The Greek's Virgin Bride

by Julia James

  And achieve what, precisely?

  She knew the answer. Get herself thrown out of her grand­father's house and sent back to London without a penny for her mother. And she wouldn't go home empty-handed; she wouldn't! She would get Kim the money she deserved, what­ever it took. Even if it meant colluding with Yiorgos Coustakis's attempt to whitewash his behaviour. So she buttoned her lip and stayed silent. From across the table Nikos saw her expression, saw the mutinous gleam in those lustrous chestnut eyes. So, the girl had been brought up in England, by a mother who had her own ideas, had she? Ideas that included depriving the Coustakis heiress of her natural heritage—the language of her father, the household of her grandfather. What kind of mother had she been? he wondered. An image presented itself in his mind—one of those sharp-tongued, upper-class, arrogant Englishwomen, expensively dressed, enjoying a social round of polo and house-parties at one stately home after another. He frowned. Why had she married Andreas Coustakis in the first place? he wondered. Doubtless the marriage would not have lasted, even if Yiorgos's son had not been killed so young. He found himself wondering why Yiorgos had so uncharacteristi­cally let the widow take his granddaughter back to England with her, instead of keeping her in his household. Well, his generosity had been ill-paid! Now he had a granddaughter who could not even speak his own language! / could teach her...

  Another image swept into his mind. That of this flame-haired beauty lying in his arms as he taught her some of the more essential things that a Greek bride needed to be able to tell her husband—such as her desire for him...

  He let his imagination dwell pleasantly on the prospect as they began to dine.

  Through his long lashes, Nikos watched with amusement as Andrea began to eat appreciatively. Though he was pleased to see her take evident sensuous delight in fine food—Esme's gruelling diet had always irritated him, and Xanthe was picky about what she ate as well—he would have to keep an eye on his bride's appetite. At the moment she could get away with hearty eating—her figure was lush and queenly, and she carried no surplus pounds at all, he could tell—but if she continued to put food away like that for the next twenty years she would be fat by forty! A thought struck him. How old was she, exactly? When he'd first set eyes on her he'd taken her for twenty-five or so, but surely Yiorgos would not have kept her unmarried for so long? She must be younger. Probably her English mother and that sophisticated aristocratic society she doubtless enjoyed had served to make her appear more mature than she really was.

  Yet another thought struck him, less pleasant. If she'd been brought up in England just how sure could he be that she was coming to him unsullied? English girls were notoriously free with their favours—every Greek male knew that, and most of them took advantage of it if they got die chance! Upper-class English girls were no longer pure as the driven snow—some of them started their sexual lives at a shamefully early age. Could she still be a virgin? He thought of asking Yiorgos out­right, but knew what the answer would be—Do you care enough to walk away from Coustakis Industries, my friend?

  And he knew what his own answer to that would be.

  Virgin or no, he would marry Andrea Coustakis and get Coustakis Industries as her dowry.

  Eating the delicious dinner—there seemed to be an endless ar­ray of courses—served to take Andrea's mind a fraction off the man opposite her. But only by a minute amount. Then, just as she was beginning to calm, he started talking to her.

  'What part of England do you live in, Andrea?' he asked her civilly, clearly making conversation.

  'London,' she replied, daring to glance across at him briefly.

  'A favourite city of mine. Your life there must be pretty hectic, I guess?'

  'Yes,' said, thinking of the two jobs she held down, working weekends as well as evenings, putting aside every penny she could to help pay off those debts hanging over her mother. Kim worked too, in the local late-night-opening supermarket— neither of them got much time off.

  'So what are the best clubs in London at the moment, do you think?' Nikos went on, naming a couple of fashionable hot-spots that Andrea vaguely recognised from glossy maga­zines.

  'Clubbing really isn't my scene,' she answered. Not only did she get little free time to go out, but the kind of nightlife avail­able in her part of London was not the kind to feature in glossy magazines. Anyway, dancing was out for her, and Kim had brought her up to appreciate classical music best.

  'Oh,' replied Nikos, realising he felt pleased with her an­swer. Clubbing was strongly associated with sexual promis­cuity, and he found himself reassured by her answer. 'What is your "scene", then, Andrea?'

  She looked at him. Presumably he was just making polite conversation to his host's granddaughter.

  'I like the theatre,' she said. It was true—the biggest treat she could give Kim, and herself, was to see the Royal Shakespeare Company, visit the National Theatre, or go to any of the great wealth of other theatres London had to offer. But tickets were expensive, so it was something they did not in­dulge themselves in often.

  Nikos named a couple of spectacular musicals running in the West End currently—obviously he was no stranger to London, Andrea thought. She shook her head. Tickets for such extrav­aganzas were even more expensive than for ordinary theatre.

  'I prefer Shakespeare,' she said.

  She could tell, immediately, she had given the wrong an­swer. She glanced warily at her grandfather. His eyes had al­tered somehow, and she could sense his disapproval focussing on her. Now what? she wondered. Wasn't it OK for her to like Shakespeare, for heaven's sake?

