by Tarr, Hope
Instead, his grin reached from ear to ear. “Perfect, you’ll take him with you. A traditional American Fourth of July with your friends could be just the thing to soften him up. Besides, you haven’t taken off a holiday since you started eight years ago. As they say, all work and no play—”
“Makes Stefanie a dull spinster girl, yeah, I get it.” Dull and desperate, or so she’d been until three months ago.
He shrugged. “I’d like grandchildren someday. So sue me.”
Stefanie groaned. “Yeah, well, here’s hoping Nikolaos Costas doesn’t do it first.”
The earlier crazy kernel of an idea sprouted to a full-blown stalk. Her father needed Nikolaos Costas “softened up.” Plying him with her authentic Greek cooking could be a strong first step toward winning him over, but would it be sufficient? His weakness wasn’t for food but women, and Stefanie was certainly that as well as 100 percent Greek and a good—okay, awesome—chef. She knew how to dress a lamb and set a table to perfection.
But up until now, she’d been too busy to bother applying that aesthetic to herself. It had been easier—and safer—to take the backseat, as her father had pointed out. Could she maybe channel some of her culinary self-confidence to her life once she took off the chef’s jacket?
Thanks to Pete’s Ponzi scheme, she didn’t really have a choice. Beyond righting wrongs and familial duty, she had something to prove—to herself. With Pete she’d been easy prey, gulled by his glib tongue and smooth moves and her own sadly sagging self-esteem. But when it came to Costas, she knew in advance who and what she was dealing with—a player. A player for whom variety was the spice of life—and Stefanie’s life could definitely do with some spicing up. Only this time she would be prepared. She would be in control. She would be the wolf, not the sheep, the seducer, not the seducee.
She wouldn’t go all the way, of course, just far enough to whet his appetite—and win his sympathy for Acropolis Village. Taking him to the brink and then retreating once she’d gotten what she wanted would be even more satisfying than going through with the sex. Sleeping with Pete so soon had been the first of several big mistakes. Unveiling herself had made her vulnerable, blinded her to her better judgment. If she’d held back, she doubted she would have bought into his good-guy act for much longer, let alone set him up with her father. So long as she kept her clothes on—or mostly on—with Costas, she’d never have to worry about what he thought of her full thighs or less than six-pack stomach. Sheathed in SPANX and wreathed in worldly smiles, she’d stay invincible, ethereal, a goddess in total control.
She felt anticipation—excitement—building. She’d been a good girl for twenty-eight years. She’d not only read The Rules cover to cover but had played by them. Now after nearly a decade of sifting through Match.com profiles and suffering through bad blind dates, she was finally going to play a new game, one in which she got to turn the tables—and mind fuck the man.
Her pop’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. “Why are you so smiley all of a sudden?”
Composing her features, Stefanie shrugged. “I’m just thinking about what I’m going to serve for Costas’s welcome dinner, that’s all.”
What are you hungry for, Mr. Costas?
A growl greeted the statement. A thick finger wagged in her face. “You’re a good girl, you don’t forget that. You make him some meals, you show him around town—and that’s all you do for him. Understood?”
Another smile teased the corners of her mouth, but this time she made sure to flatten it. “Right, of course, Pop, so long as you promise to handle all the financial stuff upfront when you meet with him.”
He flattened a hand over his heart. “Stefanie, you wound me. I am a Stefanopoulos. My word is my bond.”
“Great, now how about I make you a plate? You look like you could use a good meal.”
He gave a grudging nod, and Stefanie slid off the stool. Ducking his watchful gaze, she stepped back behind the counter. Sprinkling paprika atop a platter of deviled eggs, it was hard not to hum. Nikolaos Costas liked variety, he liked spice—well, she would give him that and then some.
Who knew…she might even like it.
…
The Isle of Crete, Greece
“Papa, will I like America?”
Nikolaos Costas paused in packing and turned away from the suitcase lying open on his bed to his daughter. Her question made him smile. “I hope so, Mara. America is a very big country. We are traveling first to New York and then to its capitol city. Do you know the name of America’s capitol?”
