Kitabı oku: «Won by the Wealthy Greek: The Greek's Seven-Day Seduction / Constantinou's Mistress / The Greek Doctor's Rescue»
Won by the Wealthy Greek
Sun, sea and seduction…
Three dramatic, powerful romances from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!
Won by the Wealthy Greek
THE GREEK'S SEVEN-DAY SEDUCTION
by
Susan Stephens
CONSTANTINOU'S MISTRESS
by
Cathy Williams
THE GREEK DOCTOR'S RESCUE
by
Meredith Webber
For Sara, James and Leonie
THE GREEK’S SEVEN-DAY SEDUCTION
by
Susan Stephens
Susan Stephens was a professional singer who now loves nothing more than reading and writing romance. She lives in cosy chaos in a converted blacksmith’s cottage in Cheshire surrounded by cats, dogs, guinea pigs, children and a very understanding husband. She loves playing the piano and singing, as well as riding, cooking and gardening and travel. When she isn’t writing she’s usually daydreaming about her next hero!
Don’t miss Susan Stephen’s exciting new novel, The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin, available in May 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLOTTE’S feet were in the sea as she stared at the stars. She still found it hard to believe it could stay warm so late in the day on the tiny Greek island of Iskos. The damp sand felt firm and cool beneath her legs, and every so often she was forced to shuffle back on her haunches as an incoming wave claimed another slice of the shore. Finally the moment she had been waiting for arrived, and, drawing back her arm, she tossed the small band of gold as far out to sea as she could. As wealthy men’s wives went she had been a disaster, and the ring was the last symbol of that time.
Closing her eyes, she pictured it sinking to the seabed, and as it sank her spirits soared until finally relief wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Settling down again onto the sand, she curled her legs round to her side and took stock. The world was comfortingly unchanged, but at last she felt different, felt free. This must be how a butterfly felt on the day it shook out its wings.
Leaning back on her fists, she spotted the winged horse Pegasus laid out in stars above her head and felt it was a sign. The divorce was behind her. Her life was about to take flight.
Hugging her knees, Charlotte thought about the future. There were certain things she wouldn’t change. She was an established lifestyle journalist—have laptop, can travel—and she could live anywhere, thanks to the Internet. Perhaps she should move somewhere new, somewhere exciting and different—somewhere like this? But some things had to change first—recovering her zest for life, for instance. She had been on the island almost a month and hadn’t even ventured out at night yet—and her trip to Greece was supposed to be about rebuilding her self-esteem as well as her career. Up to now the change of scene had not helped. The inspiration she needed to write had proved elusive, and her self-esteem still hovered around zero.
Her thoughts flew to the flimsy dresses lying neglected at the bottom of her suitcase. They were fabulous designer freebies, courtesy of the magazine she worked for—but they came at a price. When her editor had said, ‘Find a gorgeous Greek and write about him,’ it had been code for, Bring back a barnstorming feature article to revive a career that has been badly shaken by your divorce. Trouble was, gorgeous Greeks appeared to be in short supply on Iskos.
Her green gaze idled along the base of the cliffs, where the sea was as sleek as black satin, and then swept out across the bay to where the water lay still and as smooth as a silver-grey plate. Lights were twinkling around the taverna at the water’s edge, and the occasional shout or burst of laughter bounced eerily off the rocks at her back, telling her it was time to go.
Springing to her feet, Charlotte slapped her hands together to get rid of the sand, and then froze as another sound intruded. Standing very still, she listened until she identified the regular swish of oars.
Scanning the sea, she spotted a lantern glowing in the prow of a small rowing boat. Everything was stripped of colour in the half-light, and it was hard to pick out anything with certainty, but thanks to the lantern Charlotte made out a man in silhouette. His stroke was sure and confident, as if he used the stars and moon to steer by and had a fixed point of destination.
Watching the oarsman was strangely hypnotic. He gave off an impression of power, and Charlotte smiled as her imagination kicked in. She had seen any number of wiry, weatherbeaten fishermen on the island, but something told her this man was different. He was tough, but graceful like a tiger…beautifully co-ordinated, dangerously strong. Her mind continued to throw up images in an attempt to give the shadowy form more substance—and quite suddenly she felt a hunger to start writing everything down.