  She got her answer a moment later.

  'No man likes a woman who is intellectually pretentious,' the old man said brusquely.

  Andrea blinked. Liking Shakespeare was intellectually pre­tentious?

  'Shakespeare wrote popular plays for mass audiences,' she pointed out mildly. "There's nothing intellectually elite about his work, if it isn't treated as such. Of course there are huge depths to his writing, which can keep academics happy for years dissecting it, but the plays can be enjoyed on many levels. They're very accessible, especially in modem productions which make every effort to draw in those who, like you, are put off by the aura surrounding Shakespeare.'

  Yiorgos set down his knife and fork. His eyes snapped with anger.

  'Stop babbling like an imbecile, girl! Hold your tongue if you've nothing useful to say! No man likes a woman trying to show off!'

  Astonishment was the emotion uppermost in Andrea's re­action. She simply couldn't believe that she was being cri­ticised for defending her enjoyment of Shakespeare. Automatically, she found herself glancing across at Nikos Vassilis. Did he share her grandfather's antediluvian views on women and their 'intellectual pretensions'?

  To her relief, as she met his eye she realised that there was a distinct gleam of conspiratorial humour in it.

  'So,' said Nikos smoothly, coming to the girl's rescue after her grandfather's reprimand, 'what is your favourite Shakespeare play?' He ignored the glare coming from his host at his continuing with a line of conversation he disapproved of. Andrea ignored it too, glad to find her grandfather's dinner guest was more liberal in his expectations of female interests.

  'Much Ado About Nothing,' she replied promptly. 'Beatrice and Benedict are my favourite hero and heroine! I just love the verbal warfare between them—she always answers back to every jibe he puts on her, and never lets him put her down!'

  The humour vanished from Nikos's eyes. A bride with a penchant for a heroine specialising in verbal warfare with her future husband was not his ideal. However stunning her auburn looks, he found himself wishing that the Coustakis heiress was all-Greek after all. A pure Greek bride would never dream of taking pleasure in answering her husband back!

  Andrea saw his disapproval of her choice, and her mouth tightened. Nikos Vassilis might be a drop-dead smoothie, but scratch him and he was cut from the same metal as her grand­father, it seemed. Women were not there to be any
thing other than ornamental and docile.

  She gave a mental shrug. Well, who cared what Nikos Vassilis thought women should be—let alone her grandfather? She wasn't here to win the approval of either.

  She went back to eating her dinner. Across the table, Nikos was distracted from thinking further about the woman he had elected to marry by Yiorgos peremptorily asking his opinion on some aspect of global economic conditions. Clearly he had heard quite enough from his granddaughter. It was obviously time for her to revert to being ornamental and docile. And silent. Knowing nothing about global economic conditions, only a great deal about her straitened personal ones, Andrea tuned out.

  Then, after the final course had been removed—and she felt as if she could never look another rich, luxurious dish in the face again—her grandfather abruptly pushed his chair back.

  'We will take coffee in the salon, after I have checked the US markets,' he announced. He looked meaningfully at Nikos as he stood up. 'Join me in twenty minutes.'

  He left the dining room. Nikos glanced after him, then back at Andrea.

  'Even at his age he does not relinquish his mastery, not for a moment,' he said. He sounded, thought Andrea, almost ap­proving.

  'Surely he's got enough money,' she said tartly.

  Nikos, who had got to his feet as the older man had risen, looked down at her.

  'Easy to say that,' he observed evenly, 'when you have lived in luxury all your life.'

  She stared at him. Again, astonishment was uppermost in her breast. Was this more of her grandfather's fairytale at work? She said nothing—Nikos Vassilis was the dinner guest of the man who was going to fund her mother's removal to Spain. Baring her family's unpleasant secrets to him was un­necessary.

  He came around to her side of the table and held out his hand, a smile parting his lips. 'Come,' he said. 'We have been given twenty minutes to ourselves. Let us make the most of them.'

  Thinking that the company of Nikos Vassilis was a good deal more bearable than that of her grandfather—even if he clearly didn't like her approving of Shakespeare's feisty her­oine Beatrice!—Andrea went along with him. He escorted her, hand tucked into the crook of his arm again—a most disturb­ingly arousing sensation, she rediscovered—from the dining room, opening large French windows to emerge out on to the same terrace where she had first seen him that afternoon. After the brightness of the dining room the dim night outside made her blink until she got her night vision. She glanced up.

  The night sky was ablaze with stars. Though it was early summer still, the air was much warmer than it would have been in England. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and walked for­ward, disengaging herself to place her hands on the balustrade and look out over the dim gardens.

  All around in the darkness she could hear a soft chirruping noise.

  'What's that?' she asked, puzzled.

  'You would call them by their Spanish name, I think—ci­cadas,' said Nikos behind her. He had come up to her and was, she realised, standing very close to her. It made her feel wary,. and something more, too, that made her heart beat faster. 'They are like grasshoppers, and live in bushes—they are the most characteristic sound of the Mediterranean at night.' He gave a frown. 'Surely you have heard them before?' he asked.

