this engagement being believed. By everyone. By Meredith, by the courts, by my sister and I will not have that at risk because a member of my staff sees that we are using separate rooms.’
Although he had not raised his voice to a level that could be overheard, Célia felt the vehemence of his words right down to her toes. His insistence that they share a room became a primal demand within her, one she seemed powerless to deny.
Célia knew what he was saying made sense. That it was in her interest as much as his not to be found out. Because if they were, the damage to her reputation and business would be apocalyptic. But the thought of sharing a room, let alone a bed, with Loukis Liordis was terrifying. Not because she was in any way scared of the man. No, she was more scared of herself. Because somehow the thought of sharing such an intimacy with him thrilled her. It sent a cascade of electrical bursts through her body, ensuring that every inch of her was hyperaware, over-sensitised even. She hadn’t even felt this way about Marc. And that was warning enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
CÉLIA STEPPED OUT of the car that had picked her up from the stylist’s and brought her to what she could only presume was one of Greece’s most renowned restaurants—if the deluge of supercars on display lining the road was anything to go by. Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, McLaren. The brands rolled off her tongue like a shopping list for the rich and famous.
Reluctantly she had to admit that four hours ago she would have been terrified to even get out of the car. But Layna, despite her severe and frosty demeanour, had been a revelation. Instead of being superior and dismissive, she had peppered Célia with a hailstorm of questions. What she wanted from her clothing
, what colours she had in her apartment, did she have a favourite painting, what did she see clothing as being to her. All the different questions had initially seemed unconnected, but as Layna took her through the selection she had cultivated while Célia was getting her hair and make-up done, she realised how the woman had woven a select wardrobe built from her. How each piece reflected something of the answers she had given about her life, her tastes, her fantasies even. She couldn’t deny how they flattered and had miraculously unfurled some hitherto unknown sense of pride and satisfaction in her looks.
Which had made her sad. Sad because, once, she had loved dressing in bright clothes, had relished a sense of her own beauty. Before she had cast aside her family name, been discarded by Marc, and hidden within bland, invisible clothing so as not to be seen. Not to be noticed. Because if she was honest with herself, Célia was a little fearful of what such close inspection would reveal.
She brushed aside a layered lock that she was just about getting used to. Before the hair stylist had got his hands on her, she had been unconcerned about the universally shoulder-length, light brown strands. And perhaps that had been part of the problem. The moment she had caught sight of herself in the mirror she hadn’t been able to prevent the shocked gasp that had fallen from her lips.
‘Nai. Good? Good.’
She hadn’t even been able to muster any kind of resentment at the knowing gaze and asked and answered question from the hair stylist. Because he was right. Taking her hair a few shades darker, a rich, warm auburn shade of mahogany, had made her somehow more her. Her pale skin now seemed creamier, richer. And her eyes—they glowed. She glowed. But more than that, she felt it deep within her. A feminine pride she hadn’t realised that she’d sorely missed.
As she got out of the car, she picked up the gorgeous forest-green silk of the dress’s skirt so it wouldn’t get damaged on the pavement. The moment she had seen the dress, her heart had thudded in her chest. She’d never usually wear such a thing, certainly couldn’t usually afford such a thing, but Loukis appeared to be more than willing to fund the extravagance. The dress seemed timeless, having borrowed aspects from different periods, and rather than confusing was somehow eternally elegant. The halter-neck detail that swept from behind her neck, between her breasts and round to the low dip of her spine offered a more risqué design, while the style of the details, the small green jewels sewn into the overlaid cream fabric, suggested grandeur and delicacy.
Her make-up had been kept simple apart from a swipe of bright red matt lipstick and her only accessory was a golden clutch that—as yet—was completely empty. ‘But appearances must be kept,’ Layna’s command echoing in her mind.
Her golden sparkly heels glinted in the street lights and as she straightened up, she caught the approving glance of the driver, before he quickly masked his features. It fired a little spark within her. Not because of the driver, but because it gave her a little hope as to what Loukis’s reaction might be.
And momentarily she faltered, wobbling a little on her too-high heel. She shouldn’t be wondering that. She shouldn’t be blurring the lines at all. This wasn’t some fairy-tale romance, with her own private Cinderella moment. This was a carefully constructed lie in order to get Loukis what he wanted. Hadn’t he already proved the lengths he would go to in order to do so? Hadn’t he already threatened her reputation and her business? No. She had to remember that he was proving himself to be just like her father, just like Marc. Only interested in her for what she could get for him.
It was precisely this chain of thought that caused the slight flattening of her lips, the barely perceptible tense line to her shoulders. None of the other diners in the restaurant would have noticed such a thing, all too readily consuming the beautiful vision she presented. But Loukis did. He noticed every single thing about her as she walked towards the glass-fronted balcony to where he sat at a table beneath the night sky, waiting but most definitely not ready.
