The Mediterranean Millionaire's Mistress

The Mediterranean Millionaire's Mistress
Maggie Cox

Lysander Rosakis keeps his multimillion-dollar fortune to himself. The handsome Greek shipping magnate has learned to be wary of those who only want him for what his money can buy.So his seduction of British tourist Ianthe Dane is as cool and controlled as his need for her is hot and passionate. He will love her and leave her—before she discovers who he really is.But this time it isn't Lysander who decides to walk away…

The Mediterranean Millionaire’s Mistress

Maggie Cox

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

SHE’D lost her best friend and discovered she wasn’t who she thought she was—all in the space of a few weeks.

Two unrelated but cataclysmic events which had catapulted Ianthe from safety into the frightening sphere of the unknown, and in the painful process introduced her to a whole other reality.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now that I’m here, I may as well make the best of it.’

Frowning in the mirror at the doubt she saw reflected so clearly in the rich caramel depths of her dark brown eyes, she tried to stem the tilting sensation that made her feel as though she was desperately endeavouring to keep her balance when a deep fissure had just cracked open beneath her feet.

‘Keep breathing…just keep breathing.’

Her own advice rang a little hollow round the plain whitewashed walls of the hotel room, with its lone faded picture of a Greek Madonna and child—but still she grabbed at it, standing perfectly still until some of the terror ebbed away and she was breathing normally again. A slow trickle of sweat meandered down the valley between her breasts. She would fight this…she had to. There weren’t any safety nets any more to catch her if she fell.

From the moment she’d decided to fly out to the small Greek island she had chosen at random on the map, with a tumultuous mix of grief and excitement pounding through her heart because that was where she would start her quest of self-discovery, Ianthe had promised herself that she would avoid anything that remotely resembled routine. She would discover an adventurous spirit inside herself if she had to take a shotgun to it and force it out.

‘There’s no going back, Ianthe, so you may as well get used to the idea and just accept it.’

This time her advice didn’t ring so hollow, and a strong surge of determination made her feel as if she was being carried along on a jetstream of renewed purpose. She was twenty-nine years old, until recently the owner of a thriving and successful business, and would not argue the fact that so far her life had been fairly unremarkable. The beloved only child of parents who had already been in their forties when she was born, she had been brought up with caution instilled into her very marrow, so that she almost never did anything spontaneously, and Ianthe hadn’t ever rebelled against that. Until three months ago, that was—when the tumultuous events that had overtaken her had propelled her into acting in a way she had never acted before.

Locking the door of her room, she hurried down the wide ‘Roman baths’-style steps that led to the hotel’s small reception, suddenly needing to be amongst people again. Her flip-flop sandals slapped almost too loudly against the cool marble as she walked, so that she was conscious of the echoes being the only blemish on the otherwise subdued atmosphere. Depositing her key in the appropriate box on the wall, she went outside into a blaze of sunshine and a cornucopia of scents. She didn’t really have a clue what she was going to do with her first full day on the island, but after all wasn’t that the point? Instead of planning practically every moment to the nth degree, she would let the day take her wherever it willed. She would open herself up to opportunity instead of trying to predict every outcome.

As she set off down the shiny, slippery-stoned alleyway, Ianthe silently ordered herself to relax her shoulders and slow her stride. She was on holiday, for goodness’ sake, not running a marathon! She breathed in with another passionate burst of determination, inhaling air that was crammed with the scent of so many delicious things it was hard to pick out just one. All she knew was that the balmy cocktail was stimulatingly different from anything she’d experienced in a long, long time.

Minutes later, sitting outside a waterside taverna that had royal blue cloths on the tables and matching umbrellas, Ianthe focused interestedly on the outrageously glamorous yachts that were moored in the harbour in front of her. They seemed to positively yell Look at me!, their luxurious clean lines and gleaming bodywork fascinating her, yet eliciting little envy. Even unimaginable wealth was not armour enough to protect a person from the crucifying agony of being betrayed or losing someone you loved.

