Kitabı oku: «The Greek's Virgin Bride», sayfa 3

A smile indented his mouth. Last night with Xanthe had been very enjoyable—she had seen to that. Ah, he thought pleasurably, there was nothing like a Greek woman for making a man feel good! Yes, Esme Vandersee might be eager for him, he was certainly a catch for her, but as an American she suffered that infernal affliction of thinking that a woman had a right to give a man a hard time if she chose! Usually, of course, any petulance that Esme displayed he disposed of very swiftly—she was as sexy as a cat and getting her horizontal soon improved her mood…

But even so, he mused, Xanthe understood what it was that a man wanted a woman to be. And she made it obvious that she was keen to be so very attentive to his every need….

His smile vanished. Well, he’d be kept waiting tonight before availing himself of Xanthe’s rediscovered charms! Yiorgos Coustakis was obviously taking considerable pleasure in jerking his strings—just for the hell of it, it seemed. Their meeting that afternoon, ostensibly to discus the technicalities of reversing Vassilis Inc into Coustakis Industries, had hardly been urgent, and could have been left to their respective finance directors to sort out. But obviously Old Man Coustakis had relished getting Nikos Vassilis to come traipsing out of Athens to that overblown villa of his whenever he snapped his fingers.

Thinking about the afternoon meeting brought another image vividly to mind—that of Yiorgos Coustakis’s flame-haired mistress.

Nikos’s mouth tightened. The woman had been so blatant, and so unashamed of what she was doing at the Coustakis villa. Not to mention eyeing him up and trying her wiles out on him to boot!

Mind you, Nikos thought, had the woman not been tainted by her distasteful association with a man old enough to be her grandfather, then her approach to him might well have got a warmer welcome.

Considerably warmer, in fact…

An image of her dark auburn hair floating around that perfect face, the way her breasts had thrust against the material of her jacket, played in his memory. Oh, yes, she was worth remembering, all right! Her beauty was so flamboyant, so eye-catching, that almost—almost he had been tempted to overlook just for whose benefit it had been paraded that afternoon. Not for him—for a seventy-eight-year-old man.

He thrust her memory from him. However alluring the woman, she was beyond the pale so far as he was concerned.

He revved the engine again, enjoying the superb handling of the extortionately expensive car beneath his hands. Driving a high-performance car like this was like having sex with a high-performance woman…they were both so extraordinarily responsive to his touch…

His mind snapped away from the analogy. For the next few hours, until the ordeal of a tedious, overlong dinner with Yiorgos Coustakis was done with, he had better keep his libido under control.

Think of your bride, Nikos!

That sobered him all right. It was about time Old Man Coustakis brought the girl out from wherever he had her stashed. She would know all about her intended bridegroom by now, no doubt, and she and her mother were probably already waist-deep in wedding plans. Presumably the girl wanted a lavish society wedding. Well, he didn’t care one way or the other, and, since the whole purpose of marrying her was to seal his acquisition of Coustakis Industries, the more high-profile the better! After all, he had nothing against the girl—let her have her extravagant wedding if she wanted. Once she was his wife it would be her who would have to fit herself around what he wanted—that was what Greek wives did. Oh, he would be generous, of course, and considerate to her position—he had no intention of making a bad husband—but he did not envisage changing his life a great deal on account of the Coustakis heiress.

Pity she was obviously so plain… The thought of having a sexually desirable, docile and attentive wife had its attractions, now he came to think of it.

He braked the Ferrari in front of the security-guarded gates of the Coustakis villa, presented his credentials, and moved on down the drive at a speed greater than he would normally. He wanted this evening over and done with.

CHAPTER FOUR

NIKOS stood in the ornate salon, itching for dinner to be announced. His host seemed to be in no hurry. He was regaling his guest with a lengthy description of his latest toy—a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht which he had just taken delivery of. It was, by all accounts, an opulent vessel, and Yiorgos was telling him in great detail about the splendour of the décor of its interior—and how much it had all cost. The telling seemed to be putting him in a good humour. His colour was high, but his eyes were snapping with satisfaction.

‘And you, my friend,’ he said, slapping Nikos on the back with a still powerful hand, ‘will be the first to try her out! You will spend your honeymoon on it! What do you think of that, eh?’