Twirling the end of her ponytail, she shook her head.
He went down on one knee on the woven rug, putting them on eye level. “It is Washington, named after a great general who later became the first president.”
“Like Mr. Papoulias?”
Pleased that she knew that much, given how limited her life had been until recently, he nodded encouragingly. “It is similar, yes. Greece is a parliamentary republic; America a constitutional republic. We will have plenty of time on the plane to discuss the similarities and differences between our two countries.”
Nick had studied law at Harvard, but this would be his first trip to DC. He’d spent most of his summers in the exclusive resort community of Martha’s Vineyard. Standing out as exotic amongst the blue-blooded denizens, he’d seduced plenty of daughters of industry captains, entertainers, and politicians. During one such pleasure-seeking summer, Mara had been born back in Greece.
The revelation that he was a father—to a seven-year-old!—had come out of the blue four months ago. Before then, he hadn’t even known Mara existed, hadn’t had the vaguest suspicion he was a father, certainly not by the pretty Cretan art student with whom he’d hooked up on a holiday visit home. Fueled with Mythos beer and the stupid sense of immortality that accompanied youth, he’d foregone a condom. When he’d later heard Alexia had left for London to marry a British banker, his only thought had been to be happy for her. Tragically, her happiness had ended in a fatal car crash on the way home from a beach weekend in Brighton.
The news had come in an e-mail from Alexia’s mother. Before leaving Greece, Alexia had borne an out-of-wedlock child, a girl, in secret. At her parents’ urging, she’d given the baby up at birth to the nuns at a Cretan convent orphanage.
At first Nick had written off the e-mail as a hoax, but like puzzle pieces, the dates and details had begun fitting together, the gaps filled in by his sketchy memory and sudden gnawing guilt. It was possible, even probable, that Alexia’s child was his. Either way, he’d resolved to find out.
The mother superior who oversaw the orphanage had been gracious at their private meeting. She well remembered the distraught young woman who’d come to her all those years ago, pregnant and afraid, her furious family threatening to cast her out. When asked of her child’s father, the girl’s pretty young face had hardened. Refusing to name him, she’d explained he was a rich man’s son, a party boy studying law in the States. Hearing himself so described, Nick had felt his first true remorse.
She’d regarded him over steepled hands. “Mara is playing with the others in the garden. Are you prepared to meet her?”
Nick doubted he’d ever be fully ready, but he nodded nonetheless. A bell summoned a black-habited sister. Nick followed her out. The convent was a serene but poor place, the adjacent orphanage immaculate yet crumbling and small. The children ceased playing at their approach. Approaching, the nun announced, “Mara, this gentleman has come to see you.”
A little girl with coltish limbs, sun-streaked brown hair, and dirt-smudged cheeks lifted her face to Nick’s, and he found himself staring into thickly lashed hazel eyes—his eyes.
Heedless of the dusty stones, he’d dropped down on both knees. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mara. My name is Niko.”
Beaming, the nun put in, “Mr. Costas is your papa, Mara.”
Throat thick with emotion, he directed his words to his daughter. “You also have a grandpapa and a grandm
amma and three aunties as well as many cousins, a few near your age.” What age was she? Knowing next to nothing about children, he’d looked up at the sister, who’d mouthed seven.
Stunned, Nick could scarcely believe it. His daughter was seven. For seven years this creature—this angel—had occupied the same earth, the same country, the same island as he, having birthdays and Christmases and saints’ days and ordinary days, all of which he’d missed.
That day, four months ago, he’d made a pact with himself. Going forward, he would be a stronger man, a better man. A father.
A soft knock sent them turning to the open door. His mother, Hermione, stood on the threshold, her abundant silver hair piled atop her head, a richly embroidered silk shawl draped about her shoulders and pinned with a jewel-inlaid starburst broach, his father’s fortieth anniversary gift.
