The Greek's Virgin Bride

by Julia James

  'Oh, the show has begun, Andrea, agape mou. The show has most very definitely begun.'

  It was not the most comfortable meal Andrea had eaten in her life, but it was certainly the most expensive. Not even dinner last night could match lunch today. For a start they were drink­ing vintage Krug champagne. Andrea did not even want to think what that must have cost. Then there were black truffles, caviar, exotic seafood she couldn't even identify served in a delicate sauce with exquisitely presented vegetables. As well as the champagne Nikos ordered wine as well, and by the rev­erence with which it was served—from displaying the label for his approval and the sommelier tasting some in his little silver cup, to Nikos's final approving nod as he sampled first the bouquet and then the wine itself—she could see it must be as expensive as the champagne, if not more so.

  She wished desperately, as she ate her way through a lunch that it would have taken her six months to pay for herself, that she could enjoy it more. It seemed dreadful to have such ex­pensive food in front of her and yet feel as if she had to force down every mouthful. Tension knotted in her stomach like rope.

  It wasn't just that she could see she was being looked over by every person in the restaurant, from the humblest waiter to the richest patron, it was that she was lunching, in public, with Nikos Vassilis.

  Who was making it very, very clear just who he was keeping company.

  The Coustakis heiress.

  It clearly, she thought, her lips tight, gave him one hell of a kick!

  He said as much at one point. Leaning closer, as though to whisper some intimacy to her, he murmured, 'They are all agog, Andrea mou—your name has gone round like wildfire and they are desperate to know who you are! Strange as it seems, no one in Athens knew Yiorgos Coustakis had a grand­daughter—you have been kept as a card up his sleeve! And now—' satisfaction—the satisfaction of a hunger sated, a long hunger born many years ago in the streets of the city—gleamed in his slate eyes '—they can see exactly how the old man has decided to play you! There isn't a man here who does not realise the significance of your being here with me!'

  'Is it public knowledge yet that you will be taking over Coustakis Industries?' Andrea asked. She kept her voice cool and businesslike, though it was an effort to do so. Since he had kissed her with such confident possession, sealing their bargain, it had been an effort to do anything except drown her memory of the recalled sensation of his lips tasting her mouth...

  He took a mouthful of wine, clearly savouring it, then set down the glass.

  'There have been rumours—there are always rumours. After all, Yiorgos is getting older—something must happen to the company. Up till now no one realised he had any heir at all— let alone a hide-away heiress! But now—well, I think they will draw their own conclusions, do you not, agape mouT

  'Don't use endearments to me!' she responded sharply. She didn't like the sound of the liquid syllables in his low, intimate voice.

  He raised a mocking eyebrow. 'My dear Andrea, we are to be married. We must, as I have just told you, put on an appro­priate show. And, speaking of marriage, what are your wedding plans? I tell you frankly I would hope above all that they are speedy. But other than that you can have free rein. I assume your mother will fly out for it?'

  Andrea's face froze. 'No,' she said shortly.

  Kim mustn't even know about the wedding. Andrea would have to get Tony to say she was just staying on here for a few weeks, that was all The last thing she wanted was Kim finding out just what she was planning to do!

  'She dislikes your grandfather so much?' There was an edge in Nikos's voice as he remembered Yiorgos saying that Andrea's mother had had very different views on upbringing from him. Well, given Yiorgos's demonstration of grandfatherly chastisement last night, he could hardly be surprised.

  'I don't want to talk about it,' said Andrea tightly.

  Nikos's eyes narrowed, studying her closed face. There was something wrong here, he thought suddenly. Her eyes were a little too bright, her soft mouth almost trembling beneath the hardened line of her lips. The memory of her standing on the terrace, talking about her father and her mother's memory of him, came back to him. He cursed himself for an insensitive fool.

  'I'm sorry,' he said suddenly. 'Of course she would find it distressing to revisit the place where she was so happy with your father,'

  'Yes,' said Andrea, swallowing, 'that's it'

  'Then perhaps a private wedding would be best, ne?”

  'Definitely,' she agreed. 'And as speedily as it can be ar­ranged.'

  She reached for her wine glass. She had drunk more than she had meant to, but her nerves, beneath the unemotional car­apace that had descended on her, were shaky, she realised. As she moved forward his hand stayed her wrist, closing around it loosely.

  'You are so eager to be my wife, Andrea?'

  His voice had lowered again, taking on that intimate timbre that made her go shivery. Her eyes flew to his. In her wrist, as his thumb rubbed casually along the delicate skin over her veins, a pulse throbbed.

  'I meant,' she said, as brusquely as she could, 'that you must be keen to get the merger underway as soon as possible.'

  She drew her hand away and picked up her wine glass, drinking deeply.

