The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife

The Greek Tycoon’s Virgin Wife

Helen Bianchin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

XANDRO EASED THE Bentley GT into the centre lane as traffic crawled through one intersection after another in a general exodus of Sydney’s inner city.

Streetlights vied with neon signs as the sun sank low on the horizon, streaking the western sky a brilliant red that subtly altered in hue as dusk descended and changed day into night.

It had been a tough day, with two high-powered meetings, a conference call, and numerous demands on his time.

He could do with a massage to ease the tension…except there wasn’t time. In less than an hour he was due to attend a prestigious charity dinner.

Alone.

He was acquainted with several women, any one of whom would drop everything to share the evening with him, willingly providing scintillating conversation laced with coquetry and an invitation to share a bed.

But he hadn’t risen through the business ranks to head a financial empire by indulging in endless pleasure.

An enviable quality inherited from his father?

If so, it had to be one of a very few. A wry smile tugged his mouth. Yannis Caramanis had been best-known as a hard-nosed son-of-a-bitch, ruthless to the point of mercilessness, and rich as Croesus. Husband to no less than four wives, the first of whom had borne him a child…Alexandro Cristoforo Caramanis.

A son destined to be an only child, for Yannis refused to consider an heir and a spare, thus creating rivalry, jealousy, dissent and the rupture of an empire he’d striven so hard to build.

Subsequent wives had coveted his father’s wealth and what it could do to gild a life of endless pleasure and social status. Until the gilt wore off and they were discarded for the next beautiful young thing. Arm candy. Very serious arm candy whom Yannis ensured were each gifted no more than their due via water-tight pre-nuptial agreements.

Xandro rolled his shoulders, eased the Bentley forward through a set of traffic lights and took the New South Head road to suburban Vaucluse.

The soft, intrusive burr of his BlackBerry brought a muttered imprecation, and he extracted the unit, checked caller ID, let it go to messagebank and switched the unit to mute.

Success brought responsibilities…too many, he mused, for modern technology ensured he was constantly available, twenty-four by seven.

And while he relished the cut and thrust of high-powered business…excelled in it, he allowed wryly…there were other challenges in life he needed to explore.

One in particular.

Marriage.

Family.

One woman who was honest and without artifice, who’d occupy his bed, make his house a home, be a charming hostess, and provide him with children.

Someone who had little illusion about love, and was prepared to view marriage as a business proposition without the complication of emotion.

Affection, the exultation of the sexual act…but love? What was it?

He’d loved his mother with a child’s love, only to have it taken away from him. As to his stepmothers…each of them had had only one goal in mind. Yannis’ money, the gifts and the lifestyle. A child was a nuisance and better served to be tucked away in an expensive-boarding school with term breaks spent at various exclusive holiday camps overseas.

He learnt very early to succeed in order to gain his father’s attention. Consequently he excelled at everything.

And when Yannis had settled him into a lowly position within the Caramanis empire, he fought hard to prove his worth. So hard, there was no time for social frivolities.

The effort had earned him Yannis’pride, a stake in his father’s empire, multimillionaire status…and the attention of women.

Some more clever than most, and one in particular who had almost convinced him to put his ring on her finger.

Almost.

Except a precautionary investigation had revealed details that ordinarily wouldn’t have come to light.

A practice he continued to employ whenever he decided to become close to a woman. Calculated, perhaps…but it eliminated any nasty surprises.

Xandro managed a wry smile as he eased the Bentley into a street lined with exclusive real estate.

His home was a mansion situated high on a hill and bearing splendid views over the harbour. Purchased five years ago, he’d had it remodelled and refurbished, installed a live-in couple to manage the house and grounds…a luxury residence where he slept, worked and entertained.

Xandro Caramanis.

The man who had everything.

A worthy successor to his father.

Hard, ruthless…coveted by women, but attached to none.

Isn’t that how the tabloids depicted him?

A little over half an hour later, showered, shaved and attired in an evening suit, Xandro slid into the Bentley and headed towards the city.

Traffic had eased somewhat, making for a relatively smooth run to the inner-city hotel where tonight’s fundraising event was being held.

Valet parking, deferential recognition as he bypassed the lift and took the sweeping staircase to the mezzanine floor where fellow guests mingled and sipped champagne.

Pre-dinner drinks provided an excellent opportunity for committee members to work the room, ensuring guests were informed of the next upcoming event on the social calendar.

Muted music filtered through strategically placed speakers, providing a non-intrusive background for easy conversation.

The evening held the promise of yet another successful fundraising event, from which in this instance disadvantaged children would benefit.

Xandro let his gaze idly skim the room, observing his fellow guests in an unobtrusive manner, greeted and acknowledged several within his immediate vicinity…came full circle, then returned to linger on one young woman’s features.