Ianthe had lost her best friend Polly to breast cancer when she hadn’t even known how seriously ill she was. Less than three months later, when she’d been undergoing a routine blood test and the technician had innocently enquired what nationality her parents were, a seed of doubt about her ancestry had lodged itself in her mind and would not go away. There had been a couple of other occasions in the past when that same doubt had surfaced, and she had tentatively questioned her English-looking parents and been firmly reassured. In retrospect, she knew that she had never been quite convinced, but she had accepted their word and pushed the niggling questions determinedly away.

But this time she hadn’t banished it to the back of her mind. This time she had confronted her parents with her nagging suspicion, demanded the truth, and had had her doubts shockingly proven correct.

Be careful of what you look for because you might just find it. That had turned out to be an adage Ianthe wished she had taken heed of, because she had learned that her parents were not her real parents at all. When the full, almost unbelievable story had emerged, she’d discovered that she’d been adopted as a baby after being abandoned by her natural mother in a hospital laundry basket, with nothing but a creased little note that simply read, Her name is Ianthe.

Now, as she raised her creamy almond latte to her lips, she blinked back the scalding surge of tears that swam into her eyes behind her huge black sunglasses. But she was unable to halt the flow entirely. No, money couldn’t protect you from the events of life that hit you unawares, slamming you out of safety into a dark, dark chasm with no bottom on which to plant your feet. That was why Ianthe had put her business up for sale—the two fashionable dress shops that had cornered an eager market in boho chic and retro—and decided to ditch her predictable and safe routine for ever.

Now she was free of ties of any kind, and her life was an unknown trail that led to heaven only knew where. She would have to take comfort in the unknown from now on, because she had no job to return to, no romantic partner to worry about where her little quest of self-discovery would lead her, and no best friend in whom to confide. As for her parents…Well, she’d had the first really big row with them of her life. Why had they left it until now to tell her that she was adopted? Would they have told her at all if she hadn’t confronted them with her suspicions? Why had they lied to her, deliberately keeping from her the astounding revelation that she’d had a brother too, who had died when he was only four years old—a year before they’d adopted Ianthe? That was why they’d been so over-protective of her—but part of the way they had ‘protected’ her was by lying.

Even Polly had lied. She’d lied to Ianthe to protect her, Polly’s husband Tom had told her afterwards, because she’d known that news of her prognosis would devastate her closest friend. Her parents’ defence of their own lies had been frighteningly similar: she would have been devastated. It had left Ianthe wondering why they all thought she was so incapable of dealing with the truth.

A deep shiver of distress rippling down her back, she took another sip of coffee, only to find it had cooled disagreeably and wasn’t nearly as delicious as she’d promised herself it would be. Paying her bill, she left some coins for the waiter as a tip, pushed herself to her feet and made her way to an art gallery that was mentioned in one of the island’s brochures she’d picked up. Her plan was to lose herself in there for an hour or two, and hopefully find some inspiration about what on earth she was going to do next with this precariously unpredictable new life she’d suddenly and perhaps recklessly signed up for.

Lysander Rosakis climbed out of the small fishing boat with ease, gave a brief salute to the man who had accompanied him but who was going on to a restaurant in another cove to sell his catch, laughed when his companion of the morning called out a witty reply, then headed back along the road beside the harbour to his house. As the sun beat down in a steady throb of heat onto his already sun-drenched limbs, Lysander tried to push away the little nugget of unease that arose in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t name or account for his fear right then, but he didn’t have to. He was already well acquainted with what it was.

The last time he had stayed in the plain whitewashed house on the island he had been with Marianna—his wife. Now he was visiting the holiday destination he so loved alone. They’d come out to the island two summers ago now—just a couple of months before their baby was due—trying desperately to put a plaster on the gaping wounds of the previous year, when Marianna had had an affair. Lysander recalled that summer with pain, his footsteps slowing a little as the bittersweet memory cruelly submerged him. How could he have known then that his misery at the brittleness of his marriage would be devastatingly compounded by the dreadful events that had occurred on their way home to Athens? That Marianna would give birth to their son prematurely and, shockingly, that neither of them would survive?