  For a moment Nikos hovered between indignation and amusement. Amusement won out. Mocking amusement. She was responsive to him—he had proved that twice already—and he knew perfectly well that he would dissolve any last resis­tance to him. Knowing now that she was only interested in marrying him for money, he would take particular pleasure in revealing to her just how sexually vulnerable to him he could make her—when he chose. She would leave their marriage bed in no doubt whatsoever that he could turn her into a willing, purring sexual partner, eager to do in bed whatever he wanted her to...

  He frowned. A moment ago he had been feeling sorry for her—mourning, with her mother, her lost father. The girl with the cash-box mentality had been completely absent then.

  Now she was back with a vengeance.

  'As eager to get on with your merger as I am to get my grandfather to release my capital,' she announced crisply.

  The phrase sounded good in her ears. Made it sound the sort of thing that heiresses said—the sort of thing that went down well, with approving nods, in places like this. People were still looking at her, she knew. Word had gone round—the Coustakis heiress was in town.

  And she was lunching with Nikos Vassilis.

  Marriages or corporate mergers—they were all the same thing to people like these.

  There was a sour taste in her throat, despite the wine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lunch seemed endless, and it was well into the afternoon be­fore Andrea could finally escape. And even then she could not escape Nikos.

  He had phoned his office on his mobile, cancelling all his appointments. That alone, he knew, would accelerate the ru­mours. Nikos Vassilis never cancelled appointments—he was assiduous in his pursuit of business and profit.

  He smiled down at his bride-to-be, an intimate smile that Andrea knew was for the benefit of the remaining diners, as they took their leave from the restaurant. 'I thought that you might like to go shopping. I'm sure you will wish for a spec­tacular trousseau!'

  I've got all the clothes I need,' she replied sharply. She didn't want any more clothes—the closets in her room at her grandfather's house were groaning. Today, having made the momentous decision to marry Nikos Vassilis, she had changed into one of the outfits Zoe had shown her—a pair of beautifully cut taupe trousers and a shaped appliqued top. There were more than enough remaining to see her through to her wedding day.

  He gave a disbelieving laugh. 'No woman has all the clothes she needs,' he commented dryly.

  'I'm not interested in clothes,' she said carelessly.

  He laughed again. 'Then you are unique amongst your sex! Besides...' his voice took on a caressing note '...even if you are not interested in clothes, Andrea, they most definitely are in
terested in you...’

  His eyes worked over her torso, blatantly taking in how the jersey material of her top stretched across her full breasts, out­lining their generous swell.

  Unconsciously she tugged at the hem of her top, as if that would instantly conceal her figure.

  'You only reveal yourself more to me,' he said softly, his breath warm on her throat. Fleetingly he ran the back of his hand down her cheek, making her breath catch. 'I would like to choose some clothes for you, Andrea—please allow me that privilege.'

  'I told you 1 had enough!' She pulled away from him, wish­ing her heart-rate had not suddenly started to race at his touch.

  'Something special,' he went on, as if she hadn't spoken, 'for our wedding night.'

  She stilled. Then, with a curious twist to her lips, she nod­ded.

  'If you insist.'

  He smiled with satisfaction. 'Oh, but I do, pethi mou, I do.'

  He took her to an exclusive lingerie boutique in the chic Kolonaki shopping area of Athens. It was the kind of place, Andrea thought, where if you asked for a cotton bra and panties they would throw you out! It was also the kind of place, she realised, the moment the attentive assistant started to fawn all over her escort, where Nikos Vassilis was clearly an extremely valued customer indeed.

  And it didn't take a genius for Andrea to guess just what kind of woman he bought lingerie here for!

  Oh, the assistant was polite enough to her, that was for sure, but it was obvious that she regarded her actual customer as Nikos Vassilis. Andrea knew she had been labelled a passing floozy with a single glance! She let the woman take her mea­surements and whisk out one gauzy confection after another, but declined the offer to try anything on.

  She wouldn't he wearing any of it anyway. Her wedding night would be short-—and very far from sweet.

  Well satisfied with his purchases, Nikos was all set to keep going.

  'Come,' he said persuasively, 'we are surrounded by de­signer shops—take your pick!'

  'No, thanks,' she returned indifferently. 'I keep telling you I've got enough.'

  'Then do me one favour, ne?” He caught her arm. 'Let me buy you a single skirt, now, to change into. You have worn trousers two days running. I far prefer women to wear skirts.'

  'How surprising,' she said with a wry smile. 'Unfortunately for you, I don't wear skirts.'

  He frowned. 'What do you mean, you don't wear skirts?'

  'Exactly that' she replied.

  'You wore an evening dress last night!'

  'That was long,' she said briefly. She wanted to change the subject—fast.

  Enlightenment dawned on him—and relief. For a moment he had feared that she was the type of female who made some kind of nonsensical stand about insisting on wearing trousers on principle. Nikos saw no sense in such an attitude. He was no chauvinist—Vassilis Inc was unusual, he knew, in taking a proactive stance on hiring and promoting women—but he saw no reason why a woman should think she became demeaned as a sex object just for wearing a skirt!