Nikos smiled briefly. Again, a honeymoon spent on board Yiorgos Coustakis’s new yacht would send just the message to the world he wanted.

‘Good, good,’ said his grandfather-in-law-to-be, and slapped him once more on the back. Then his head snapped round. Automatically Nikos followed his gaze. A servant had opened the double doors to the salon.

A figure stepped through.

It was the flame-haired temptress!

Nikos felt a kick to his gut that was as powerful as it was unwelcome.

What the hell was she doing here?

The woman had paused for a moment in the doorway—making sure all eyes were on her, Nikos thought—and now started to glide forward towards them. Her head was held high—that glorious dark auburn hair twisted up into a topknot that revealed the perfect bone structure of her stunning face.

As for the rest of her…

Nikos felt his breath catch again. The dress was simply breathtaking on her, revealing the lushness of her figure even more generously than the close-fitting jacket had that afternoon. Now, instead of only being able to imagine the rich creaminess of her skin, he could see acres of it displayed for him, from her swan-like neck down across the sculpted beauty of her shoulders, the graceful curve of her bare arms and, best of all, towards the swell of her ripe breasts…

He felt himself ache to caress them…

Like a chill breath on the back of his neck, he felt Yiorgos Coustakis watching him. Watching him lust after his mistress.

Disgust flooded through him. Whatever the hell the old man was playing at, bringing his mistress to dinner, taking pleasure in seeing his guest responding to her lavish charms, he would have none of it! His face hardened.

For Andrea, walking in through the doors and then freezing to a stupefied halt at seeing the very man she had been trying not to think about all evening standing there beside her grandfather, it was like déjà-vu all over again. Just as the first sight of her had brought instant sexual appreciation into the man’s eyes, so, an instant later, that had been replaced by disdain—all over again.

And, just as she had on the terrace, she reacted instinctively. Her chin went up; her eyes glinted dangerously.

She was glad of her anger—it took her mind off the fact that her heart was racing like a rocket and that her eyes were glued to his face.

She stopped, resting her hand on the back of an antique sofa beside her. Her eyes met those of the stranger, defiant and glittering.

‘Well,’ said Yiorgos Coustakis to the man he had chosen to be his son-in-law, ‘what do you think of her?’

What the hell do I say? thought Nikos savagely. He said the only thing he could.

‘As ever, Yiorgos, you have impeccable taste. She is…outstanding.’

They were speaking Greek, Andrea registered. Well, of course they would be! Her eyes flew from one to another.

‘You are to be envied,’ Nikos went on, with gritted politeness, wondering what the hell to say to the old man about the woman he was warming his bed with. Disgust was filling his veins. He wanted out of here—fast.

Yiorgos Coustakis smiled.

‘I give her to you,’ he said. He made a gesture of presentation with his hand. The satisfaction in his voice was blatant.

Nikos froze. What the hell was this? Was this supposed to be some kind of sweetener that the old man imagined he might want in order to bed his plain, sexless granddaughter? If so, he had better extricate himself from the delusion.

‘Your generosity is…overwhelming, Yiorgos,’ he managed to get out. ‘But I cannot accept.’

A look of deliberate astonishment lit Yiorgos Coustakis’s face. ‘How is this?’ he demanded. ‘I thought…’ He paused infinitesimally, milking the pleasure he was getting from the situation to its utmost, watching this arrogant, ambitious pup squirm for one moment longer. ‘That you wanted my granddaughter? That you were impatient to meet her…’

He gave a short laugh, his eyes snapping with malicious pleasure as he watched Nikos’s face change expression as the truth dawned.

‘She is my granddaughter, Nikos—what did you imagine, eh?’ he asked softly.

Only Nikos’s years of self-discipline enabled him to keep his expression steady. Inside, it felt as if the floor had given way beneath him.

‘This is your granddaughter?’ he heard himself say, as if seeking confirmation of the unbelievable.

Yiorgos laughed again, still highly pleased with the joke he had played on the younger man. He knew perfectly well what conclusions he had jumped to when, just as Yiorgos had planned, he had first set eyes on the girl that afternoon, sublimely unaware that the plain-faced fiancée he had been led to expect was no such thing at all.

He glanced across at the girl and beckoned imperiously.

‘Come here,’ he commanded in English.