“Ya-ya!” Mara ran to her grandmother, wrapping her arms about her waist.
Nick stood. “Mara and I were just discussing the differences between Greece and the United States.”
His mother gently eased Mara away. Cupping her cheek, she said, “That is wonderful, my clever one, but it is time for you to go to bed. You and your papa have an early day tomorrow. You need rest.” She slanted a look to Nick as if including him in the admonition.
Mara dug in her bunny slipper shod heels. “But I’m not sleepy.”
Nick intervened, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Brush your teeth and say your prayers and I will be in very soon to say good night.”
“And read me a story?” she wheedled, grinning up at him.
Defeated, he nodded. “Yes, and read you a story.”
Hugs and kisses made the rounds and Mara padded out of the room.
Watching her go off, his mother said, “It is not too late to change your mind and take the private jet. More than sixteen hours on a crowded aircraft is a great deal to ask of a seven-year-old.”
The sixteen-hour flight would take them directly to New York’s Kennedy Airport. They would spend several days touring the city before continuing on to their final destination, Washington, DC.
“I know, Mama, but we will be fine.”
“Are you certain you will not reconsider and leave Mara here with us until you return?” she said, brushing a no doubt imaginary speck of dust from his black shirtsleeve.
Having Mara with him meant curtailing—eliminating—any partying, but that didn’t bother him as it once would have. He’d seen sufficient A-list clubs, casinos, and five-star resorts to last a lifetime. Now that he was a father with his family’s corporation to run, indulging himself that way would be beyond irresponsible—it would be a betrayal of all he held sacred.
Nick nodded. “Mara and I have already endured seven years of separation. Where I go, she goes.”
Disappointment flickered over his mother’s face but in it he read respect, too. “Hearing you speak with such devotion, I cannot argue further. You are a good father, Niko.”
Nick paused, grateful for the praise but unsure that he’d as yet earned it. “I am trying to be. Whether I succeed or fail, know this: I am a changed man.”
Her hands found the tops of his shoulders. Holding him at arm’s length, she searched his face. “No, my son, you are the man you were always meant to be, the one who has been inside you all along.”
Humbled, Nick bowed his head. “Thank you, Mama.”
She dropped her hands and stepped back. “I will leave you to finish packing. Please bring Mara by before you leave in the morning. I have a small going-away gift for her.”
Nick groaned. “Mama, you promised.”
Like him, his parents were desperate to make up for the lost years, and inundating their newly discovered granddaughter with presents was an understandable temptation to which they yielded far too frequently. Her room at the villa, painted “Cinderella Pink,” was stuffed with the spoils of his parents’ recent retail rampage through Disneyland Paris.
Frowning, she clicked her tongue. “I know, but she is my only granddaughter, my one little rosebud amidst a brood of boys.”
“Very well, we will come to say good-bye,” he conceded, reminded of how fortunate he was to have a warmhearted family who’d taken in his love child without hesitation. “But I hope your gift is indeed small. The overhead compartments of commercial planes are not large, and I plan to do some shopping as well.”
She laughed. “Why is it I have the feeling your papa and I are not alone in being wrapped around Mara’s little finger?”
Nick didn’t deny it. Mara brought out all his soft spots, vulnerabilities he hadn’t known he had.
But in business, he had a spine of steel and a will of iron. The man he was traveling to Washington, DC to meet, Christos Stefanopoulos, owed his family two and a half million US dollars, monies Nick had earmarked to fund the new state-of-the-art orphanage he meant to build for the convent. As the mother superior had told him, many homeless infants and children were turned away for lack of space. It was a heartbreaking situation. Nick couldn’t undo the past, but he could do his utmost to build a brighter future for unwanted and unclaimed children as Mara once had been.
But given the recessionary state of Greece’s economy, his plan for the orphanage hinged on him retrieving the money from the American real-estate developer. So far the bastard had yet to repay a single Euro. Instead he’d answered Nick’s numerous e-mails and letters with excuses and evasions.