  Now he realised this was not Andrea's attitude.

  'I'm sure your legs are beautiful,' he reassured her. 'They are long and elegant and shapely—I can see that even now.'

  She glanced up at him. The curious twist was on her mouth again.

  'Can you? You must have X-ray vision.'

  He smiled indulgently. 'Even if they are not your best point, agape mou, I can make allowances.'

  The twist to her mouth deepened, but she said nothing.

  'So,' he said, 'let us buy you a skirt—and I will set your fears at rest.'

  Her face went blank.

  'I've done enough shopping for today. I'm bored.'

  His eyebrow rose. He knew of no woman who was bored by shopping—especially when it was his money they were spending. Esme, naturally, was obsessed by clothes and her own appearance—it was her profession, after all. And Xanthe adored being taken by him to her favourite jewellers' shops. She was like a magpie for jewellery, and decked herself in glitter whenever she could. For her, Nikos knew wim a cynical tightening of his jaw, it was an insurance policy for her old age, when she could no longer hold her rich lovers to her side.

  Perhaps Andrea, born to expectations of vast wealth from birth, saw things in a different light.

  'Well, I would hate you to be bored, so how can I amuse you?'

  Andrea didn't like the note in his voice, hinting at meanings she would rather ignore. Didn't like it at all- She started walk­ing along the pavement.

  'I want to go sightseeing,' she said suddenly. After all, she would never come to Athens again. She might as well go sight­seeing now, while she could.

  A pang hit her, hard and painful. This was her father's city. He had been raised here. His blood sang in her veins. She was as Greek as she was English—and this was the first time in her life she was setting foot on Greek soil. And the last.

  Sadness swept through her—sadness and bitterness.

  'Sightseeing?' Nikos queried. 'But you will have seen all the sights a hundred times!'

  She stared at him. I've never been to Athens before—never been to Greece before.'

  Nikos looked at her, disapproval in his expression. It was one thing for Andrea's English mother to be worried about her father-in-law's views on disciplining children, or unwilling to revisit her dead husband's country herself, quite another to for­bid her daughter to visit at all. It was bad enough Andrea did not speak Greek, let alone that she had never been here! He'd assumed that although Yiorgos Coustakis had not paraded his granddaughter to the world, she had, of course, been out here for holidays and so forth.

  'Then it is high time/ he said decisively, 'that I show you Athens.'

  And he did. They spent the afternoon doing what all first-time tourists in the city did—climbing the Acropolis to pay homage to the glory of the first flowering of Western civilisa­tion, the Parthenon.

  Andrea was enthralled, refusing to acknowledge the wave of desolation that swept over her at the thought that soon, all too soon, she would never see Nikos again.

  It didn't matter how much her eyes were drawn to him; it didn't matter how much she revelled in drinking in, as secretly as she could, the bounty that was this paean to manhood at her side. All of this, heady and intoxicating as she increasingly found his company, was nothing more than a temporary inter­lude in her life. Nikos Vassilis, though he could send a shiver of electricity through her with a single glance, the barest brush of his sleeve on her arm, was nothing more than a temporary interlude.

  It was a phrase Andrea forced herself to remember day after day as, for the next two weeks, Nikos Vassilis made it very clear to the rest of the world that he had snapped up the Coustakis heiress as his forthcoming bride and that his sights were set, very firmly, on Coustakis Industries.

  Andrea wished she could get used to him squiring her around-—lunching in fashionable restaurants, dining in fashion­able nightspots, always at her side, attentive, possessive, ram­ming home to all who saw them, time after time, that he was the favoured choice of Yiorgos Coustakis for the rich prize of Coustakis Industries—but she could not. Every time he picked her up in his gleaming, purring, powerful Ferrari she felt a kick go through her like an electric shock.

  She did her best to hide it. Did her best to maintain the stony facade that she knew, instinctively, annoyed him.

  Almost as much as it amused him.

  'My English ice-maiden,' he said to her softly one evening, as she deliberately turned her face away from his greeting so that his lips could only brush her cheek, 'how I will enjoy melting you.'

  She might think she was only marrying him to extract her capital from the covetous claws of Old Man Coustakis—but he would prove otherwise.

  And take great relish in it!

  'You're mussing ray hair, Nikos,' she replied snappily.

  'It will get a lot more mussed than that soon,' he replied, eyes gleaming with mocking amusement—and promise. 'To­night,' he went on, '
we shall go dancing.' He leant forward. 'I long to hold you in my arms again, Andrea mou.'

  She backed away, almost tripping.

  'I don't dance,' she said abruptly.

  He laughed. The sound of it made her feel irritated. Among other things she didn't want to put a name to.

  With every passing day her feet were getting colder and colder. She would wake in the middle of the night and the sheer disbelief of what she was doing would wash over and over her. Only one thought kept her going—money. Money at last. She had to hold out—hold out until the money was in the bank.

  Then she could cut and run—and run and run...