The Apollonides Mistress Scandal / Rich Man's Vengeful Seduction: The Apollonides Mistress Scandal / Rich Man's Vengeful Seduction

How the hell could he have forgotten how sexy she was? The lush bee-stung lips, the sinuous curves of her sleek body, the cloud of dark red hair…how could he have let those details slide from his consciousness?

Reluctant to examine the discovery that he still desired her, he said softly between his teeth. “From exotic dancer into singer…I want to see this transformation. I’ll be at your show.”

Half an hour later, wearing only lacy briefs and a silky black halter-neck slip, Gemma sat alone in front of the mirror in the dressing room she shared with Lucie LaVie, a likeable comedienne who did a very funny routine in the bar adjacent to the Electra Theatre.

Meeting Angelo on the beach so unexpectedly had been a shock. Dammit, she hadn’t even known he was back. She’d been on Strathmos for just over a week, waiting for him, half-dreading their first encounter. She’d planned to be prepared…to be dressed to the nines…to show him what he was missing when they met again. Instead she’d been wearing shorts, no makeup and her legs had been covered in sand. She certainly hadn’t expected the curious numbness that had enveloped her.

Staring into the mirror, Gemma couldn’t help wondering what Angelo would make of the transformation. The heavy stage makeup gave her skin an unnatural perfection, blotting out the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Eyeliner accentuated her tawny eyes and dark ruby lipstick added lushness to her lips that gave her an in-your-face sensuality.

Angelo liked his women beautiful and flamboyant. His most recent mistresses had all been actresses or famous models. And, according to the recent tabloids she’d studied, he still showed no sign of settling down. She examined herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful…flamboyant. And Angelo would be out there tonight watching her.

Her plan had to—

A rap on the door broke into her desperate thoughts. “Ten minutes to showtime, Gemma.”

“Won’t be long,” she called back, and ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to tame the wild auburn curls. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s fingers had stroked through them. A vivid image of Angelo’s hand on her arm, his long fingers and buffed square nails, flashed into her mind and she swore softly.

An instant later the door burst open and Angelo entered with all the force and energy of a hurricane.

“Hey. You can’t come in here!” After the initial shock, Gemma resisted the urge to cross her hands over her breasts. Despite the skimpy fabric and the low dip in the front, the slip covered all the strategic places.

Angelo shut the door and, folding his arms, leaned against it. “There’s nothing to see that I haven’t seen before.”

Right. Gemma swallowed. Then she let her gaze run over him. He looked magnificent. The white dinner jacket must’ve been tailored to fit his tall body. Under the lights, his hair gleamed like old gold and his startling turquoise eyes blazed. He looked assured, wealthy, powerful.

And this was the man she intended to teach a lesson he’d never forget.

“What do you want?”

“Join me in the theatre for a drink after the show.”

Gemma hid her exultation. It had been worth coming all the way to Strathmos. A few years ago he would’ve impressed her—with his Greek-god looks and the sheer force of his personality. But these days she didn’t go for the domineering masterful type.

She dared not give in too quickly. She didn’t want to lose his interest. Nor could she let herself forget for one moment why she was doing this.

“Don’t you think you should wait outside until I am dressed?” Gemma waited a beat then added delicately, “Boss…”

Angelo’s brows jerked into a frown at her disparaging tone and Gemma felt a fierce rush of pleasure. Of course, he was accustomed to admiration…adulation… women falling all over him. But not her.

“You—” He broke off and sucked in a deep breath. Then in a soft, dangerous tone, he said, “Do not presume on our past relationship.”

“I would never do that.” In the mirror, she slanted him a small smile. “I came to Palace of Poseidon to sing.”

“Precisely.” He didn’t smile back. His eyes were bright and ruthless. “Or were you lying earlier? Perhaps you were hoping I’d want you back in my bed?”

Annoyance swarmed through Gemma. Quickly, she veiled her gaze before he glimpsed her ire. “I never imagined you’d want that. And nor do I. I’ve told you that already.” Gemma drew a steadying breath. She had to be very careful; she could mess it all up with one careless mistake.

“I thought you might be hankering after the style to which you’d become accustomed.”

God, he was arrogant. Gemma spun around on the plastic stool and glared up at Angelo. He was so tall, he positively loomed over her. “You make me sound like a sycophant. I worked for you, as well.”

