Aristide's Convenient Wife

by Jaqeuline Baird

Delia had been convinced she could get through the holiday without anyone realising she was pregnant. The baby was due on the first of July and it would be simple to book into a private hospital in London to have a Caesarean delivery in mid-June. Then she could leave the child with Helen and still be able to return to Greece for the summer holidays without her family being any the wiser. Helen had thought the whole idea ridiculous, but Delia had been nothing if not determined.

  A wry sad smile tipped the corners of her lips. Thinking about Delia now, she realised she had been just as stubborn and autocratic in her own way as her father and brother.

  Even so Helen had flatly refused her request and with the help of her grandfather had tried to persuade Delia that she must tell her family the truth. Helen had thought they had managed to convince her to do just that when she had left two days later.

  A strong hand grasped her arm shocking her out of her musings.

  ‘He is every inch an Aristides,’ Leon said softly, turning towards her and blocking her view of the room. ‘You and I really do need to talk.’ The pressure of his fingers on her arm and the closeness of his large frame did extraordinary things to her breathing. ‘Are you alone here?’

  She gasped and tilted back her head to lift her gaze and met his intent black eyes. Her mouth ran dry and her pulse took off at an alarming rate. He saw her reaction and his dark gaze fell to her softly parted lips and then provocatively lower to linger on the proud thrust of her breasts against the soft wool of her sweater, before flicking back up again to her face. ‘You are a very attractive woman—perhaps a live-in lover?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she snapped, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  ‘That makes it easier,’ he murmured, and settled a long finger over her lips. ‘But shh—we don’t want to wake the child.’

  Her lips oddly tingling from the touch of his finger, before she knew what was happening she was out of the bedroom, the door closed behind her and halfway down the stairs.

  ‘You can let go of my arm now.’ Helen finally found her voice, deeply shaken by the startling effect Leon Aristides’ deliberately sensual look and touch had upon her.

  He let go of her arm without a word, and walked down the stairs and into the sitting room, obviously expecting her to follow. She stopped for a moment at the foot of the stairs to gather her chaotic thoughts into some kind of order. But the resentment burning bitterly in her breast did not help. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her home as if it were his own?

  Unfortunately she knew exactly who he was, she recognised with her next breath; a wealthy, powerful man who happened to be Nicholas’ uncle. Much as she would like to be rid of him, she realised it wasn’t in Nicholas’ best interest or hers to antagonise the man, and reluctantly she finally followed him into the room.

  He had flopped down on a sofa, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He had opened his jacket and loosened his tie. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing the strong tanned column of his throat. His long legs were splayed out in front of him, the fabric of his trousers pulled tight across his thighs and graphically outlining the bulge of his sex.

  Flaked out as he was, for a moment his sheer physical impact hit her like a blow to the stomach. Leon Aristides might be one very conservative banker, but there was no mistaking he was all virile male.

  Her violet eyes roamed in helpless fascination over his superb body. He was probably a magnificent lover, she thought, and a shaming tide of pink coloured her cheeks.

  Helen felt like a voyeur; erotic thoughts about men had never bothered her before. What on earth was happening to her? She rubbed suddenly damp palms down her thighs, and, swallowing hard, took an involuntary step back. She raised her head to find his dark, astute eyes resting on her. Oh, my God! Did he know what she had been thinking? And quickly she broke into speech. ‘Would you like another coffee or something?’

  ‘Something…’ His dark eyes swept leisurely over her in undisguised masculine appreciation. Suddenly she was horribly conscious of her old denim jeans and the well-washed sweater she was wearing. But even worse was the peculiar swelling in her breasts at his lingering appraisal. ‘Yes, the something has more appeal,’ he drawled huskily. ‘What do you suggest?’ and he smiled.

  Her gaze dropped from the amusement in his dark eyes to the curl of his sensual lips, revealing gleaming white teeth, and for a second she stopped breathing, mesmerised by the unexpected brilliance of his smile.

  Realising she was staring again, she hastily glanced somewhere over his shoulder and blurted out the first thing that entered her head. ‘Tea or wine, if you prefer? When my grandfather was alive he kept quite a lot of red wine and I don’t drink much so there are a couple of bottles around.’ She was babbling again, but nothing like this had happened to her before.

  Helen wasn’t naive. She knew all about sexual attraction—she had dated Kenneth Markham for almost a year, until he had decided to go to Africa and help the starving, and she had never heard from him again. But this was different—instant and electric—and it shocked her witless.

  ‘I’ll go and get the wine.’ She dashed back out of the room like a scalded cat.

  In the safety of the kitchen she took a few deep, steadying breaths. She was still in shock at the news of Delia’s death, she told herself. That had to be why her body had reacted so peculiarly to Leon Aristides. She didn’t even like him, and she certainly wasn’t attracted to overtly macho men. She much preferred the sensitive, caring type like Kenneth, the type one could talk to without feeling threatened in any way. It had to be the tragic news that had made her hormones go haywire. A physical anomaly brought on by the pressure of the moment. Reassured by her conclusion, she took two glasses from a cupboard, before she crossed to the wine rack and reached for a bottle of wine.

