Blackmailed Into The Greek Tycoon's Bed

For a while it irked him—it was his hotel, but not his night, and the seating had been arranged so that the players and elite guests were seated at the top table. Only a quiet word must have been had because, with Karin Wallis as his date, suddenly he was sitting amongst the elite now with Karin beside him. Suddenly he was the toast of the table, accepted in a way he never had been before. Still, it was hard to remain irritated with such a rich tapestry of guests, and almost easy to dismiss the part she’d played in his acceptance.

To just enjoy the night, as he had instructed her to do.

Karin declined the wine, taking Xante’s word for it that it was excellent, but asking for sparkling mineral-water instead.

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’ Karin nodded, accepting her mineral water and blowing out a small breath, realising that she actually was enjoying herself. Oh, she was exquisitely aware of the man sitting beside her, could feel his hand on her arm occasionally, could feel him invade her personal space when he leant over as she spoke—more demonstrative, more expressive, than David had ever been. But here in the bright lights of the ballroom, here surrounded by fellow diners, Karin knew she could keep him at arm’s length, and safe in that knowledge she had allowed herself to relax.

‘The food is amazing, Xante.’

It was. The roast beef was so tender you could have cut it with a butter knife; trays of roasted vegetables were spread before them, and Yorkshire puddings as fluffy as clouds, which Karin smothered in thick, rich gravy.

‘You would not believe the thought that has gone into this menu,’ Xante admitted, relieved at the reception of the simple fare. ‘I have a very highly strung, but genius French chef—Jacques.’

‘Oh?’ Karen’s fork, laden with very English fare, paused midway to her mouth.

‘Last year we hosted the team. The food was superb; Jacques had spent days preparing. I found him in tears the next morning when he found out most of the team had ordered club sandwiches from room service. This year we will make sure no one goes to bed hungry.’

They certainly wouldn’t; the sumptuous roast was followed with a selection of puddings—upside-down cake smothered in golden syrup or spotted dick—all washed down with the most delectable custard.

‘My grandmother used to make this…’ A flood of warm memories bathed her, her cheeks pink as she closed her eyes and took a bite.

‘You were close to your grandparents?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And your parents?’ He shook his head in apology. He knew that he’d crossed the line and was cross with himself that he’d actually forgotten, as they’d dined together, the real reason she was here.

Karen gave a bright smile, and tried to resurrect the conversation. ‘Will you go to any of the Six Nation matches next year?’

‘One or two, I hope.’

‘Surely if they’re staying in your hotel…?’

‘I am not often here.’

‘Oh.’

‘I own many hotels—though this one,’ Xante admitted, ‘is my favourite. But the hotels are only a part of my business.’ He chose not to add ‘a small part’, chose not to add that he was the most successful shipping tycoon in modern times and that he employed more people than the hotel staff just to count and track his vast wealth.

‘Your parents must be proud.’ It was Karin that tipped the conversation into the personal this time.

‘My father died when I was nine. In a boating accident.’

‘The same as mine,’ Karin said. ‘More recently, but they died in a boating accident too.’

No; he bit on his tongue rather than say it. His father had died working; his father had been sober; his father had died because the company had sent him out in a badly maintained vessel. It had been nothing like Karin’s parents’ amoral end. Instead of saying it, though, he gave a gracious nod.

‘How about your mother?’ Karin asked.

‘There is only one thing that will make my mother truly proud: it is about this big.’ He held his hands a foot or so apart, his smile so devastating Karin found she was smiling too. ‘It makes a lot of noise and smells. I am back there next week for a christening. My cousin Stellios—he is also my best friend—has just acquired one.’

‘A smelly, noisy thing?’ Karin checked, and Xante nodded.

‘So I will suffer the weekend being reminded that I should be settling down with a nice Greek girl and producing babies instead of wasting my time with sport and work and nonsense like that.’

‘Do you have many brothers and sisters?’

‘Just me.’ Xante rolled his eyes.

‘Oh dear!’ Karin smiled, really starting to enjoy herself now. Xante Rossi up close and personal, apart from being seriously gorgeous, also had this rather dry humour that appealed. ‘Well, good luck next weekend.’

There was something on the tip of his tongue—right there on the very tip—the ludicrous suggestion that she come with him. But thankfully formalities took over; the MC stood, the lights dimmed, and Xante breathed out a small sigh of relief.