“You consider sharing my bed for half a year work?” The look he gave her stripped her naked of the silky slip and told exactly how little respect Angelo had for her.

Again, she fought the urge to cover her breasts, to check that the silky material didn’t reveal the outline of her dark nipples. Supremely self-conscious now, she rose and crossed to the corner of the room where a small closet held several outfits.

Gemma peeled the dress she intended wearing tonight off its hanger. Keeping her back firmly to Angelo, she slid on the sleek crimson tube covered with winking sequins that should have clashed terribly with her hair but didn’t.

The electrifying quality of the silence behind her flustered her. Gemma swivelled. The expression in Angelo’s eyes made her breath catch. She became aware that the dress hugged her curves like a lover, that the neckline was low, provocative. That she and Angelo were totally alone.

Hurriedly she said, “My career has always been important to me.” And fame had been important, too, she supposed.

“If you say so.” He gave her a strange, intent look. “I say that changed once you got what you wanted…”

“And what do you think I wanted?” Then wished the words unsaid as tension sparked in the air between them. Suddenly Gemma didn’t want to know the answer.

A frown drew his surprisingly dark brows together. “A man wealthy enough to pander to your every whim. A gold card with no ceiling…clothes, jewellery…” His gaze dropped pointedly to the gold ring set with a large showy topaz on the little finger of her left hand. “You chose that after we visited Monaco for a weekend. Remember?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” She grabbed a pair of gloves out the closet and, with an ease born of practice, pulled on the long, black lace gloves embroidered with dark red roses and covered the ring. Outside the door, Mark Lyme, the manager of the entertainment centre called her name. Gemma moved towards the door. “I must go, I’m due on stage.”

“Wait, you’re not running out on this conversation.” Angelo flung his hands out wide. “Of course you remember. That night we attended the Rose Ball, and you wanted to go partying afterwards. You flirted with every man who glanced your way.”

Men? She hesitated. What men? “No—”

“Were there so many men that you cannot remember the one from the other?” Angelo’s eyes glittered.

“I don’t remember—”

“Oh, please, don’t feed me that. You’re wearing that ring I bought and paid for. Did I buy you so much jewellery that you can no longer remember the occasion of each purchase? I’m sure you remember every moment of the time we spent in bed afterwards.”

Gemma’s stomach turned. Outside, Mark called again. Gemma wrenched open the dressing-room door. “That’s just it,” she cut in before Angelo could interrupt again. “I don’t remember. Nothing about that night at the Rose Ball. Nothing about you. Nothing about our time together. I’ve lost my memory.”

Gemma bolted out onto the dimly lit stage, the vision of Angelo’s stunned expression imprinted on her mind. She stared blindly out at the audience. She had to get a grip. She had to thrust the disturbing scene in the dressing room with Angelo out of her mind.

The chatter stilled and the cutlery stopped clinking. By now most of the patrons had finished their meal. Being Friday night, the supper theatre was packed. Gemma paused. Clouds from the smoke machine swirled around her, coloured by red and blue lighting and adding to the moodiness.

For a moment the familiar nervousness swept her. Then she embraced it and stepped forward to the waiting crowd. This was a space she cherished, a special place where her voice and mind and body all flowed into the music.

It was at the close of the second song that she spotted Angelo through the feathers of smoke. He sat alone at a table, casually propped against the wall, his arm along the back of the chair. The narrowed gaze focused on her revealed nothing. And the table in front of him was empty of food or drink.

Gemma quaked at the prospect of joining him for the drink he’d invited her for. The memory of how her skin had prickled when he’d touched her and the blind fear that had followed, swept over her.

Ripping her attention away from him, Gemma worked to make the crowd smile…and sigh. As her voice died after the final held note of the last song there was a moment’s silence, then clapping thundered through the theatre. Gemma blew them two-handed kisses and sank into a bow, her unruly hair sweeping forward. She straightened and flicked her hair back and the clapping evolved into stamps and whistles.

“All right, one more, an Andrew Lloyd Webber composition, a personal favourite,” she agreed. Her voice reverberated and the cacophony subsided. “If you’ve ever lost a loved one, this one is for you.”

Gemma launched into “Memory.” Her voice cut through the theatre, sharp and pure. She barely noticed that the audience seemed to hold its collective breath and when she reached the last line she let the final notes slide into silence.

This time the crowd went mad.