Quickly retrieving her sandals, she slipped them on. The main thrust of the article was still hidden from her—but it would have something to do with the man in the boat, she was sure of it. Heading back in the direction of the steep trail that led up through the cliff to the villa she was renting, Charlotte began to run.
The outdoor terrace had a traditional pebble floor that wrapped right around the single-storey villa. There was a long table, set close by the stone balustrade to make the most of the view, and it was here that Charlotte set up her improvised desk. Like most homes in a warm climate the villa was blessed with plenty of outdoor lights, and she could write all night should she want to.
The whole time she was working Charlotte was conscious of the lantern, a tiny pinprick of light on the sea. The man and his boat were indistinguishable, but it was comforting to know he was there. It kept her imagination fired and the words flowing easily.
Gradually the list of ideas and impressions she was jotting down in preparation for writing the article was growing longer: lithe grace, physical strength, effortless coordination, sense of purpose, aura of power. Charlotte paused, and when she lifted her head she realised that her heart was racing. Determinedly she forced her attention back to the keyboard. Sheen of raven hair in failing light, harsh profile seen for the space of a heartbeat in silhouette, moonlight glancing off flexing muscles—She paused again, conscious that her breathing was faster now too. As her fingers hovered over the keys she gazed into the night at the tiny beacon, then, with a wry shake of her head, she dragged her gaze away again. Concentrate, she told herself sternly.
She wasn’t even aware how fast the words were tumbling from her fingers until a drop in temperature broke her concentration. Shivering a little, she sat up and eased her shoulders. A fresh wind had kicked up, whipping her long Titian hair round her face, lashing her eyes and making them water, and plastering annoying strands to her lips.
The last time she’d looked the sky had been gunmetal-grey, with just the hint of a magenta border where the sun-trail lingered, but now it had blackened into a deep Greek night—a deep, chilly Greek night, Charlotte amended, pulling her pashmina a little closer. After a few more minutes she was forced to concede defeat and retreat inside.
A heavy silence greeted her in the cool interior of the luxury villa, but it was a calming silence that filled her with relief rather than loneliness. She had known the moment the agent showed her round that this was the perfect setting in which to recover. A well-appointed property, at the high end of the market, it offered her the freedom from concern she so badly needed. She was too bruised inside, too shaken up to recover her fighting spirit without a little help.
The failed marriage had left behind more scars than she could ever have anticipated. There were the feelings of guilt—that she could maybe have done some things differently or better—a sense of failure, and then the grief. And that had really taken her by surprise. But she was a survivor, and this break in Greece was an investment in her future. Whatever else the article turned into, she was determined that the theme at the heart of it would be optimistic and uplifting.
Clutching the stack of printed sheets close to her chest, Charlotte shouldered open the heavy oak door that led into her bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room was traditional in style, its terracotta floors scattered with richly patterned rugs in subtle shades of red.
With the most discerning rental client in mind, restoration had been undertaken with no expense spared. Freshly whitewashed walls framed the broad spread of a high bed, positioned so that its occupant could look out over the sea. And it was a bed designed to appeal to a novelty-seeking high spender. A well-sprung mattress lay on a platform of smooth rock, and the linen sheets were piled high with cushions in jewel-coloured silks. The throws flung casually over the top of that were cashmere.
There was even a large en suite bathroom through another door, which boasted brand-new white fittings housed in baby-blue wash-painted units. Charlotte decided she would take a long, lazy bath there as a reward for making a start on the article, but first something drew her back to the window.
Ideas were fine, she mused, inhaling the fragrant air as she thought about her work, but they were only ingredients for the cake—and nothing without careful preparation. With just a week left to get it right, she would need an early start the next morning.