Andrea walked forward. Her heart was pounding again. She could feel it thrilling in every vein. The man with the steel-grey eyes was looking at her full on, and she was all but knocked senseless by the way he was looking at her—either that or jolted by a million volts of electricity scorching through her.

If she’d thought he’d looked a knock-out that afternoon, in his hand-made business suit, the way he looked now, in his tuxedo, simply took her breath away! She swallowed. This was ridiculous! No man should have such an effect on her! She’d seen good-looking blokes before, been eyed up by them—even kissed some in her time—but never, never had any man made her feel like this.

Breathless, terrified—enthralled. Excited!

Beside the man, her grandfather ceased to exist. She took in a vague impression of a stockily built figure, shoulders bowing with age, and that craggy, heavy-featured face she had registered as he’d sat at his desk that afternoon.

But right now she had no eyes for him.

She was simply drinking in the man at his side—she wanted to stare and stare and stare.

‘My granddaughter,’ said Yiorgos.

Nikos hardly heard him. The entire focus of his attention was on the woman in front of him. Theos, but she was fantastic! Was she really the Coustakis girl? It couldn’t be possible. Then, with a fraction of his brain that worked, he realised that the old man had set him up deliberately—leading him on to think that he was going to be shackled to a plain wife, when all along…

He smiled. Oh, what the hell—so the old man had set him up! He didn’t care! Hell, he could even share the joke! A sense of relief had flooded through him, he realised, and something more—exultation.

Yes! That woman, that fantastic flame-haired temptress, was not out of bounds after all. In fact—his smile deepened—she was very, very within bounds…

Andrea saw the smile, brilliant, wolfish, and felt her stomach lurch. Oh, good grief, but he was something all right! She felt the breath squeeze from her body.

Nikos reached and took the girl’s hand. He lifted it to his mouth. Andrea watched the dark head bend as if in slow motion. She still couldn’t breathe, her lungs frozen as she felt the long, strong fingers take hers.

Then even more sensation laced through her. He was brushing her fingers with his lips. Lightly, oh, so lightly! But oh, oh, so devastatingly. A million nerve endings fired within her, like the whoosh of a rocket cascading stars down upon her head.

As he raised his head he smiled down at her.

‘Nikos Vassilis,’ he said, and looked right into her eyes.

His voice was low—the tone intimate.

She stared up at him, lips parted. She could say, or do, nothing.

‘Andrea—’

The word breathed from her. She could hardly speak, she found.

‘Andrea…’ His voice echoed her name, deeper than her husky contralto. ‘It is good to meet you.’

He let his eyes linger on her one last, endless moment, then, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he turned to his host.

‘You’re an old devil, Yiorgos,’ he said with grating acknowledgement. ‘But in this instance the joke was worth it.’

Andrea’s eyes flew between them—the language was back to Greek. What was going on? Then, suddenly, Nikos turned back to her.

‘Come, let me take you through to dinner.’ His voice was warm, and the caress in it made her nerve-endings fire all over again. That and the over-powering closeness of him, her hand caught in his arm. She felt she ought to pull away from him—but for the life of her she could not.

As if in a dream she let herself be escorted from the room, across the vast entrance hall, and into a grandiose dining room.

With the utmost attentiveness this most devastating man, Nikos Vassilis—Who is he? she found herself wondering urgently—drew back her chair, waving away the manservant who came forward to perform the task, and settled her in her seat.

She wanted to glance up and smile her thanks politely, but she could not. Shyness suddenly overwhelmed her. This was like something out of a fairytale—she dressed like a princess, and he, oh, he like a dark prince!

Instead she mumbled a thank-you into her place-setting.

As he took his place opposite her—only one end of the long mahogany table was occupied, with Yiorgos taking the head and his granddaughter and her fiancé on either hand—Nikos felt a deep sense of well-being filling him.

He couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful bride! Old Man Coustakis was doing him proud. Oh, he would never have been unkind, even to a plain wife, but having that flame-haired beauty at his side, in his bed, was going to make married life a whole, whole lot sweeter for him!

He glanced across at her. She was still staring at her place-setting as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, but she was aware of him all right. Every male instinct told him that. But if she were behaving as a well-brought-up young girl should—showing a proper shyness in the face of the man she was to marry—well, who was he to complain?