In such a situation, with such a man, Nick knew exactly how to deal. He would show no mercy, cede no quarter. He would return to Greece with the loan repaid in full or Olympia Development transferred to him, the latest of Costas International’s foreign acquisitions. Given what he’d so far discovered of the company’s financials, he expected repayment to be the latter. Either way, his family’s honor would be restored and ground broken on the mother superior’s new orphanage.
Fatherhood was as yet a mystery, but business he understood.
Chapter Two
Wednesday, June 25
The Starbucks at the corner of King and Union had been the site of Stefanie and Macie’s weekly coffee catch-up since Macie had moved back to the city the winter before. They collected their coffees at the counter and then settled into a suite of high-backed wing chairs by the window.
“Thanks so much for switching days. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient,” Stefanie said, sipping her café mocha before the whipped cream could melt.
“Not at all,” Macie assured her, taking off the plastic lid and blowing on her soy latte. “Now that Samantha’s out of school for the summer, I have a lot more flexibility. Is everything okay?”
Striking up her courage, Stefanie blurted out, “I need you to help me get gorgeous.”
Once her father had left the night before, she’d spent several hours looking up Nikolaos Costas online. According to his Wikipedia entry, Nikolaos Hesperos Costas was born in 1976 on the island of Crete, the eldest of real-estate mogul Maximos and Hermione Costas’s four children. Though he might embrace romantic variety, A-list celebrities and fashion models were his go-to companions, the French Riviera and Lake Como his preferred playgrounds. Reading the litany of his academic and athletic achievements, celebrity friends, and global travels, Stefanie had felt like grabbing the tray of baklava and crawling into the closest closet.
But it was time to press pause on the self-pity party and make use of what skills and gifts she had. If Nikolaos Costas was anything like the Mediterranean alpha male he came across as in the media, feeding his stomach and his ego with a few well-placed compliments and sultry smiles might be sufficient to soften him—provided she could hold his wandering eye for the requisite week.
If she could just get him in a car to Acropolis Village and show him firsthand the good they were doing—or attempting to do—for Greek American seniors, surely he’d see that giving them more time was the only humanitarian course. Who knew? Maybe he’d chip in even more money. Or at least let them work out a plan where the 2.5 million could be re
paid in installments. Heck, it wasn’t like he was hurting for cash. Hard-nosed was one thing but there was no need to be a hard ass, not when you were a multimillionaire with more money than you could ever hope to spend.
Macie eyed her over the top of her paper cup. “You’re already gorgeous, and I’ll be more than happy to help, but why the sudden change of heart?” A committed clotheshorse, Macie had been on Stefanie’s case to up her fashion game since they’d first met during their freshman year at Catholic U.
Stefanie trained her tone to come off as casually as she could. “A bigwig international investor of my pop’s is coming into town from Greece, and I promised to show him around. Speaking of which, is it okay if I bring him for the Fourth?”
“Sure, the more the merrier.” Macie studied her a moment more before asking, “Would this investor happen to be single?”
Shifting in her seat, Stephanie admitted, “Yes.”
“Single and…fuckable?” As usual, her friend didn’t mince words.
“Macie!”
The blonde chuckled. “What’s with the face? It’s a fair question.”
Nikolaos Costas was fuckable—and then some. Based on the celebrity gossip Stefanie had skimmed—the hot-tub threesome in Lake Tahoe, the peccadillo with the wife of a prominent American film producer at Cannes the previous year—he was a sex machine, well-oiled and nary in need of a shutdown for system maintenance.
“O-okay, you win.” Stefanie pulled up his most recent media mention on her iPhone and passed the cell over.
Taking it, Macie’s blue eyes popped. “Wow! What a hottie! He looks just like—”
“John Stamos. Yeah, I know.”
From the top of his dark brown head to the biceps and washboard abs showing beneath his fitted shirt, Nikolas Costas bore a striking resemblance to the hunky Greek American television actor.
Macie gave back the phone. “Exactly when is he arriving?”
