The Greek Millionaire's Mistress

His jacket had slipped to reveal her long, graceful neck and sweetly rounded shoulders. She wore her hair in a chignon, but several strands had fallen free and curled loosely at her nape.

Finely carved against a background of pale morning sky, her profile could have served as the model for a cameo brooch of matchless delicacy and beauty. Pure Anglo-Saxon elegance—except for the lush, passionate mouth and huge, dark eyes. Those, he decided, curbing a visceral tug of arousal, she must have inherited from some long-ago ancestors of Mediterranean origin.

“I apologize also,” he told her, and meant it. “I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly.”

“Don’t be sorry. You were merely doing what you’re paid to do, and you already told me that Mr. Tyros has earned your undying loyalty. I should have remembered that before I made such a thoughtless remark. Are the fishermen’s nets usually that orange color?”

“That or a deeper terra cotta,” he said, recognizing her question for the deliberate shift of topic that it was, and finding it odd that she’d so easily abandon the subject she claimed had brought her to Greece. “But what has that to do with your assign—?”

Anticipating his question, she cut him off before he could complete it. “Local color,” she said shortly. “It adds credibility to the article. Do they stay out all night—the fishermen, I mean?”

“A good part of it, yes.”

She shook her head, apparently mystified. “Doesn’t anyone in this country sleep at night?”

“Not so much in the summer months, no. Instead we sleep several hours during the day. That way, we avoid the worst of the heat.”

“So it’s quite normal for a little café like this to be open at dawn?”

“Certainly. Any time now, the villagers will come down to buy fish. Once they’ve sold their catch and cleaned up their boats, the men will crowd in here to drink coffee and talk. But I say again, none of this has anything to do with Angelo Tyros. Why have you suddenly lost interest in him, Gina?”

“Oh, I haven’t lost interest in him,” she said, with unexpected fervor. “I’m quite, um, fascinated by everything about him.”

Something didn’t ring true in her reply. Her peculiar little pause wasn’t lost on him, nor the fact that she settled on “fascinated” as if it were the least offensive word she could come up with at short notice. “You almost sound as if you have reason to dislike Angelo,” he remarked, eyeing her intently, “but that hardly makes sense, does it, since you’ve never met him? Or am I wrong to assume that?”

Stooping, she picked up a puppy that had wandered out of the kafenion, and snuggled it on her lap. “Not wrong at all,” she said, without the slightest hesitation this time. “Perhaps what you hear in my voice is disappointment that I’ve not had the pleasure. But that does bring up an interesting point. If he’s so reclusive, why did he authorize such a very public birthday celebration?”

“‘Reclusive’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe him. As I mentioned before, he dislikes being alone and loves to be surrounded by friends. But like other very rich men, he’s made his share of enemies over the years. When he was younger, he took that in stride but, understandably at his age, he’s more cautious now and avoids strangers unless he’s assured they intend him no harm.”

“To the point that he’s afraid to speak to someone as innocuous as me?” Too ladylike to snort with derision at such an idea, she did the next closest thing and wrinkled her elegant little nose. “What does he think I might do, stab him with my pencil?”

“Anything’s possible,” he said, envying the puppy that was pawing at her breasts and trying to lick her neck. “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac to those who don’t have any, and that makes him a target of unscrupulous individuals wherever he goes.”

She put the dog down and picked up her cup again. “What kind of target?”

“Three attempts at extortion in the last month alone. Kidnapping. And, of course, he’s always being hounded by amateur entrepreneurs who come creeping out of the woodwork claiming to be long-lost relatives. If they were all to believed, he’d have sired at least five hundred sons and daughters in the last sixty-six years.”

She choked on her coffee.

“Sorry,” he said, when she managed to regain her breath. “I didn’t mean to make you laugh at the wrong time.”

Except, he belatedly realized, she wasn’t laughing at all. If anything, she was thoroughly rattled, enough that she knocked her bag off the table. It fell open and spilled most of its contents over the terrace. A fortuitous accident, he thought, bending to retrieve a runaway lipstick before the pup ran off with it. When she found her room key was missing, he’d know exactly how to explain it.

Apart from a facial tissue, which she used to mop up the tears pooling at the outer corners of her eyes, she rammed everything back in the bag, and favored him with a bloodshot glare. “Actually,” she wheezed, “I didn’t find it funny. In fact, nothing I’ve so far learned about Angelo Tyros strikes me as amusing. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t give you an answer.”

“Perhaps it’s simply that you’re on overload and exhausted. You might see him in quite a different light after you’ve caught up on your sleep.”

She smothered a yawn. “I am very tired, suddenly.”

“In that case, we’ll head back to the city. The car’s on the road, but it’s a bit of a climb to get up there. Do you want to put on your shoes before tackling it?”