Fine facial bone structure, a pretty mouth…He liked the way she held her head, the expressive movement of her hands. Ash-blonde hair swept high on her head in a style that made his fingers itch to release the pins holding its length in place.

Refined elegance from the top of her head to the tips of her delicate feet.

And slightly nervous, he detected idly, beneath the practised smile…and wondered why, when she was so well versed with the social scene.

Ilana…daughter of society maven Liliana and the late Henri Girard.

Attractive, slender and petite, in her late twenties, she possessed an aloof persona in the company of men…a quality that had earned her an ice maiden tag. With reason, or so rumour abounded…although the only known fact was her hastily cancelled nuptials to Grant Baxter on the eve of their wedding.

Two years on, she mixed and mingled with the city’s social glitterati in the company of her widowed mother.

Many men had attempted to date her, but to Xandro’s knowledge none had succeeded.

Impeccable background, charming manners and well versed in the social graces, Ilana Girard would, he’d decided, make an eminently suitable wife.

All that remained was to implement a starting point, begin the courtship…and put forward his proposal.

Xandro’s eyes narrowed slightly as Liliana Girard separated from her daughter’s side and began moving towards him.

‘Xandro. How lovely to see you here.’

‘Liliana.’ He took her outstretched hands in his, then lowered his head and lightly brushed his lips to her cheek.

‘If you’re alone this evening, perhaps you would care to join Ilana and me?’

Xandro inclined his head in silent acquiescence.

‘Thank you.’

He allowed Liliana to precede him, his gaze becoming deliberately enigmatic as he saw the moment Ilana sensed his approach. The imperceptible stillness in her stance, the slight lift of her head, like a fragile gazelle scenting danger.

Then the moment was gone, replaced by a practised smile as he drew close.

People-watching was an art-form, body language an acquired skill…both at which he was incredibly adept. ‘Xandro,’ Ilana managed with cool politeness, and silently damned the way her pulse kicked in to a faster beat.

There was something about him, an indefinable quality that raised the hairs at the back of her neck in silent warning…of what?

Tall, for even in four-inch stilettos she had to lift her head to look at him.

Attractive, Ilana accorded silently, in a leonine way, for the lighting accentuated his broad sculptured facial features, strong jaw-line and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes.

His tailoring was impeccable and individually crafted, downplaying rather than emphasising his impressive breadth of shoulder.

Intensely masculine, he bore an aura of power that was uncontrived, yet only a fool would fail to detect the ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface.

‘Ilana.’

He made no attempt to touch her…so why did she harbour the instinctive feeling he was merely biding his time? It didn’t make sense.

‘I believe you’re sharing our table this evening.’ She was well versed in the art of social conversation and could converse in fluent Italian and French, thanks to a year spent in each country studying couture.

Yet in this man’s presence she had to consciously strive to present a certain façade. Aware, in some deep recess of her mind, that he saw straight through it.

His gaze remained steady. ‘Is that a problem?’

What would he do if she said…yes?

A polite smile curved her mouth. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to have you join us.’ And knew she lied.

‘One of the committee members has just signalled me,’ Liliana posed. ‘I won’t be long.’

For a moment Ilana felt bereft, and incredibly vulnerable. She could escape with good reason…excuse herself and drift towards another group of guests. Except it would be a copout, and a fruitless one, for she doubted such a move would fool Xandro in the slightest.

It was inevitable they’d cross paths. The Caramanis empire was a known benefactor of several charities, and gala events such as this evening’s fundraiser ensured Xandro’s presence, usually with a stunning female in tow.

Yet this was the third time in recent weeks he’d attended an evening function without a partner.

So who’s counting? a silent imp taunted…and she stilled the soft oath that rose and died in her throat.

The thought he might deliberately seek her out was laughable. She was his polar opposite, and besides, she was done with men. Had been for more than two years, and once bitten…

A faint shiver slithered down the length of her spine as memory provided a vivid replay of that fateful night when her hopes and dreams had been so cruelly shattered.

She’d survived and moved on, losing herself in her career to the extent it consumed her life. There was little she wanted or needed. No unfulfilled dreams.

‘Darling.’ The soft feminine voice was pure feline, and matched the tall, willowy blonde who drifted close to Xandro’s side. ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’

‘Danika,’ Xandro acknowledged with a polite smile that failed to reach his eyes.

The Austrian-born model trod the international fashion catwalks and was much sought-after by designers, despite her behind-the-scene tantrums. A nightmare to work with, she possessed a magical ability to model clothes that put her among the élite.

‘You’ve met Ilana?’

Brilliant blue eyes spared her a perfunctory look. ‘Should I have?’

The deliberate put-down was softened with an ingenious tilt of that exquisitely painted mouth.

‘Ilana is a fashion designer.’

‘Really?’

Bored disinterest couldn’t have been better feigned. This was party time, and the glamorous model had only one goal in mind…Xandro Caramanis.