A memory of the way she had boldly walked up to him on the terrace, her voice husky as she sought to introduce herself, intruded, conflicting with the image of the meekly downturned head opposite him. A frown flickered in his eyes. Then it cleared. She must have seen the look he had given her then and been angered by it—and rightfully so! No gently reared female would care to be taken for such a one as he had first thought her. Well, now that misunderstanding was out of the way it would not trouble them again.

Another frown flickered in his eyes. The girl was English, that was obvious—both by her colouring and her use of the language, quite unaccented.

As the manservant drew forward to start serving dinner Nikos glanced at his host.

‘You did not tell me that your granddaughter was half-English, Yiorgos,’ he opened. He spoke in Greek, and as he did he noticed Andrea’s head lift, her eyes focus intently on him, concentrating.

Yiorgos leant back in his chair.

‘A little surprise for you,’ he answered. His eyes gleamed.

Nikos let his mouth twist. ‘Another one,’ he acknowledged. Then he turned his attention to Andrea.

‘You live in England? With your English mother?’ he asked politely, in Greek. That must be the reason she had addressed him in English this afternoon.

Andrea looked at him. She made as if to open her mouth, but her grandfather forestalled her.

‘She does not speak Greek,’ he said bluntly. He spoke in English.

Nikos’s eyes snapped together. ‘How is this?’ he demanded, sticking with English.

‘Let us say her mother had her own ideas about her upbringing,’ said Yiorgos.

Andrea stared at her grandfather—just stared. Then, as if knowing exactly why she was staring, he caught her eye. Dark, intent. Warning.

His words echoed in her mind from the afternoon. You will be on the first plane back to London unless you do exactly, exactly, what I want you to do!

She felt her blood chill. Was going along with some fairy story he wanted to tell this guest of his about her upbringing part of that imprecation? What do I do? she thought wildly. Open my mouth and set the record straight right away?

And achieve what, precisely?

She knew the answer. Get herself thrown out of her grandfather’s house and sent back to London without a penny for her mother. And she wouldn’t go home empty-handed; she wouldn’t! She would get Kim the money she deserved, whatever it took. Even if it meant colluding with Yiorgos Coustakis’s attempt to whitewash his behaviour.

So she buttoned her lip and stayed silent.

From across the table Nikos saw her expression, saw the mutinous gleam in those lustrous chestnut eyes. So, the girl had been brought up in England, by a mother who had her own ideas, had she? Ideas that included depriving the Coustakis heiress of her natural heritage—the language of her father, the household of her grandfather. What kind of mother had she been? he wondered. An image presented itself in his mind—one of those sharp-tongued, upper-class, arrogant Englishwomen, expensively dressed, enjoying a social round of polo and house-parties at one stately home after another. He frowned. Why had she married Andreas Coustakis in the first place? he wondered. Doubtless the marriage would not have lasted, even if Yiorgos’s son had not been killed so young. He found himself wondering why Yiorgos had so uncharacteristically let the widow take his granddaughter back to England with her, instead of keeping her in his household. Well, his generosity had been ill-paid! Now he had a granddaughter who could not even speak his own language!

I could teach her…

Another image swept into his mind. That of this flame-haired beauty lying in his arms as he taught her some of the more essential things that a Greek bride needed to be able to tell her husband—such as her desire for him…

He let his imagination dwell pleasantly on the prospect as they began to dine.

Through his long lashes, Nikos watched with amusement as Andrea began to eat appreciatively. Though he was pleased to see her take evident sensuous delight in fine food—Esme’s gruelling diet had always irritated him, and Xanthe was picky about what she ate as well—he would have to keep an eye on his bride’s appetite. At the moment she could get away with hearty eating—her figure was lush and queenly, and she carried no surplus pounds at all, he could tell—but if she continued to put food away like that for the next twenty years she would be fat by forty! A thought struck him. How old was she, exactly? When he’d first set eyes on her he’d taken her for twenty-five or so, but surely Yiorgos would not have kept her unmarried for so long? She must be younger. Probably her English mother and that sophisticated aristocratic society she doubtless enjoyed had served to make her appear more mature than she really was.