  Whether or not she had been brought up in England, it was impossible to imagine that a girl from a background as wealthy as hers would not be well-travelled, especially in fashionable parts of the Mediterranean.

  She shook her head, not really paying him much attention. Cicadas—so that was what they sounded like. She remembered how her mother, when Andrea was just a little girl, asking after the father she had never known, had sat on her bed and told her, her soft voice sad and happy at the same time, how she had walked along the sea's edge, so many years ago, hand in hand with the man she loved, heard the soft lapping of the Aegean, the murmurous sound of cicadas in the vegetation. Her heart squeezed—Oh Mum, why did he have to die like that?

  'What are you thinking of?' Nikos asked in a low voice as his fingers drifted along the bare cusp of her shoulder.

  That the touch of your fingers is like velvet electricity...

  'Just someone I think about a lot,' she answered, trying to make her voice sound normal when every nerve in her body was focussed on the sensations of his skin touching hers.

  Why is he touching me? He shouldn't! He's only just met me!

  She wanted to move away, but she couldn't.

  'A man?' There was the slightest edge in his voice, but she didn't hear it. She was only aware of the drift of his fingers on her bare shoulder.

  'Yes,' she said dreamily.

  His hand fell away.

  'What is his name?' The question was a harsh demand. She turned, confused. Why was he angry? What on earth made him think he had any business being angry? Was it just because an unmarried Greek girl shouldn't think of men?

  'Andreas,' she answered tightly. As she spoke she found herself noticing that anger, though it shouldn't, seemed to have sharpened his features into bold relief. He looked, though she shouldn't think it, even more gorgeous.

  'Andreas? Andreas who?'

  She lifted her chin. Whatever right this complete stranger seemed to think he had subjecting her to an inquisition, she answered him straight.

  'Andreas Coustakis,' she bit out. 'My father.'

  He was taken aback, she could see.

  'Your father?' His voiced echoed hollowly. He nodded his head stiffly. 'My apologies.’ He paused. 'You knew him?'

  She shook her head. Her throat felt tight. He must have walked on this very terrace, she suddenly thought. Known this house. Stormed from it the night he was killed...

  'No. But my mother...tells me of him...'

  Nikos heard the betraying husk in her voice. It struck a chord in him deeper than he had thought possible. He, too, had never known his father. Never even known who he was...

  And his mother had never talked of him, except to say that he had been a sailor on shore leave. From a northern clime. Given his son's height, a Scandinavian, perhaps? She hadn't known. Hadn't cared.

  Andrea's mother had cared. Cared enough to tell her daugh­ter about the father she had never known.

  A shaft of envy went through him.

  'What does she tell you?' he heard himself asking.

  Was it the soft Aegean night? Andrea wondered. The kind, concealing blanket of the dark that made her feel, suddenly, that she could tell this man anything—that he would under­stand?

  'She tells me how much she loved him,' she answered, her eyes skimming out into the darkness of the gardens below, lit by the stars above. 'How he loved her, so dearly. How he called her his sweet dove—how he would lay the world at her feet...'

  Her voice broke.

  'And then he died.' The sob sounded deep in her throat. 'And the dream ended.'

  Tears pricked in her eyes. Blinding her vision. Blinding her senses. So she did not feel his arms come around her, taming her into him, folding her head upon his chest so that the tears might come.

  'Hush,' he murmured. 'Hush.'

  For a long, timeless moment she let herself be held by this man, this complete stranger, who had shown her so unexpect­edly the kindness of strangers.

  Tm sorry,' she mumbled. 'I think it's being here, in the house he lived in, and realising how real he once was.'

  She pulled away from him, but he caught her elbows so she could not back away completely.

  'Don't be ashamed to weep for him,' he said to her quietly. 'You honour him with your tears.'

  She lifted her face to his. The tears gleamed on her lashes like diamonds beneath the starry heavens. Her soft mouth quiv­ered.

  He could not help himself. Could not have stopped himself if an earthquake had rumbled beneath his feet.

  His mouth lowered to hers. Caught her sweetness, her ripe­ness. His hands slipped from her elbows, around her slender back, pulling her in towards him.

  She gave a soft gasp, and it was en
ough. His tongue slipped between her parted lips, tasting the nectar within. He moved his mouth slowly, but, oh, so sensuously on hers, and he felt her tremble in his arms.

  A rush of desire flooded through him. She was exactly how he wanted her to be. Her body ripe in his arms, her mouth tender beneath his.

  He deepened his kiss, his hands as of their own volition sliding down her back to shape the rich roundness of her bot­tom.

  Sensation whirled through Andrea. She felt as if she was melting against him, her body moulding to his, and her mouth—oh, her mouth was like a flower, dissolving in sweet­ness.

  Warm shivers ran through her body. She couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything, anything at all, except the sensa­tions flooding through her veins, liquid, honeyed, sweeping her away, drowning her in desire.