Who could blame her? The man was the catch of the decade!

‘I’m not familiar with your name. Ilana…who?’

‘Girard,’ Xandro informed silkily.

Ilana decided there was never going to be a better moment. ‘Arabelle label.’ She waited a beat. ‘You’re wearing one.’ So too was she, a gorgeous, figure-hugging halter-neck design in deep pink slipper-satin.

Danika’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘It was sold as an original.’

‘Gifted,’ Ilana corrected, and saw the model lift a dismissive hand.

‘My agent deals with the minor details.’

‘She follows your instructions.’ It was part of the deal, part of the play Danika employed. Designers adored her panache, and turned a blind eye to any contretemps. The gift of one of their original designs meant little in the big scheme of things.

It was all about marketing…recognition…sales.

Danika placed a lacquered nail to the lapel of Xandro’s evening suit and offered a seductive smile. ‘I’ll ensure we share the same table.’

With an unhurried movement he removed the model’s hand. ‘No.’

Just…no?

Succinct, and almost crushing…if one tended to be easily hurt.

Ilana caught a glimpse of ice in Danika’s startling blue eyes as the model’s lips formed a deliberate pout. ‘Poor darling, you’ll miss out on some fun. I’m available if you change your mind.’ Danika wriggled her fingers in a silent farewell before melting into the crowd.

It was as well the ballroom doors opened and guests were encouraged to take their seats.

Although seconds later Ilana wasn’t so sure as Xandro captured her elbow and led her into the vast room set with well over a hundred tables.

His fingers were warm on her bare skin, his touch electrifying as heat rose deep inside and threatened to affect her equilibrium.

It wasn’t a feeling she coveted, and she fought an instinctive need to withdraw from him. ‘There’s a reason for such seeming togetherness?’ she demanded quietly, and saw one eyebrow slant in musing humour.

‘I enjoy your company?’

She looked at him carefully. ‘It would help if you enlighten me as to what game you’re playing.’

‘Would you believe…none?’

‘Should I be flattered?’ she queried sweetly, and heard his faint husky chuckle.

‘You’re not?’

‘I’d hate to shatter your world,’ Ilana relayed in droll tones as a pretty young thing personally directed them towards a prestige table close to the stage.

Name cards designated seat placings, and it came as no surprise to find Xandro’s name card placed next to her own.

How difficult could it be to converse, smile and play the social game?

Pretend, a tiny voice prompted. You’re good at it.

‘What would you like to drink?’

There was bottled wine on the table, but lunch had been a non-event, and alcohol in any form would go straight to her head.

‘Just water, thanks.’

Xandro poured iced water into her goblet, then filled his own. ‘To good fortune.’ He touched the rim of his goblet to hers in a mocking salute.

The table filled, Liliana joined them and, introductions completed, the evening began with the usual opening speech by the nominated-charity president.

The lights dimmed, and waiters began serving food to the guests as the guest speaker took the podium.

She was supremely conscious of the man at her side…the exclusive tones of his cologne, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothing mingling with the barely detectable essence of male.

There was something dangerous about him that threatened the carefully built armour she’d painstakingly erected in her need for self-preservation.

It made her wary, almost as if she had to gather all her wits together and be on constant alert in his presence.

For heaven’s sake, an inner voice silently expostulated. Xandro Caramanis is nothing to you.

What’s more, you don’t want him to be.

So get over it!

Yet the feeling persisted, making it difficult for her to relax.

Ilana ate mechanically, forking morsels of delectable food into her mouth without really tasting a thing.

It didn’t help to be aware her apparent coupling with Xandro garnered interested speculation. Or that Xandro was the focus of Danika’s attention.

Was he bent on publicly denouncing whatever relationship he’d enjoyed with the glamorous model?

‘No.’

His quietly spoken negation momentarily startled her, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand as she met his inscrutable gaze.

‘Really?’ She arched an expressive eyebrow.

‘No.’

The reiteration held an inflexibility she couldn’t ignore, and she hated the tense knot tightening in her stomach.

She wanted to demand what are you doing? Except the words remained unuttered as she deliberately turned her attention to a neighbouring dining companion and engaged him in meaningless social niceties.

Yet Xandro’s presence was inescapable, and it irked her unbearably that he had the power to unsettle her nervous system to the extent she became conscious of each movement, every breath she took.

Did he know?

Dear God, she fervently hoped not!

The dinner seemed to take forever, concluding with coffee and a worthy if wordy speech by the nominated-charity chairperson.

Muted music filtered through strategically placed speakers, providing a reason for guests to move freely among the tables, converse…and for many it signalled an end to a pleasant evening.

Any minute soon Liliana would rise to her feet, thank fellow table guests for their patronage, bid them good night…and Ilana would be free of Xandro’s disturbing presence.

Except her relief was short-lived, as Xandro expressed his intention to escort them to the lobby.