Yet another thought struck him, less pleasant. If she’d been brought up in England just how sure could he be that she was coming to him unsullied? English girls were notoriously free with their favours—every Greek male knew that, and most of them took advantage of it if they got the chance! Upper-class English girls were no longer pure as the driven snow—some of them started their sexual lives at a shamefully early age. Could she still be a virgin? He thought of asking Yiorgos outright, but knew what the answer would be—Do you care enough to walk away from Coustakis Industries, my friend?

And he knew what his own answer to that would be.

Virgin or no, he would marry Andrea Coustakis and get Coustakis Industries as her dowry.

Eating the delicious dinner—there seemed to be an endless array of courses—served to take Andrea’s mind a fraction off the man opposite her. But only by a minute amount. Then, just as she was beginning to calm, he started talking to her.

‘What part of England do you live in, Andrea?’ he asked her civilly, clearly making conversation.

‘London,’ she replied, daring to glance across at him briefly.

‘A favourite city of mine. Your life there must be pretty hectic, I guess?’

‘Yes,’ said, thinking of the two jobs she held down, working weekends as well as evenings, putting aside every penny she could to help pay off those debts hanging over her mother. Kim worked too, in the local late-night-opening supermarket—neither of them got much time off.

‘So what are the best clubs in London at the moment, do you think?’ Nikos went on, naming a couple of fashionable hot-spots that Andrea vaguely recognised from glossy magazines.

‘Clubbing really isn’t my scene,’ she answered. Not only did she get little free time to go out, but the kind of nightlife available in her part of London was not the kind to feature in glossy magazines. Anyway, dancing was out for her, and Kim had brought her up to appreciate classical music best.

‘Oh,’ replied Nikos, realising he felt pleased with her answer. Clubbing was strongly associated with sexual promiscuity, and he found himself reassured by her answer. ‘What is your “scene”, then, Andrea?’

She looked at him. Presumably he was just making polite conversation to his host’s granddaughter.

‘I like the theatre,’ she said. It was true—the biggest treat she could give Kim, and herself, was to see the Royal Shakespeare Company, visit the National Theatre, or go to any of the great wealth of other theatres London had to offer. But tickets were expensive, so it was something they did not indulge themselves in often.

Nikos named a couple of spectacular musicals running in the West End currently—obviously he was no stranger to London, Andrea thought. She shook her head. Tickets for such extravaganzas were even more expensive than for ordinary theatre.

‘I prefer Shakespeare,’ she said.

She could tell, immediately, she had given the wrong answer. She glanced warily at her grandfather. His eyes had altered somehow, and she could sense his disapproval focussing on her. Now what? she wondered. Wasn’t it OK for her to like Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake?

She got her answer a moment later.

‘No man likes a woman who is intellectually pretentious,’ the old man said brusquely.

Andrea blinked. Liking Shakespeare was intellectually pretentious?

‘Shakespeare wrote popular plays for mass audiences,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘There’s nothing intellectually élite about his work, if it isn’t treated as such. Of course there are huge depths to his writing, which can keep academics happy for years dissecting it, but the plays can be enjoyed on many levels. They’re very accessible, especially in modern productions which make every effort to draw in those who, like you, are put off by the aura surrounding Shakespeare.’

Yiorgos set down his knife and fork. His eyes snapped with anger.

‘Stop babbling like an imbecile, girl! Hold your tongue if you’ve nothing useful to say! No man likes a woman trying to show off!’

Astonishment was the emotion uppermost in Andrea’s reaction. She simply couldn’t believe that she was being criticised for defending her enjoyment of Shakespeare. Automatically, she found herself glancing across at Nikos Vassilis. Did he share her grandfather’s antediluvian views on women and their ‘intellectual pretensions’?

To her relief, as she met his eye she realised that there was a distinct gleam of conspiratorial humour in it.

‘So,’ said Nikos smoothly, coming to the girl’s rescue after her grandfather’s reprimand, ‘what is your favourite Shakespeare play?’ He ignored the glare coming from his host at his continuing with a line of conversation he disapproved of.

Andrea ignored it too, glad to find her grandfather’s dinner guest was more liberal in his expectations of female interests.

‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ she replied promptly. ‘Beatrice and Benedict are my favourite hero and heroine! I just love the verbal warfare between them—she always answers back to every jibe he puts on her, and never lets him put her down!’

