What the Greek Can't Resist

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

THE CAR PARK was as quiet as she’d hoped it would be. Inside her trusted Mini’s soothing cocoon, Perla Lowell bit the tip of her pen and searched fruitlessly for the right words.

Four lines. Four paltry lines in two hours were all she’d managed to come up with. She swallowed her despair. Three short days from now she’d have to stand up in front of friends and family and make a speech...

And she had no words.

No, scratch that. She had words. But none rang true. Because the truth... No, she couldn’t...wouldn’t subject anyone to the truth. Her whole life for the past three years had been a colossal lie. Was it any wonder her hands shook every time she tried to write? That her heart pounded with self-loathing for the lies she had to perpetuate for the sake of appearances?

But how could she do anything else? How could she repay kindness with humiliation? Because doing or saying anything else other than what was expected would bring devastation that she couldn’t live with.

Anger mingled with despair. With a vicious twist she ripped the paper in two. The cathartic sound echoed through the car and spilled out into the night air. As if loosening the stranglehold she’d exercised on her emotions for longer than she cared to remember, the tears she’d been unable to shed so far now pierced through her tightened chest into her throat.

Her fingers gained a life of their own. Two halves of paper became four, then eight. She ripped again and again, until the sheet spilled through her hands in little wisps of illegible confetti. She upended her hands and watched the mess strewn all over the passenger seat. With a jagged groan, she buried her face in her hands, expecting finally, finally, to shed a tear.

The tears never came. They remained locked inside, as they had been for the last two weeks, taunting her, punishing her for daring to wish for them when deep down she knew to cry would be shamefully, deeply disingenuous.

Because, deep inside, she felt...relieved. At a time when she should’ve been devastated, she felt a shameful lightening of being!

Slowly, she dropped her hands and stared through the windscreen. Her vision cleared and she focused on the palatial Georgian structure in front of her.

Despite its recent multi-million-pound revamp, Macdonald Hall had retained its quintessential old English charm, along with its exclusive membership-by-invitation-only Macdonald Club, and the extensive gold standard golf course that lay beyond the imposing façade.

The centuries-old establishment’s only nod to the common man was the cocktail bar, which was open to the public from seven until midnight.

Perla sucked in a deep breath and glanced down at the ripped paper. Guilt bit deep as she acknowledged how good it’d felt to let go. Just this once, to not hold herself back, to not watch her every word or smile when she felt like cursing her fate. To be normal...

The feeling wouldn’t last, of course. There was still tomorrow to get through and the next day, and the next.

Dark anguish had her reaching for her bag.

She was far enough away from home not to be recognised here. It was, after all, why she’d driven for over an hour to find a quiet spot to compose the hard-to-find words.

Granted, her journey had been futile so far. But she wasn’t ready to return home yet; wasn’t ready to face the cloying compassionate gestures and well-meaning, concerned but probing looks.

Her gaze refocused on Macdonald Hall.

One drink. Then she’d drive back home and start again tomorrow.

Opening her bag, she searched for the small brush to run it through her hair in an attempt to tame the unruly curls. When her fingers touched the tube of lipstick, she nearly dismissed it.

Scarlet wasn’t really her colour, and normally she wouldn’t even glance at one that described itself as Do Me Red; she only had the sample lipstick because it’d come free with a book purchase. She would never dare to wear anything so bold. So daring. Even on other women, she found the colour too sensual, too look-at-my-mouth.

Fingers trembling, she uncapped the tube, angled the rear-view mirror and carefully applied the lipstick. The unexpected result—the wanton, blatantly sultry image that stared back at her—had her rummaging through her bag for a tissue to reverse the damage. When she came up empty, she paused. Her gaze slowly slid back to the mirror.

Her heart hammered.

Was it so bad? Just for tonight, would it be so bad to look, to feel like someone else other than Perla Lowell, complete fraud? To forget the pain and unrelenting humiliation she’d suffered for the last three years, if only for a few minutes?

Before she could change her mind, she fumbled for the door handle and stepped out of her car into the cool night air. Her party days might be long behind her but even she knew her simple black sleeveless dress and low black pumps were appropriate for a cocktail bar on a quiet Tuesday night.

And if it wasn’t, the worst that could happen was she would be asked to leave. And right now, being thrown out of an exclusive cocktail bar where no one knew who she was would be a walk in the park compared to the monumental farce she had to go through.

A smartly dressed concierge greeted her and directed her through a parquet-floored, oak-panelled hallway to a set of old-fashioned double doors with the words Bar fashioned in burnished gold plate above them.

Another similarly dressed man opened the door and tipped his cap to her.

Feeling seriously out of her depth, Perla took fleeting note of the discreetly expensive wood and brocade décor before her eyes zeroed in on the long, low-slung bar. Seriously intimidating rows of drinks were displayed on a revolving carousel and, behind the bar, a bartender twirled a sterling silver set of cocktail shakers while chatting to a young couple.

For a split second, Perla considered turning on her heel and marching straight back out. She forced herself to take a step and another until she reached the unoccupied end of the bar. She’d come this far... Sucking in another sustaining breath, she slid onto the stool and placed her handbag on the counter.

Now what?

‘What’s a fine girl like you doing in a place like this?’

The cheese-tastic line startled a strained laugh out of her as she turned towards the voice.

‘That’s better. For a second there, I thought someone had died in here and I hadn’t been told,’ the bartender’s white smile, no doubt tailor-made to drive hormonal girls wild, widened as his gaze traced her face in blatant appraisal. ‘You’re the second person to walk in here tonight looking like you’re a fully paid-up member of the doom-and-gloom brigade.’

In another lifetime, Perla would’ve found his boyish, perfectly groomed looks charming. Unfortunately, she existed in this lifetime, and she’d learnt to her cost that the outside rarely matched the inside.

She willed her smile in place and folded her hands on top of her purse. ‘I...I’d like a drink, please.’

‘Sure thing.’ He leaned in closer and his eyes dropped to her mouth. ‘What’s your poison?’

Her gaze darted to the cocktails on display. She had no clue what any of them were. The last time she’d been in a bar like this, the drink in fashion had been Amaretto Sour. She wanted to ask for a Cosmopolitan but wasn’t even sure if that was still in vogue these days.

She gritted her teeth again and contemplated walking out. Sheer stubbornness made her stay on the stool. She’d been pushed around enough; endured enough. For far too long she’d allowed someone else to call the shots, to dictate the way she lived her life.

No more. Granted, the scarlet lipstick had been a bad idea—it was clear it drew far too much unwanted attention to her mouth—but Perla refused to let that stand in the way of this one small bolstering move.

Squaring her shoulders, she indicated a dark red drink with lots of sunny umbrellas sticking out of it. ‘I’ll have that one.’

He followed her gaze and frowned. ‘The Pomegranate Martini?’

‘Yes. What’s wrong with it?’ she asked when he continued to frown.

‘It’s a bit...well, lame.’

Her lips firmed. ‘I’ll take it anyway.’

‘Come on, let me—’

‘Give the lady what she wants,’ a low, dark drawl sounded behind her right shoulder. The smooth but unmistakable cadence in the masculine voice spelled a foreign accent, possibly Mediterranean, that caused a shiver to dance down Perla’s spine.

She froze in her seat, her back stiffening as sensation skittered over her skin.