The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and even the branches of the olive trees a few feet from the window seemed to have dissolved into the night. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, steadying breath. There was a faint smell of lemons on the air, and an owl hooted in the distance as it drifted on silent wings in search of prey. Opening her eyes again, she tried to find the tiny dot of light. It was out there somewhere on the sea. She frowned, thinking it had gone. But then quite suddenly it appeared, glowing like a nightlight in the inky-black void.
‘Goodnight,’ she murmured softly, smiling a little to herself as she turned away.
It was possibly the most comfortable bed she had ever slept in in her life, Charlotte mused drowsily, settling back on the bank of plump pillows to stare into the night. Her gaze homed in on the lantern and settled there. She couldn’t help wondering about the man in the boat, the lone fisherman.
She moved restlessly on the cool sheets. How was she supposed to get to sleep while her mind was so active? With thoughts of the fisherman. Was she in lust with a shadow? Charlotte wondered wryly. Was this what it had come to? But it did no harm, she reminded herself. She was free now.
Her world had shrunk to an oasis of sensuality in the bedroom of a villa on a tiny Greek island in the Aegean sea, and it was a world full of possibilities if she allowed it to be. The island was far away from anyone she knew. She could have an affair and no one would be any the wiser. She could throw herself into a passionate sexual relationship with a man who wouldn’t expect anything from her—why should he? No strings, no consequences. And maybe that was exactly what she needed.
Her body certainly seemed to think so. Sensation was streaming through her as she watched the small light moving gently on the sea. Teasing vibrations had started to throb, with a warm and insistent pulse, but she took her hand away, resisting the road to loneliness, wondering instead if the answer to her frustration really did lie out at sea, in the small boat with the fisherman.
Sighing as she told herself not to be so foolish, Charlotte checked one last time that the lantern was still visible. Framed by the window, she saw that it was moving quite a bit now, as if the sea had grown rougher. Then she thought her imagination must have taken over, for with each beat of her heart it seemed to be coming a little closer. But however much she willed it to turn towards the villa it moved steadily away from her, towards the far side of the shore.
Who is he? Charlotte wondered as she thought about the fisherman. And, more importantly, how do I get to meet him? She was still mulling it over when sleep finally claimed her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE sound of turtledoves cooing in the split trunk of the olive tree outside her window woke Charlotte at daybreak. Easing herself down from the snug sleeping platform, she padded barefoot across the cool tiled floor and stared out of the open shutters. It took her a few moments to adjust to the low, slanting light, and then she sighed with disappointment.
What had she been expecting? She had seen the fisherman turn for shore in the middle of the night. But somehow that hadn’t been enough to prevent her imagination conjuring up an image of him waiting for her somewhere.
Directing her gaze upwards, she saw the sky was a pale, watery lemon, and smiled in anticipation. The new day held the exciting possibility that she might see the mystery man again.
These last few days on the island might well be worth all the others put together, Charlotte thought, suddenly feeling the crazy urge to lean out of the window and embrace the translucent light. She wanted to stamp the view on her memory for ever: the sand stretching away in an ivory crescent, looking as though it had been washed, cleaned and ironed just for her pleasure, and beyond that the fingers of mist lingering over smudgy green olive groves. The sea was translucent aquamarine, and mirror-flat between her side of the shore and the jetty where the fisherman must have tied up his boat. She stared intently, but there was no sign of either him or his boat.
Time to swim, she decided, pulling back decisively. And after that she would settle down to the business of writing.
Coming down the stone steps in just her pyjamas, Charlotte paused only to slip on her sandals. During her short time in Greece the sunshine and warmth had stripped away her inhibitions—that and the fact that so far no one had trespassed on the stretch of beach below the villa. She would swim naked today, as she had every day since her arrival.
By the time she reached the edge of the cliff her pulse was racing with more than her usual anticipation, and the first thing she saw out at sea were two red floats. His floats? Surely they must be. Her heart leapt, and, turning towards the steep donkey trail that led down to the beach, she tried not to run. But the markers were like magnets, drawing her to the shore.