The humour vanished from Nikos’s eyes. A bride with a penchant for a heroine specialising in verbal warfare with her future husband was not his ideal. However stunning her auburn looks, he found himself wishing that the Coustakis heiress was all-Greek after all. A pure Greek bride would never dream of taking pleasure in answering her husband back!

Andrea saw his disapproval of her choice, and her mouth tightened. Nikos Vassilis might be a drop-dead smoothie, but scratch him and he was cut from the same metal as her grandfather, it seemed. Women were not there to be anything other than ornamental and docile.

She gave a mental shrug. Well, who cared what Nikos Vassilis thought women should be—let alone her grandfather? She wasn’t here to win the approval of either.

She went back to eating her dinner. Across the table, Nikos was distracted from thinking further about the woman he had elected to marry by Yiorgos peremptorily asking his opinion on some aspect of global economic conditions. Clearly he had heard quite enough from his granddaughter. It was obviously time for her to revert to being ornamental and docile. And silent. Knowing nothing about global economic conditions, only a great deal about her straitened personal ones, Andrea tuned out.

Then, after the final course had been removed—and she felt as if she could never look another rich, luxurious dish in the face again—her grandfather abruptly pushed his chair back.

‘We will take coffee in the salon, after I have checked the US markets,’ he announced. He looked meaningfully at Nikos as he stood up. ‘Join me in twenty minutes.’

He left the dining room. Nikos glanced after him, then back at Andrea.

‘Even at his age he does not relinquish his mastery, not for a moment,’ he said. He sounded, thought Andrea, almost approving.

‘Surely he’s got enough money,’ she said tartly.

Nikos, who had got to his feet as the older man had risen, looked down at her.

‘Easy to say that,’ he observed evenly, ‘when you have lived in luxury all your life.’

She stared at him. Again, astonishment was uppermost in her breast. Was this more of her grandfather’s fairytale at work? She said nothing—Nikos Vassilis was the dinner guest of the man who was going to fund her mother’s removal to Spain. Baring her family’s unpleasant secrets to him was unnecessary.

He came around to her side of the table and held out his hand, a smile parting his lips. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have been given twenty minutes to ourselves. Let us make the most of them.’

Thinking that the company of Nikos Vassilis was a good deal more bearable than that of her grandfather—even if he clearly didn’t like her approving of Shakespeare’s feisty heroine Beatrice!—Andrea went along with him. He escorted her, hand tucked into the crook of his arm again—a most disturbingly arousing sensation, she rediscovered—from the dining room, opening large French windows to emerge out on to the same terrace where she had first seen him that afternoon. After the brightness of the dining room the dim night outside made her blink until she got her night vision. She glanced up.

The night sky was ablaze with stars. Though it was early summer still, the air was much warmer than it would have been in England. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and walked forward, disengaging herself to place her hands on the balustrade and look out over the dim gardens.

All around in the darkness she could hear a soft chirruping noise.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘You would call them by their Spanish name, I think—cicadas,’ said Nikos behind her. He had come up to her and was, she realised, standing very close to her. It made her feel wary, and something more, too, that made her heart beat faster. ‘They are like grasshoppers, and live in bushes—they are the most characteristic sound of the Mediterranean at night.’ He gave a frown. ‘Surely you have heard them before?’ he asked.

Whether or not she had been brought up in England, it was impossible to imagine that a girl from a background as wealthy as hers would not be well-travelled, especially in fashionable parts of the Mediterranean.

She shook her head, not really paying him much attention. Cicadas—so that was what they sounded like. She remembered how her mother, when Andrea was just a little girl, asking after the father she had never known, had sat on her bed and told her, her soft voice sad and happy at the same time, how she had walked along the sea’s edge, so many years ago, hand in hand with the man she loved, heard the soft lapping of the Aegean, the murmurous sound of cicadas in the vegetation. Her heart squeezed—Oh Mum, why did he have to die like that?

‘What are you thinking of?’ Nikos asked in a low voice as his fingers drifted along the bare cusp of her shoulder.

That the touch of your fingers is like velvet electricity…

‘Just someone I think about a lot,’ she answered, trying to make her voice sound normal when every nerve in her body was focussed on the sensations of his skin touching hers.