![My Sexy Greek Summer](/covers_330/39922074.jpg)
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My Sexy Greek Summer
His uncle pulled into a small parking spot in the alley behind his office and got out of the car. Yannis grabbed his tool belt out of the trunk. “One we don’t have yet. Kyria Nomikou was about to sell it to Athena Kefalas for some weaving museum, but Kyria Nomikou just died a couple days ago, before any papers were signed. Her nephew from Athens is asking around to see if he can get a better price—maybe he can, if these Belgians are interested in building their villa condominiums there. If we can help arrange the real estate, they are interested in contracting us for the build.” His uncle tipped him a wink as he unlocked the office door. “Now take a truck to the site, but—” he held up a hand “—park behind the trees where they can’t see you and sneak up on them.”
Yannis laughed. Sneaking up on men while he wore heavy boots and a bulky, noisy tool belt would be quite a feat. “Just how lazy are these carpenters?”
“Eh, they’re from Apollonias. They think they’re the sun god himself and the world revolves around them.” His uncle tossed him one of the pastry bundles. “Bribe them with your aunt’s baking if you have to. Those German buyers are coming next week and I need them to release the rest of the construction money—they won’t, not unless everything is perfect. And don’t forget to come back for the meeting.”
“Okay, Uncle.” Yannis stowed his gear in the battered Aphrodisias Builders pickup truck and hopped behind the wheel. The engine roared to life with a cloud of black exhaust. He pulled away and shook his head. So much for sneaking up on the lazy Apollonian carpenters—they’d hear and smell the truck a mile away.
“WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD, it’s shopping time!”
Cara cracked open an eyelid and squinted up at the giant lemon sitting on her bed. She peeled open the other eye and realized it was Emma wearing a yellow T-shirt and matching shorts, her blond hair fluffed around her face. “Why am I feeling the wine and you aren’t? You were a riot to get home last night.”
“First, I seem to remember you made me drink a lot of water and take some aspirin before I fell asleep. Second, white wine makes you less hungover than red.”
Cara grunted. She’d had several disturbing dreams featuring Yannis Petrides that had left her tossing and achy with need. Probably jet lag thrown in on top of it, too. “What time is it?”
Emma checked Cara’s bedside clock-radio. “Ten o’clock.”
“Good. Just in time for kolatsio.” Cara sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from the oversize T-shirt she customarily wore to bed.
Emma grimaced. “What’s with the big duck on that shirt?”
“It’s comfortable.” The caption below read, I’m on the Verge of a Quack-up, which had appealed to Cara’s dark sense of humor a couple years back.
“Maybe we can give it to the housekeeper for her cleaning supplies. Don’t be surprised if it mysteriously disappears. Even that hempy hippie you were eyeing yesterday would turn up his nose at it.”
“But I sleep well when I wear it.”
“Who said anything about sleep?” Emma winked at her and stood up. “I’ll run to the bakery downstairs and get some breakfast. What sounds good?”
“Oh, get me a bougatsa—that’s a baked phyllo pastry with sweet cheese if they have any fresh ones. Otherwise, whatever looks good.”
“It all looks good to me. How do you want your coffee?”
“Black. I don’t need the sugar and cream calories,” she replied automatically.
Emma laughed. “Cara, you dingbat. You want me to get you a cheese-stuffed pie-thingie and you’re worried about a packet of sugar and a drop of cream?”
Cara took a deep breath. Emma was right. As long as Cara walked or swam every day and didn’t eat only bougatsa, she would be fine. “Okay, cream and sugar both.” She liked her coffee a bit lighter and sweeter thanks to the strong brewing customs.
“That’s more like it. And don’t worry, I have no intention of letting you sit on your heinie on the beach all day. Have I mentioned we’re going shopping?”
“Only about ten times,” Cara replied drily. “Now be off with you and don’t come back without my food.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Emma saluted briskly and hurried out the door.
Cara hopped out of bed and looked down at her night-shirt. “No more quack-ups—or crack-ups, either.” She stripped off the shirt and dropped it into the wastebasket.
By the time she’d finished her shower and wrestled her hair into submission, Emma was setting up breakfast on the terrace table.
“These cheese pastries are fresh out of the oven.” Emma slid them onto bright blue-and-yellow plates from the villa kitchen and poured coffee from the foam containers into matching mugs. “Sit, sit.”
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