The fierce red slash of colour on her lips was almost carnal and his hands clenched into fists as she swayed towards him provocatively on high-heel-clad feet. Her hair was a different shade, which seemed so much more natural than her previous colouring. The colour reminded him of autumn, but a glorious fireball of autumn that promised warmth...heat even.
Fire. He was playing with fire. Because he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he’d found Célia strangely alluring even dressed in that horrible beige top. But that inner sense of beauty he’d known she masked was now on full display for all to see. And it was incredible.
Wordlessly, he stood as the waiter guided her towards him, as if presenting him with some great gift. He watched as she walked towards him. The streak of lightning that cut through him when their eyes met was something he tried hard to ignore. This evening had one purpose. Everything had been arranged, right down to the second. That should be what he was focusing on, not the way that her hips swayed beneath the deep green silk of her dress, the way that it veed down her sternum, revealing rather than hiding the dramatic slope of her breasts. Not the way it cut in at her waist, giving her a true hourglass figure and making his mouth water.
As she reached the table neither seemed capable of moving and, while the waiter discreetly retreated, they faced each other like combatants.
Breaking the spell, he rounded the table and pulled out her chair for her, his arms either side of her feeling the heat from her body through the thin linen shirt he wore, his sleeves rolled back so that the fine dark hairs on his arms pricked up. He lingered imperceptibly, pausing just long enough to try to identify the gentle swathe of perfume kissing his senses, one he vaguely remembered from before. It was a bitter-sweet citrus scent that was balanced by something fresh and delicious that reminded him of basil.
He felt her flinch beneath him and removed himself from temptation, skirting back around the table and resuming his own seat. He sighed. No one was going to believe they were engaged if she kept jumping every time he came within a hair’s breadth of her.
‘Did you—’
‘You look—’
They had spoken together and each cut themselves off mid-sentence at the same time. Loukis frowned his discomfort. There was an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been present before. But then, before, they’d been working together. Now they were...
He gestured for her to go first.
‘Did you manage to get hold of Annabelle?’
Loukis clenched his teeth, not needing to vent his frustrations at this moment in time. He would wait until later for that. ‘Meredith had decided to take her out for the afternoon, so I will have to try again later.’
She nodded and looked about. He wondered what she was seeing. The balcony of the restaurant jutted out from the building like an architectural feat, dramatically increasing the floorspace of the flat rooftop. He had reserved the whole area. For privacy and for other important reasons, not least because of the beautiful views of the Athenian skyline at night. Framed by the dark slash of the mountain range, the Parthenon was lit dramatically in the distance, its place high up on the hill drawing every gaze, tourist and local alike. Dusk had fallen, barely an inch of pale purple remaining as the dark promise of night bled into it.
Loukis took this all in in one glance, his gaze reluctant to leave her for more than a few seconds.
‘You look beautiful.’
Her amber eyes flew back to him from the horizon, as if she was attempting to silently interrogate his meaning, his motivation.
‘Better than the beige T-shirt, then,’ she said, the sting of the bitterness in her tone dimmed slightly by the sadness he didn’t miss in her eyes.
‘The item in question was offensive only in that it was painfully obvious what you were trying to hide.’
‘And that was?’ she asked, seemingly genuinely intrigued.
‘Everything in you that is innately beautiful.’
He hadn’t
meant to say those words. He hadn’t mean to be so truthful. But there was a vulnerability about her that night that called forth the only honesty he could give her.
He knew women well. Had made it his mission to study and understand them when his own mother seemed so impossible to predict, to identify. So he knew women who would hide their pain beneath brittle masks, knew women who displayed their sensuality like a glorious fan of peacock feathers, knew women who aggressively sought dominance where they had once lost it in the past, and knew women who hid their inner sense of power and sensuality, hoarding it protectively from view. And he very much thought that Célia was of the latter variety. But as if sensing it was too much for both of them, he picked up and perused the menu blindly.
‘What would you like to drink?’
As if the waiter had sensed it was safe to return, he appeared on the balcony to take their order.
Célia seemed to take a deep breath, turned smilingly at the man and ordered a martini. It surprised him; her choice bold, the drink dry, and the request for a twist of lemon rather than an olive seemed to suit her.
‘Same,’ he stated to the waiter without taking his eyes off Célia, who was clearly uncomfortable with his constant gaze.
‘I’m surprised that you didn’t order for me,’ she said, placing her hands on her lap beneath the table. Probably, he assumed, turning them within each other as she had done before.
‘That was for speed and efficiency. This is not.’
‘What is this for, then?’
It was then that he decided not to tell her of his plans for that evening. He would need her to be as natural as possible—and even before they had ordered drinks she’d had a streak of tension through her as if she were ready to bolt.
‘This is so that we can get to know each other a little more.’