They are just markers in the sea, Charlotte warned herself as she walked across the sand. Nothing to make a fuss about. She took her time removing her sandals, and made a point of ignoring them. But by the time she reached the water’s edge she could hardly breathe with excitement. He would come back—he had to come back at some point to claim them, she realised, ripping off her nightclothes and tossing them onto the ground.
Get a grip! she told herself, pausing a moment to enjoy the soft brush of the breeze on her naked body. If this was the way she was going to react, she would have done better staying up at the villa, where she was safe. How much safer to flesh out the fisherman in her imagination than to risk an encounter…
But as the cool water lapped over Charlotte’s feet her brain clicked into gear and a line of poetry swam into her head that seemed to fit the fisherman perfectly. More than that, it provided the perfect theme for her article.
She replayed the words in her head just to be sure: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure. It was perfect—as the hook for her article, as the theme she had been searching for.
She only had to think about the fisherman to know the direction her article would take now. It was a theme that was sure to resonate with her readers, make them pause over their lattes: a man fulfilled, a man who had found his destiny working close to nature in the sleepy environs of a small Greek island.
Good as far as it went, Charlotte mused, shivering a little as she waded deeper into the water. But what had happened to her determination to reinvent herself? Was the fisherman going to be confined to the printed page? Living in the imagination was great—it had always provided her with an escape—but was it enough? And should the thought of the mysterious fisherman be sending her heart-rate off the scale? She put that thought on hold as she embraced the chilly waves with a shriek of excitement.
Plunging deep, Charlotte began to swim out strongly towards the red floats. She swam well, with her head underwater much of the time to streamline her position and minimise drag. The sea was as clear as if it had been filtered, and the sandy floor was littered with rocks giving shelter to the shoals of colourful fish streaking past her legs. She saw the fisherman’s lobster pots first, nestling between two rocks, even before she realised she had reached his markers.
Treading water, Charlotte grabbed hold of one of the fat red globes and clutched it to her chest. Her nipples tightened as she traced the curved lines with her fingertips and let her thoughts fly. Closing her eyes, she careered off on an erotic adventure where the fisherman’s tight buttocks moved with the same insistent thrust as the waves beneath his float. She allowed her legs to rise behind her, and used the float to keep herself above the waves. It felt cool and smooth against her cheek, with just enough scratchy damage to make her think of how a stubble-roughened jaw might feel against her skin. Her thoughts lingered on his strong hands, touching it, controlling it, much as she was doing now—
‘Oy! Min to kanis afto!’
Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat as she thrust the float away. The barked order carried clearly across the water and came from the shore. Back-pedalling furiously, she sent a curtain of spray high into the air as she whirled around to try and see who was shouting at her.
So much for romantic ideals! It was her fisherman, and even the shock of reality and fantasy colliding was overtaken by a new fear when she saw him take a few fast steps forward. He thought she was in danger and was coming to her rescue, she realised. Quickly thrusting her arm into the air, she gave him a confident ‘thumbs-up’ signal. She relaxed a little when he halted abruptly, but he still exuded a sense of purpose she sensed might be triggered at the slightest provocation. She didn’t flatter herself it was out of concern. He was just plain furious.
But then she began to resent his arrogant occupation of her beach. What did he think she was doing? Did he think she was hoping to steal her supper? Did he own the sea? Charlotte had a good mind to stay exactly where she was until the man gave up and went away. But then she heard an engine put-putting towards her. Swinging round in the water, she saw that a small fishing vessel was closing in on her fast.
Back on the beach, the fisherman had planted himself in front of her pyjamas, whilst in the fishing boat she saw the stocky figure of a much older man sporting a swirling moustache. He had spotted her too. The boat was close enough for Charlotte to see the blue stripes painted down its sides.
She couldn’t stay treading water for ever. Was it fate lines colliding, or a disaster unfolding? Charlotte knew there was only one way to find out. She began to swim back to shore, and only slowed when she was close enough to see the water frothing around the fisherman’s naked feet. As their gazes clashed he brandished her clothes in his hand like a flag.
Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.
Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.
Quite suddenly the boat’s engine was cut. The fisherman on board retreated to the stern, where he busied himself with some nets. The only sound now was the restless surf sighing against the reef and slapping lazily against the side of the small fishing boat.