Since his break-up with Athena, he had never brought a woman back to his island, and if he suddenly were to now the implication would be huge to his family. It had been but a moment of madness, Xante decided. Karin Wallis might have all the attributes of a lady, but under that dress she had a grazed knee where she’d been tripped up stealing. At that moment she leant over to say something, just an observation about the speeches, and Xante caught a scent of her perfume. A stray curl just dusted the edge of his cheek, and he was so lost he had to ask Karin to repeat herself.

The speeches and formalities went on for ever, but neither Karin nor Xante seemed to mind. Sitting together, listening, occasionally talking, they truly appeared a couple. Only, just as Karin truly started to relax, the highlight of the night started—the charity auction. Everything seemed to be auctioned, from Caribbean holidays, a luxurious winter retreat at Lake Como and baubles from Tiffany’s that Xante had acquired at a preposterous price for his godchild. And yet all it did was make Karin feel sick. The copious spending, the haemorrhage of money, was all too familiar to her.

But the lavish spending had been just a pale precursor. When the auctioneer silenced the room, the major prize was announced—for a group of up to twenty to train alongside the English rugby team for a week at Twickenham and have access to the top coaches, trainers and masseurs. A headmaster of a grand all-boys school opened the bidding, and Karin watched as the fever in the room mounted. She could feel that there was more than a desire to obtain the ultimate prize—there was the boast of wealth that she abhorred. Like her parents, like Matthew, who’d thrown money away on things they neither wanted nor needed just because it had to be seen that they could. And when Xante trumped the biddings, when the room burst into applause and congratulated him on the obscene amount he had paid for something he would probably never use, Karin was hard pushed to play the part of the dutiful partner and smile at his excess.

That she was less than impressed was blatantly obvious; as Xante pocketed the golden ticket he saw her tongue roll in her cheek.

‘You don’t seem too pleased.’

‘It’s not my concern,’ Karin said tartly.

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not.’

They sat in tense silence—tense because Xante wasn’t the only one realising how much a partner could change one’s status. Aware of her Ice Queen reputation, usually Karin stood apart at this sort of function, unable to relax and enjoy herself, rigid and awkward. It just compounded the rumours. But just walking in the room tonight she had felt the shift.

Men had looked at her differently—and the women too. She was invited into their circles in a way she had never been before, moving beyond the awkward, polite small-talk that was her usual fare, and chatting, laughing and joking with these acquaintances as if now they were friends, as if now they wanted to know her.

For a while she hadn’t been able to put her finger on why she was being treated differently. But, staring over at him—dark, brooding and restless in the chair beside her, his clean-shaven jaw already dusted with the shadow of the morning, his hands tapping an impatient tune with the coaster—Karin got it. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Xante.

Like a rumble of thunder in the distance on a perfect day, there was this dangerous edge to him. His sensual lips barely moved, yet never had a mouth been more expressive. His body was this ripple of energy and tension beneath his immaculate suit, and his eyes when they met hers spoke of sex and sin and wicked, private places—even if his words were supremely polite. And if she were with Xante, if this night were real, then the newspapers had surely misrepresented her and the company tonight had therefore misinterpreted her— because to be with Xante, to be the woman that held him, meant there was surely more to her than met the eye.

It was with trepidation that she walked to the dance floor with him, as if her awkwardness would reveal their lie.

But awkwardness Xante could deal with. His teenage years had, after all, been spent in a virtual playground of tourists—women out for two weeks of fun and romance in the Greek summer sun, which Xante had been only too happy to provide. He’d driven them on his battered scooter around the islands, their thighs gripping him as the delicious scent of arousal filled the air; he’d taken them to secluded spots, swearing he would write, would ring, that they were the one… So convincing was he that in those moments Xante had almost believed it to be true. It was the chase Xante had relished, the prize of the most unwitting surrender he had sought—and Karin Wallis, tense and rigid in his arms, provided the challenge he had for so long craved. Women these days were just too eager, too ready to please.

But not this woman.

Here on the dimly lit dance floor he held her loosely, feeling her slender, fragile form, his hands low and loose on her waist. He was in no rush. Xante knew exactly what he was doing.

Karin didn’t!