  ‘You’re tiny, allow me.’ She almost jumped out of her skin as a long arm stretched over her head.

  She spun around to find the damn man only inches away. ‘I can do that,’ she said in a voice that was not quite steady. Disturbed by the ease with which his closeness affected her all over again.

  ‘It is done.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders, holding a bottle of red. ‘But you can give me the bottle opener, and something to eat would be much appreciated. I was too busy searching for this place to take time out to eat lunch.’ His dark eyes flicked down at her. ‘Sandwiches will do,’ he ordered calmly.

  The ‘tiny’ and his arrogant assumption she would feed him infuriated her, but she didn’t argue. It was a relief to move away from him and, opening a drawer, she took out the bottle opener, and slapped it on the bench beside him before crossing to the fridge and extracting a block of cheese.

  ‘Will cheese do?’ She flicked him a glance and was further incensed to see he had moved to sit at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in his hand, the bottle of wine in front of him and another glass on the table.

  ‘Perfectly,’ he said calmly and took a sip of the wine.

  Turning her attention to the task before her, Helen quickly made two sandwiches and put them on a plate, all the time tensely aware of the man behind her.

  ‘Your grandfather had good taste in wine,’ his deep voice drawled appreciatively. ‘In fact, according to the report my father had on him, your grandfather was a highly intelligent, highly moral, well respected professor.’

  ‘Report!’ Helen exclaimed, turning around to stare at him in amazement, the plate of sandwiches in her hand tilting precariously.

  ‘Here, let me take that.’ He reached across and took the plate from her unresisting grasp and, placing it on the table, picked up a sandwich and began eating with obvious enjoyment.

  He was doing it again, ordering her around, and for a long moment she stared at him, stunned. ‘Your father actually investigated my grandfather.’ Her indignant gaze fixed on his hard face.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he stated coolly. ‘Before my sister was allowed to visit your home my father had checked with the school and priv
ately that you and your grandfather were suitable people to befriend her. Obviously over the years the circumstances had changed, but neither my father nor I for that matter had any idea. Delia was nothing if not inventive.’ He took another sip of wine before continuing. ‘I distinctly remember three years ago a cartoon Christmas card you sent Delia particularly amused my father. He asked after you both and suggested she invite you over for another holiday. Delia’s response as I recall was that your grandfather had suffered a stroke some years before and you stayed at home to look after him. It was unfortunate, but she had not seen you since she went to university in London, and apart from the occasional Christmas and birthday card the friendship had fizzled out.’

  An ebony brow arched sardonically. ‘I am beginning to realise my innocent little sister was like all women—as devious as the devil and an accomplished liar,’ he stated witheringly and reached for another sandwich.

  Helen opened her mouth to defend her friend and closed it again. What could she say? From the moment she had taken Nicholas into her home she had silently colluded with whatever story Delia had chosen to tell her family. That Delia had lied about their friendship brought the fact home with brutal clarity. But then why was she surprised? In the first few months after Nicholas was born Helen had been hoping that Delia would see sense and tell her family about the boy, while Delia had obviously been busy covering the trail that led back to Helen.

  ‘Sit down and have a drink. You look completely stressed out,’ he observed, his cold dark eyes narrowing on the look of guilt that flashed across her pale face.

  She pulled out the chair and sat down, and picked up the glass with a hand that was none too steady. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a long swallow. Helen seldom drank; alcohol went straight to her head. But Aristides was right, she was stressed to breaking-point, the enormity of the deception she had agreed to finally hitting her. Much as she had loved Delia and wanted to help, Helen knew deep down inside her reasons had not been purely altruistic.

  Before the death of her parents she had been a happy, confident teenager. She had had all the hopes and dreams of a young girl. School, college, a career, then love, marriage and children. But everything had altered the day of the accident. Her near idyllic life had been shattered and, much as she’d loved her grandfather, he hadn’t been able to replace what she had lost.

  Delia had been the one bright spot in her life, but when she had first made her outrageous proposal Helen had refused, until the sudden death of her grandfather in late April had changed everything. Delia had turned up for his funeral still pregnant and with her own family still not aware of the fact.

  To Helen, grieving and totally alone for the first time in her life, Delia’s request that she take care of the baby while she continued her studies suddenly had not seemed so outrageous. If Helen had been honest it was a dream come true.

  ‘More wine?’ He interrupted her thoughts, lifting the bottle of wine from the table.

  She glanced at him, violet eyes clashing with black, and she knew the dream was about to become her worst nightmare. She lowered her eyes from his too-penetrating gaze and realised she had drained her glass. She also realised she needed all her wits about her for what was to follow.

  ‘No. No, thank you,’ she said with cool politeness.

  ‘As you wish,’ he replied, and refilled his own glass and replaced the bottle on the table, casting her a mocking glance from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, and then lifted his glass to his mouth.

  Unconsciously she watched his wide, mobile mouth, saw the movement in the strong line of his throat as he swallowed. Her fascinated gaze followed the movement lower to where the open collar of his shirt revealed a few black hairs on the olive toned skin of his chest. Suddenly heat flushed through her veins and curled in her belly. Oh, no, she thought, it was happening again and it terrified her.