Crawling commando-style through the shallows on her forearms, Charlotte slipped into hiding between two large boulders and waited there out of sight until she had caught her breath. Then, snatching a quick look, she saw that the fisherman was still standing where she had first seen him, still holding her pyjamas in his fist.
‘Throw them over here!’ she called, pressing herself back against the rock. She waited, but when there was no response she was forced to dart her head out again. The fisherman shook her nightwear, and then his head—slowly and deliberately.
Charlotte sank back with a gust of frustration. Rock and a hard place came to her mind. It was clear this man was no push-over, but, on the plus side, he was an incredible-looking individual. His eyes were extraordinary. Their intensity alone was enough to send a shiver coursing down her spine.
Maybe it came from living so close to nature, Charlotte reasoned impatiently. But she was forced to admit that the hard, muscular body, combined with such an arrogant stare, added up to a lot more than she had bargained for when she’d daydreamed about the mysterious and then-unseen fisherman.
He was taller than she had imagined too, and built like a kickboxer, with incredible legs shown off to best advantage in a pair of battered shorts. Her senses surged at the thought of being controlled by such well-muscled thighs, and she quickly shut her eyes, as if that was enough to make the danger go away.
Fantasy was one thing. Reality, in the shape of this particular Greek male, was another thing altogether. He even wore a knife at his waist, hanging in a long sheath from a low-slung leather belt. ‘Dinosaur,’ Charlotte muttered fiercely, feeling her pulse speed up. He was such a compelling individual that one crazy part of her wanted to tear his clothes off with her teeth, whilst her sensible self was angry with him for provoking such an irresponsible response.
She sank down again in the shallows behind her rock, and it was a good few moments before she steeled herself for another look—and that was a mistake.
Charlotte’s breath flew out of her chest as their gazes clashed. Something in the man’s brooding expression suggested he knew every position in the Kama Sutra, and had devoted his life to perfecting each one of them in turn. Ideal research material for her article, no doubt—but was she really ready for this?
Charlotte shouted down the warning bells clamouring in her head. This was the moment. She could seize it, or live to regret it.
Predatory and very masculine interest was coming off the man in waves. She judged him to be in his midthirties—old enough to know what to do in the bedroom, without having lost either the interest or the stamina required for her purposes…
Closing her eyes, Charlotte brushed the last of her doubts aside. Rolling back the film in her mind, she evaluated what she knew of him: his hair was thick, raven-black and slightly wavy, and he wore it longer than the average man—but there was nothing remotely average about this man.
Most crucially he wore no ring. But she would still have to make discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.
He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for Charlotte’s imagination to pass off her threadbare pyjamas as the Golden Fleece. And what was she going to do about her pyjamas? They remained firmly in his grasp.
She closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to calm down, and then, feeling his stare on her face, knew she hadn’t pulled back sufficiently behind the screen of rock.
Snapping her eyes open, Charlotte raised her voice so there could be no mistake. ‘Throw them over here!’
Glaring at him furiously when he made no response, she found herself caught in a hypnotic gaze. It was hard and cynical: the gaze of a connoisseur, disturbingly knowing.
Charlotte made one last attempt to call to him—in a softer voice this time, hoping to appeal to his better nature.
With a smile, she gestured airily towards the pyjamas.
He took a menacing step towards her.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted, alarmingly conscious of her own nakedness.
The fisherman stopped, and slouched comfortably on one hip.
He was enjoying her predicament, Charlotte realised, and, worse, appeared content to wait for as long as it took until she was forced to come out of hiding and claim her clothes.
She watched him shrug, and saw that the curve of his lips held no humour, that his dark stare was unwavering. But then an explanation occurred to her, and she knew she should have thought of it sooner. Of course—he didn’t understand what she was saying!
Hissing with frustration, Charlotte wondered what to do next. She didn’t speak Greek, so they were never going to get anywhere.
‘Why don’t you come here and get them?’ the fisherman suddenly challenged her, in barely accented English.