She got up from her chair and made a face. “No, thanks! My feet are still in recovery and probably will be for the next week.”

Stuffing his socks in his trouser pocket, he shoved his feet into his own shoes and reclaimed his jacket. “I guess that leaves me with only one option then,” he said, and ignoring her squeaks of protest, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and made his way to where his driver, face betraying no expression, stood holding open the car door.

“That,” she huffed, landing on the back seat in a flurry of silk and indignation, “was completely unnecessary!”

He averted his gaze, dangerously aroused by the shapely length of leg exposed as she tried to put her skirt to rights again. “Not from my point of view, Gina,” he said obliquely.

She didn’t remember curling up against him. Had no recollection at all of his slipping his arm around her and drawing her head down to rest against his shoulder. Only when the blare of traffic horns penetrated her drowsy haze did she become aware of the smooth starched cotton of his shirt against her cheek, the muscled contours of his chest beneath her hand—and everywhere, everywhere that his body touched hers, the velvet heat of his skin.

Opening her eyes, she ventured a glance up at him. He was staring out the window, his expression preoccupied. “I’m not very good company, am I?” she croaked, her voice rusty with sleep.

He swung his gaze to meet hers and a smile lightened his face. “Do you hear me complaining?”

“No.”

But she wished he would. Wished he’d say something along the lines of, We wasted precious time while you slept. Instead, as the car turned into the forecourt of her hotel, his only comment was, “I kept you out too late. You look weary.”

That was reassuring! Straightening, she fiddled self-consciously with her hair; wondered if her mascara had run, or her lipstick smudged. Had she drooled in her sleep? Worse yet, had she snored?

The possibility sent a wash of embarrassment through her. As far as she knew, she didn’t snore, but who was there to tell her differently, when no one shared her bed?

Angling a surreptitious glance at Mikos, she saw that even without socks, with the laces of his shoes untied, his trouser legs all creased, and his shirt not quite as pristine as it had been a few hours before, he still managed to look elegant. Even with the shadow of new beard growth darkening his jaw, and his black hair decidedly mussed, he was still the picture of unparalleled masculine beauty. It wasn’t fair.

The driver snicked open the car door. Mikos swung his long legs out and unfolded to his full six feet plus. Extended his hand. “Gina?”

She nested her palm in his. Felt his fingers close warmly around hers. In one smooth move he had her standing barefoot beside him on the forecourt’s cool paving stones, with her skirt falling in disarray around her ankles. Aware that the window of opportunity was rapidly closing, she searched his clear green eyes for a hint, a shred of hope, that he’d ask to see her again.

“Thank you for a wonderful time,” she said.

He smiled. Stepped closer. Bent his head. Dropped a swift, sweet kiss on her mouth. “Parakalo. Sleep well,” he murmured.

So let down it was all she could do not to burst into tears, she nodded, turned away and was almost at the hotel’s front doors when he suddenly called out, “Gina, wait!”

She spun back to face him, hope percolating through her blood. Her rhinestone sandals dangled from his hand. “Don’t forget these,” he said.

Like a cake taken too soon out of the oven, her moment of optimism sank into a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. Accepting the benighted shoes, she muttered a listless “Thanks,” and quickly entered the hotel before she made a complete fool of herself.

Before the wide glass doors had swung closed behind her, Prince Charming and his limousine had been swallowed up by the noxious fumes of the traffic roaring down the narrow street. So much for fairy tales!

Feeling pathetically sorry for herself, she rode the elevator to her fourth-floor room, only to discover when she got there that she’d lost her key. She had no idea where or when or how it had happened, but she did know it was the last straw and, giving vent to her frustration, she let fly with a solid kick at the door.

The only thing that suffered was her big toe. She hopped on one foot as agonizing pain knifed through the other, and yelped loudly enough to bring a maid scurrying out of the room next door. Taking in the situation with a single glance, she muttered sympathetically in broken English, and used her master key to open Gina’s door. Then, after helping her to the small armchair next to the window, the woman hurried away, and returned a short time later with a large plastic bowl half full of ice cubes.

“You grow big, Kyria,” she announced, eyeing the rapidly swelling toe mournfully. “Better you do this!” And to make sure her message had come across loud and clear, she plunked Gina’s foot in the bowl.

Whether she burst into tears because of the shocking crunch of ice against her injured toe, or because someone was looking after her for a change, or simply from the culmination of a fatigue that had been building for months, was anyone’s guess. All Gina knew was that, one minute she was smiling gamely, and the next she was sobbing against the matronly breast of the chambermaid who stroked her hair and murmured Greek words of comfort that somehow transcended the language barrier.