A slashing hot pain knifed itself deep into his temple, and he drew his hand there in an automatic attempt to make its throbbing cease. But the acute discomfort was distressingly obstinate and, coupled with his frustration and rage at God for not intervening in the terrible chain of events that had blighted his life, it meant Lysander could not withhold the ripe curse that emanated from his lips.

What had he done to deserve such living torment? Hadn’t he been a good Greek son? Following his illustrious father into the shipping business, forging his own equally illustrious career path, becoming a force to be reckoned with and revered amongst his peers? Hadn’t he shelved his own compelling desire to make photography his career in lieu of carrying on the family tradition? Marianna had never understood Lysander’s photographic work. She had sided with his father, loving the kudos and social cachet that marriage to a man of his wealth and lucrative associations had brought her, which even her own family’s distant but much-mentioned connection to the aristocracy was not able to provide, and had constantly urged him to put aside his ‘crazy’ dreams and concentrate instead on being a successful businessman. Now the fruits of his success had definitely palled, and Lysander hardly knew what to believe in any more.

Marianna’s betrayal, and then her death along with his expected child, had created scar tissue deep within his soul that would probably never really heal. The whole experience of marriage had left him with a scathing regard for romantic relationships that almost reached the point of contempt. His youthful dreams of a loving family of his own had crashed and burned, and changed his life undoubtedly for the worse. He might at last be making strides with his consuming passion—photography—these days, as well as continuing as head of the Rosakis business, but he was more alone than he’d ever been in his life. He had no son and no wife, and had developed an increasing preference to keep himself to himself—apart from occasionally seeking the company of a few close and trusted friends.

Thankfully, this was one of the few places he could come to in Greece where he would be largely left alone. The local people knew of the tragedy he had suffered, of course—the gossip grapevine extended to most of the outlying Greek islands, and with the illustrious name of his family, how could it not? But the islanders were respectful and kind, even protective of his privacy, and Lysander was grateful for that.

Almost wishing he had gone on to the other cove with his friend, instead of returning home to an empty house to eat lunch alone, he glanced towards the high walls of his friend Ari’s art gallery. The twin doors to the cool interior were flung wide open in the almost midday sun and, making a spontaneous decision, Lysander decided to go in.

The brutally frank black and white portrait of on elderly Greek woman fascinated Ianthe. The personal suffering that all but poured from the sorrowful dark eyes that gazed back at her, swathed by a myriad of deeply etched wrinkles, no doubt hard earned, had called out to Ianthe the moment she’d walked into the gallery. As she’d crossed the cool wooden floor of the large ground-level room, its pleasant inviting ambience created by the subtle lingering plume of cedarwood incense that hung in the air and the painted saffron-coloured walls, Ianthe had all but had to keep herself from running towards the amazing study of the woman. She’d visited every other room to study the photographs on display, but she kept coming back to this particular work again.

It was no less than compelling. A stark illustration of a life pitted against tragedy and pain and probably hard physical grind that would test even the strongest, most determined being—and all beneath a cruel, unforgiving sun that, twinned with poverty and endured every day, could no doubt bleed the soul dry. The face was a triumph of survival over disaster—of holding on when even the thought of living through another sun-scorched and battle-scarred day seemed almost too much to bear—and it touched something deep and grieving that begged to be released inside Ianthe. She didn’t know how she knew so much about an unknown woman, but she did. The power of the portrait was such that it revealed everything.

Her emotions raw, Ianthe found herself empathising with the woman’s unspoken agony. The study touched the dark places inside her where rage, betrayal, a helpless sense of abandonment and a deep fear about her parents preferring the son they’d lost to their adopted daughter reigned supreme these days.

So absorbed was she by the portrait that at first she didn’t notice the tall, straight-legged man dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt who had come to stand just a couple of feet away from her to share the perusal of it. But something about his presence seemed silently to command her and, unable to resist, she helplessly glanced sideways to see who had disturbed her.