  She raised her eyes to his face and opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she couldn’t breathe. She simply sat there, colour flooding into her cheeks, her lips softly parted, paralysed by the sexual awareness that tightened every nerve in her body.

  He replaced his glass on the table and was studying her flushed face. He knew what was happening to her, and why. She saw his heavy-lidded eyes darken with sensual knowledge. She saw the hint of satisfaction in the slight smile that curved his mouth, and suddenly the air between them was heavy with sexual tension.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS THEgleam of masculine satisfaction in Aristides’ lazy smile that hauled Helen back to sanity. She stiffened and clenched her teeth in an attempt to subdue the tide of heated sensation that had invaded her body. Not something that had ever happened to her before, or ever would again if she could help it.

  Taking a few deep breaths, she rationalised her extraordinary reaction to the man. So she had finally realised Leon Aristides was a sexy beast, and could turn a woman on at will. But then why was she surprised? According to Delia, in her family all the men had wives and mistresses, from her great-grandfather who had started the bank, all the way down to Leon. Given that Helen was now bound to have contact with the man over Nicholas, anything of a personal nature between them was absolutely unthinkable. Nicholas’ happiness was her top priority.

  ‘Nicholas,’ she said firmly. ‘You want to talk about Nicholas.’

  ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ he agreed, and leant back in his chair, a contemplative look on his dark face. ‘But first we must discuss Delia. Starting at the beginning is usually the most constructive way to find a lasting solution to a problem,’ he offered and, much to Helen’s surprise, proceeded to do just that.

  ‘Delia was the baby of the family. I was fifteen when she was born and for the first three years of her life she was a source of joy to me. I admit after I left home to study and later to live in New York for a number of years I did not see as much of her as I possibly should have done, but I thought we had a good relationship. I saw her at least two or three times a year, usually over the holiday periods. She went a little wild as a young teenager but that was soon sorted out. My father gave her a generous allowance, and almost anything she asked for she could have.’ He shook his dark head in disbelief, for once not looking the cold, austere banker Helen knew him to be.

  ‘She always appeared content and well adjusted, so why she thought she had to hide her child from her family I will never understand.’ His dark eyes narrowed speculatively on her. ‘You obviously knew a different Delia from my father and I, and I guess you were a party to all her secrets.’

  She looked away from his curiously penetrating gaze, and coloured slightly. ‘A few.’

  ‘How much did she pay you to keep them?’

  ‘She never paid me!’ Helen exclaimed indignantly, her colour heightened by the gleam of contempt in his eyes. ‘I loved Delia; she was my best friend.’ She drew in an audible breath, and lowered her head to hide the tears that threatened as memories of her friend engulfed her. But refusing to give in to her emotions, she continued.

  ‘From the first day I met Delia at the boarding-school your father had banished her to, I would have done anything to help her because she stood up for me. I was a day pupil, which set me apart from most of the class, added to which I was two years older than everyone else.’

  Leon tensed slightly at that piece of information, his dark eyes narrowing speculatively on her downbent head. So Helen Heywood was not quite as young as he had thought…interesting. He had intended to take her to court if he had to, though the thought of the resultant publicity was anathema to him. But he had forgotten how very attractive she was and now a much better scenario occurred to him.

  He recalled the strange reaction of the hotel receptionist as he had enquired about the Farrow House. The young woman had looked at him rather coyly, then said, ‘Of course, you must be a very good friend of Helen Heywood and Nicholas.’ After seeing the child, he could guess what the girl had been thinking.

  Lost in her memories, Helen was totally oblivious
to her companion’s scrutiny and continued, ‘With the age difference and wearing glasses, needless to say the class bullies had a field-day with me. But Delia waded into them on my behalf and won. I was never bothered again.’

  She lifted her head, violet eyes blazing with conviction as they clashed with astute black. ‘We were firm friends from that day onward. I would have done anything for Delia, and she would have done anything for me, I know,’ she said adamantly.

  ‘Perhaps, but you never will know now,’ Leon drawled sardonically. ‘But carry on—I would like to know why you agreed to go along with her hare-brained scheme.’

  Helen didn’t appreciate the ‘hare-brained’ but she could not exactly deny it. If she was honest, she was amazed the deception had lasted so long. For the first year of Nicholas’ life she had encouraged Delia to reveal his existence to her family, but as time had passed Helen had not been quite so eager for the truth to be told. Guilt at her own role in prolonging the situation made her voice curt as she continued.

  ‘When Delia came to visit me four years ago, and told me she was pregnant, she had a scheme all worked out. Easter at home in Greece would be no problem; no one would notice her. According to Delia your father was over the moon because you had just told him your wife was pregnant and the much-wanted grandchild was due in August. How could she, even if she wanted to, disgrace her family and spoil everyone’s delight, with the news her own child was due a couple of months earlier?’ she queried sharply, so caught up in her own emotions she never saw the flash of anger in his dark eyes.