The Greek's Secret Passion

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_575a2485-e172-536a-8db9-994a964e54b8)

A MAN’S voice flowed over the air like warm, sweet honey and something about its lazy caress had Molly putting her pen down and staring blankly at the open window.

‘Nato, Zoe,’ said the voice again. ‘Maressi!’

A Greek voice. Unmistakably. Soft and sexy and deep.

Little sizzles of awareness pricked at her skin until Molly deliberately sent them packing. Having a Greek lover a lifetime ago didn’t mean you had to have an attack of the vapours every time you heard one of his compatriots speak, surely? The pang she felt was instinctive but only momentary, and she picked up her pen again.

Then she heard the voice again, only this time it was laughing and this time she froze.

For a laugh was something unique, wasn’t it? Voices changed and some voices mimicked others you had heard—but a laugh. Oh, no. A laugh was different and this one took her right back to a place which was out of bounds.

She walked over to the window with a heart which was beating far too fast for the sight of something which would surely mock her and tell her that she was being a sentimental fool.

But the rich ebony hair of the man who hoisted a case out of the car with such ease did little to reassure her that her thoughts had been of the mad, ridiculous variety. Yet what had she been expecting—that the owner of the voice would be blond? Because if the man was Greek—as he surely was—then, of course he would have coal dark hair and olive skin and the kind of strength which few men she encountered these days seemed to have.

He slammed the car door shut, and, almost as if he sensed he was being watched, he began to lift his head towards the house and Molly hastily withdrew from the window. What kind of impression would that create? A stereotype of the nosy neighbour busy twitching behind a curtain to see just what kind of family the latest house-let would yield.

But a vague sense of disquiet kept her heart racing as she heard the front door of the adjoining house close, and when she went to pick up her pen again she noticed that her fingers were trembling.

Forget it, she told herself. Or put your mind at rest.

Later, she decided as she began to make notes—she would do just that.

Dimitri put the bag down in the hall as his daughter began exclaiming about the high ceilings, the huge windows and the view from the back onto a dream of an English garden. He smiled. ‘It is a good house, yes?’

‘Oh, it’s a wonderful house, Papa!’

‘You want to go and choose your room?’

Zoe pulled a mock-shocked face. ‘Any room I like?’

Dimitri flashed her an indulgent smile, which briefly softened the hard, stark lines of his dark face. ‘Any room you like,’ he agreed equably, glancing idly through a pile of mail which had been left stacked on the table in the hall. Mostly bills and circulars—and one large and expensive white envelope addressed, ‘To the New Residents!’

His lips curved and he put the whole stack down, unopened, then spent an hour unpacking—shifting silk and linen into various cupboards and drawers with the kind of automatic efficiency which evolved after frequent trips abroad. He had just set up his computer on a desk in the room he intended to use as an office, when the front door bell rang, and he frowned.

None of his business contacts would come here. He had a couple of friends in the city, but he had planned to give them a call once he was settled. Which left, he guessed, a neighbour—for who else could it be, other than someone from one of the adjoining houses, who must have seen them arrive?

He sincerely hoped that this was not the first in a long deputation of well-wishers—though maybe that was wishful thinking on his part. Nothing came without a cost and he had deliberately chosen the house in a residential area, mainly for Zoe’s sake. Neighbours promised an element of security and safety and normality which you didn’t get in hotels—but the downside to neighbours was a tendency to intrude, to try to get close.

And Dimitri Nicharos didn’t allow anyone to get close.

He went downstairs and opened the door with a cool smile, preparing to say hello and goodbye in quick succession. But the smile died on his lips and something unknown and forgotten stirred into life as he stared at the tall blonde woman who was standing on his doorstep, a bottle of wine held in her hand and an incredulous expression on her face which made her look as if she had seen some terrible ghost.

It took a moment or two for it to dawn on him just exactly what—or who—it was he was seeing and, when it did, he felt the same kind of incredulity which had made the woman’s luscious lips part into a disbelieving ‘O’, but he kept his own face calm and impassive. He needed time to think, to assimilate the facts, and he would not be seen to react. He had learned that. He never let anyone know what he was thinking, for knowledge was power, and he liked to hold the balance to favour him.

He stared at her. ‘Hello,’ he said softly, as if he was talking to a complete stranger. But she was, wasn’t she? And maybe she always had been.

