Tempted By Her Greek Tycoon

And then she remembered. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers over her shoulder-length light ash-brown hair. ‘I was wearing a wig last night.’

His gaze immediately moved to her feet, and as he moved towards her, her already hysterical heart switched into frenzied mode when it sank in that he was wearing nothing other than a pair of black gym shorts.

Her eyes skimmed over him briefly before she stared again at her throbbing feet, her mind flashing with images of what she had just witnessed. Broad shoulders, muscle tightly wrapped against bone... A powerful muscular chest... Taut stomach... Long athletic legs... Hard thighs... Sharply defined calves.

He was beautiful. It made her itch—no mere mortal deserved such perfection. No wonder he didn’t have to try too hard with his social skills. People would bow down at his flawless feet regardless.

She watched in disbelief as he crouched before her, his huge frame curling effortlessly and fluidly to balance on one knee. His thumb moved against her foot, gently testing the area where there was an angry-looking cut, and a bruise starting to blossom around it. Then he tenderly lifted her other foot to examine its sole.

Unable to breathe, she dug her fingers into the countertop, fighting against the tide of emotions welling in her. Loukas was the first person to touch her in what felt like a lifetime. She wanted to pull away, overwhelmed. And yet she wanted this moment to last for ever.

Her foot still cradled in his hand, he looked up and grimaced, his expression worried. ‘I’ll get the first aid kit.’

‘There’s no need...’ Her words trailed away as he disappeared into the utility room.

He was back within seconds.

Quickly and efficiently, he applied a burn spray to her sole and swabbed a disinfectant wipe across the broken skin of the other foot. She gasped as it stung.

He paused and gazed up at her. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded, her voice stolen by her surprise at the gentleness of his tone, the tenderness of his touch.

‘The cut isn’t deep, but I’m worried that you might have broken something.’

She wriggled her toes. ‘It’s fine—honestly. The pain is already practically gone. I got a shock, that’s all. I thought you were asleep.’

Balancing her foot on top of his bended knee, he reached into the first aid kit and took out a sticking plaster.

‘Why were you baking in the middle of the night?’

With delicate care he placed the plaster on her foot, his thumbs softly running over each end, gently applying pressure to ensure it was firmly in place.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I take pastries into work most days... Marios especially loves my croissants. I prepared some dough yesterday, before work, and decided to bake the croissants now as it helps me to relax.’ She inhaled a deep breath and gave a guilty grimace. ‘I’m guessing that I woke you?’

He didn’t answer her question, but instead said, ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes...don’t move.’

Georgie threw her head back and stared at the kitchen ceiling when he left the room. She was mortified at being so clumsy. And thrown by Loukas’s patience and care.

What a great start to her employment. All night she had tossed and turned, her mind reeling with thoughts. Her escalating bills. The endless chasing of her builder. The fact that her new boss, who for some reason made her feel as if she was plugged into the electricity mains, was less than happy to employ her. The fact that she had volunteered to be a matchmaker to said boss in order to retain her job.

Was she out of her mind? Undoubtedly a neat queue would form if she advertised the fact that Loukas Christou was looking for a wife—who wouldn’t want to marry a hotel tycoon with dark movie-star looks and the body of a professional athlete? But what would happen when the women learnt it was a practical business marriage, love not included?

Would that work for some women? Perhaps. Look at how successful arranged marriages where in some cultures. But where was she going to find such a woman within the next few weeks? She had needed a distraction. She’d tried reading and then counting sheep, but they had disturbingly morphed into belligerent goats. After that she had known that her usual fail-safe of baking was the only answer.

Why was the prospect of getting Loukas onside so daunting? After all, she had done this a hundred times before. For as long as she could remember in every new country, new city, new school, new job, she had had no option but to smile her way into acceptance. Despite the fear of being rejected, which had been alive and mocking in the pit of her stomach every time she’d approached a wary new face.

And even when she had become accepted by those new schoolmates, and later work colleagues, despite her exuberant front and her deep, sincere desire to connect with people, she had never truly managed to. After her mum had left, and then all the friends she’d lost time and time again when her dad had uprooted them, she had realised that it was easier to keep people at arm’s length. To be a social butterfly. To keep those friendships on the surface. For their sakes and hers.

That was until she’d met Alain. At first, as the owner and head chef of the restaurant where she’d begun her training to be a pastry chef, he had been her boss. She had fallen in love with his enthusiasm and passion and they had quickly become a couple.

But she had hurt him terribly when she’d left him. Feeling as if she were unable to breathe. Panicked at how serious their relationship had become. Questioning everything about their relationship and convincing herself that she was only with him because he made her feel safe. That she wouldn’t feel so freaked out if she’d met ‘Mr Right’.

A few relationships later it had slowly dawned on her that maybe ‘Mr Right’ didn’t exist for her... Not through any fault of the men she’d met. No, the problem lay squarely at her door—she’d been moving about for so long her need for change was bone-deep, her restlessness, her love for travel and exploring new places—all were too strong within her for any relationship to survive.

Loukas was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt when he returned to the kitchen. In silence he approached her and then, again crouching before her, he began to place a pair of snow-white sports socks on her feet.

‘These will be too big, but they are padded and will be more comfortable when you walk.’ Standing, he asked, ‘Do you want to give it a try?’

She nodded, but before she could react further his hands were on her waist. Gently he eased her forward on the counter, and her hands reflexively reached out to hold his upper arms before he lifted her slowly down onto the marble floor of the kitchen. Her hands refused to drop away from his arms—in fact her fingers insisting on remaining wrapped around the powerful strength of his biceps.

Drop your hands, Georgie. What are you doing?

But his hands aren’t dropping from my waist either, and it’s so nice here, being held, inches away from him, inhaling his scent...citrus, but with a hint of basil and cedar.

He’s your boss—you’re his matchmaker, for crying out loud. Let go!

But instead of letting go she dared to look up into his eyes.

He looked as perplexed as she was feeling.

She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘Hi.’

He jerked his head back, as though suddenly waking up to his surroundings.

In unison they moved apart.

Her heart a churning mess, her legs wobbly, she took a few tentative steps. It stung, but seeing his concerned expression at her measured movements she upped her pace and gave him a bright smile.

‘I think I’ll live.’

‘Good.’ He gestured to the stools by the breakfast counter. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll clean up.’

He refused to allow her to help, so Georgie sat at the counter feeling sheepish. But as he cleared away the baking equipment, wiped the counter surfaces and swept the floor, the silence between them and the darkness outside, the fact that they were all alone in his villa, had an intoxicating feeling of intimacy.

When he’d finished tidying up he turned and considered her.

She smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’

He nodded, and for the longest time they stared at one another, something shifting between them.

He’s your boss, Georgie. Stop it!

She yanked her gaze away and for want of something to do reached across the kitchen island and pulled the cooling rack towards her.

She had managed to place seven croissants on the rack before she’d dropped the baking tray on her foot. She held out a croissant to him, wanting to thank him but also to reach out to him for reasons she didn’t fully understand.

He eyed the croissant dubiously, so she explained. ‘A peace offering—to apologise for waking you.’