‘It isn’t necessary.’

‘On the contrary.’ He cupped her elbow, exerting slight pressure as she surreptitiously endeavoured to put some distance between them.

Don’t, she wanted to protest.

‘I’m considering setting up an auction to benefit the Leukaemia Foundation, and I’d appreciate Liliana’s advice.’

Her mother showed genuine delight. ‘How generous of you. Of course I’ll be only too pleased to help in any way I can.’

‘Good,’ Xandro concurred smoothly. ‘With that in mind, perhaps you’ll both accept an invitation to dine with me in order to discuss details? Shall we say Thursday of next week?’

‘Thank you.’

Liliana would, Ilana knew, rearrange her social schedule in the blink of an eye to accommodate Xandro Caramanis.

They reached the lobby, and Xandro signalled the concierge to have his car and her own brought up from valet parking.

Within minutes a silver Bentley GT slid to a halt outside the main entrance.

‘Seven o’clock,’ Xandro indicated, withdrawing a card from his billfold and penning a few lines on the reverse side. ‘My home.’

With an economy of movement he passed a tip to the bellboy, then he slid in behind the wheel and eased the sleek car out into the flow of traffic.

Seconds later Ilana’s dark blue BMW slid to a halt, and Liliana waited only until Ilana cleared the hotel vicinity before voicing,

‘What a lovely invitation, darling. And quite a coup to have Xandro request my help.’

What could she say, other than…‘So it would seem’?

‘You have reservations?’

Several. Although she refused to settle on any one.

‘You must go, of course.’

‘We, darling. As in both of us.’

Ilana brought the car to a halt at an intersection. ‘Maman, no,’ she said gently.

Liliana offered a pensive look. ‘You won’t change your mind?’

Not any time this century, she silently vowed. The less she came into contact with Xandro Caramanis the better!

CHAPTER TWO

PREPARATIONS FOR THE current Fashion Design Awards ensured Ilana spent most of the weekend in the workroom as she checked and re-checked the selection of garments both she and her partner, Micki, had chosen to enter in the various sections.

The judging process comprised examination of the fabric, stitching and finishing by a panel of experts who provided a grading in advance of the final catwalk judging.

Which meant ensuring every detail was perfect…or as near to perfect as it was possible to get.

Winning in any category added to a designer’s status, lifting interest and sales. Although for Ilana, the focus was on fashioning quality fabric into faultlessly assembled stylish garments.

As a child she’d adored dressing her dolls, and with Liliana’s help she had made patterns and cut and fashioned her own range of dolls’ clothes, progressing to designing and making her own outfits.

A degree in fashion design followed by an apprenticeship with one of Australia’s top designers had eventually provided the opportunity to work overseas for a few years…Paris, Milan and London, before she returned to Sydney, where she’d set up her own workroom.

Diligence and hard work had seen her acquire recognition among her peers, with the Arabelle label rated highly among the social set.

While Ilana possessed the talent and expertise with design, needle and thread, it was her childhood friend, Micki Taylor, whose business nous completed their successful partnership.

Micki’s flair for selecting the right accessories was faultless, for she had the ability to put together a successful fashion showing that lifted it above the rest.

Ilana loved the creative aspect of transforming a vision into reality. To be able to look at a fabric and visualise the finished garment was a gift…one she didn’t regard lightly. Colour, fabric, style. She lived to make it work and come alive. Infinitely special to the woman who bought it. Any accolades and awards were a bonus.

The week leading up to the design-awards night involved long hours double-checking everything was covered, including back-up plans should a contracted model call in sick…or any one of several things that could go wrong.

Days when she seemed to only take time out to eat and sleep, she reflected wearily as she entered her apartment early Tuesday evening after a fraught day.

The thought of a long soak in a bubble bath and a decent meal was tempting, except it wasn’t going to happen.

Instead she only had time for a quick shower, a change into a cocktail dress in café-au-lait lace, the application of make-up and fixing her hair into a simple knot before driving to Double Bay to attend the evening’s gallery showing with Liliana.

A prestigious affair, invitation-only, it heralded the grand opening of new premises in three adjoining villas whose interiors had been gutted and converted into a spacious gallery owned by an established family known in the art world for discovering and fostering artists.

Cars lined the wide, tree-lined street in suburban Double Bay, and Ilana circled the block twice before finding a space.

Two security guards flanked the gallery entrance, one of whom checked her name off the invitation list whilst the other indicated the foyer.

‘Darling.’ The family’s eldest son took her hand and leaned in close to brush his cheek against her own. ‘Welcome.’

‘Jean-Paul.’

Jean preceded each male name in the family…Jean-Marc, the patriarch, his two sons, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre.

People mingled in groups sipping champagne and accepting proffered canapés from uniformed staff. Muted music emitted from concealed speakers, a suitable background to the guests’ conversation.