Molly stared back, her breathing rapid and shallow. It was like suddenly finding yourself on the top of a mountain, without realising that you had been climbing. She felt faint. From shock. From disbelief. And just from the sheer overriding awareness that, yes, this was Dimitri. Her fantasy on hearing the rich, deep laugh had not been fantasy at all. A man from the past—the man from her past—was here, and exuding that same lethal brand of sexual charisma which had once so ensnared her. It was ensnaring her now, for all she could do was to greedily drink in the sight of him, like a woman who had been starved of men all her life.

His skin was glowing and golden, with eyes dark as olives, framed by lashes thick as pine forests. He had filled out, of course—but not in the way that so many men in their mid-thirties had. There was no paunch hanging over the edge of his belt, nor any fleshy folds of skin around his chin denoting an indolent lifestyle with not enough attention paid to exercise. No, Dimitri was sheer, honed muscle, the pale linen trousers and cool silk shirt emphasising every hard sinew of his body.

True, the black hair was less unruly than before and there was a touch of silver at the temples, but the mouth was exactly as she remembered it—and, boy, did she remember it—a cushioned, sensual mouth which looked as though it had been designed purely for a woman’s pleasure.

But the eyes. Oh, the eyes. There was the difference, the one big, tell-tale difference. Once they had shone at her with, not love, no—though she had prayed for that—but with a fierce, possessive affection.

Today these eyes were as coldly glittering as jet. They gave nothing away, and expected nothing in return.

She drew a deep breath from dry lungs which felt as though they had been scorched from within. ‘Dimitri?’ she managed. ‘Is it really you?’

Dimitri raised his eyebrows in question, enjoying her discomfiture, almost as much as he was enjoying looking at her. But then he always had. Women like Molly Garcia were rare. Physical perfection—or as close to it as you would find in one lifetime. An irresistible combination of hair that was moon-pale and streaked with sunshine—and eyes so icy-blue that they should have been cold, yet he had seen them hotter than hot and on fire with need and desire.

Deliberately taking his time to answer a question which was as unnecessary as it was pointless, he let his eyes drift slowly over her body. And what a body. Still. Even though that body had inevitably changed during the journey from teenager to woman. Back then she had been as slender as a young lemon sapling, so slender that sometimes he had feared she might break when he made love to her—but now she bore the firm curves of a fruit-bearing tree. Her hips were still slender, but her breasts were rich and ripe and lush and Dimitri had to work hard at appearing impassive, only just succeeding in keeping the studied look of indifference on his face. His body he had less control over.

‘Perhaps I have acquired an identical twin brother?’ he mocked. ‘What do you think?’

Part of her had been hoping that it was all some kind of mistake, even while the other part had prayed for it not to be so, but any lingering doubt fled just as soon as he began to speak, with that heady mixture of deep, honeyed emphasis she remembered all too well.

She could do one of two things. She could stand there, gaping at him like a fish which had suddenly been starved of water, or she could be herself—the bright, successful and independent woman she had become.

She smiled, even though her mouth felt as though she were stretching a coat-hanger through a jar of glue. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, with just the right amount of amused surprise. ‘I can’t believe it!’

‘I can hardly believe it myself,’ he murmured, thinking that this was fevered fantasy brought to life. His eyes strayed to her fingers. No wedding band. Did that mean that she was free? Available? ‘It’s been a long time.’

Too long, and yet not long enough—for surely time should have gone some way towards protecting her from his sensual impact. So why had time failed her? Why did she find herself feeling overwhelmed with weakness when confronted with the sight of her former Greek lover? She sucked in a dry breath as memories of him pressing her naked body against the soft sand washed over her.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘I am staying here.’

‘Why?’

But before he could reply, she heard the sound of a voice speaking in Greek. A woman’s voice. And reality shot home. Of course he had a woman with him. Probably children, too. Large houses in this part of London were let to families, and he had doubtless brought his with him.

It was no more than she had expected, so why did it hurt so much?

And then she stared in a kind of disbelieving daze as the most beautiful creature she had ever seen came loping down the stairs towards them.

Glossy black hair cascaded down over high, pert breasts—her jeans and T-shirt showing off a slim, boyish figure and emphasising legs which seemed to go on and on forever. Her face was a perfect opal, with deep-set black eyes which dominated it and a luscious, smiling mouth.

And Molly’s determination not to appear fazed almost failed her as the woman grew closer—why, she looked almost young enough to be…Her forced smile faded from her lips. Had he become one of those men who paraded a female on his arm who was young enough to be his daughter?