The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife

He was seated too close, his thigh only a few centimetres from her own, and she was far too aware of his potent masculinity.

Ambivalent feelings coursed through her veins, teasing her with what could be…if only she had the courage to reach out for it.

Followed by the fear of opening her vulnerable heart to a man who might destroy her.

It was far wiser to refrain from having anything to do with any man…Xandro Caramanis in particular.

At midnight the girls began making a move to end the evening, and together they converged on the pavement, caught up in ‘good-night’ hugs.

‘I’ll drive you home.’

Ilana spared Xandro a fixed glance and shook her head. ‘I’ll take a cab.’

‘No, you won’t.’

Was it her imagination, or did everyone suddenly disperse with discreet speed? Even Liliana.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Xandro took her hand in his. ‘My car is parked close by.’

‘Are you always so bossy?’

‘Let’s just go with I gave Liliana my word to see you safely home.’

Ilana found herself seated in a luxury vehicle before she had time to think about it. The result of a little too much champagne, or clever manipulation?

Music filtered softly through the car’s speaker system, and she leaned back against the head-rest and closed her eyes as she reflected on the evening…the clothes, the models, the judging. Winning.

And Xandro’s kiss.

Wow…was the word that came readily to mind.

What would he be like as a lover?

Not that she intended to find out.

Hell, she dared not go there. Instinct warned she’d never survive with her emotions intact.

Besides, how could she ever forget Grant Baxter’s dire threat after she’d opted out of their wedding?

I’ll kill you if you date another man.

For two years she hadn’t wanted to get close to any male of the species.

She assured herself nothing had changed.

Except it had. And she didn’t know what to do about it.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.’

Ilana turned her head and looked at Xandro’s strong features beneath the lit bricked apron adjoining the entrance to her apartment building.

‘I wasn’t asleep.’

His teeth shone white as he smiled. ‘Pleasant thoughts?’

‘Thanks,’ she offered belatedly as she released the seat belt and reached for the door-clasp.

‘You’re welcome.’

She couldn’t move as he captured her face and leant in close for a brief evocative kiss.

Then he let her go, and she scrambled from the seat with undue haste. Otherwise she’d have been tempted to stay, wind her arms around his neck, and sink in against him as she returned the salutation.

And that would never do.

He waited until she passed security and entered the lift, then he fired the engine and eased the Bentley onto the street.

It had been a great night, Ilana determined as she entered her apartment. Terrific celebration. Winning took it off the Richter scale.

Tomorrow—today, she corrected as a last waking thought, was Sunday, and there was no need to set the alarm for some unearthly hour before dawn.

A caffeine hit followed by a hot shower helped a little, so too did something to eat, followed by a couple of painkillers and more hot strong coffee.

The apartment had been just a place to sleep for more than a week in the rundown to awards night, and Ilana gathered clothes, ran the washing machine and took care of a few essential household chores before changing into designer jeans and a loose top and heading for the workroom.

The sun’s rays fingered warmth as she trod the pavement, and she slid sunglasses into place from atop her head to shade the midday glare.

Cafés were filled with the Sunday-brunch crowd, and cars tracked the oceanfront road in search of parking.

A light breeze drifted in from the sea, feathering the fringes of numerous beach umbrellas dotted on the sandy foreshore.

For many the weekend invited relaxation, stretching out on the sand for the day to gain a tan, cooling off in the water, wandering across the road for sustenance in any one of several cafés.

Tantalising aromas teased the air, tempting her with the promise of a late lunch when she was done restoring order to the workroom.

Ilana unlocked the door, set down her bag, cellphone, and went to work clearing the detritus. There was a need to update her appointment book, check dates, asterisk possible openings and pencil in contact numbers.

Next came a close examination of garments that had graced the catwalk the previous evening. Some would require spot cleaning, others put aside for the dry-cleaner, and she needed to scrutinise hems for any minuscule damage.

In general, models were careful, but occasionally in the rush of a quick-change it was possible for a lacquered nail to catch in a seam, a hemline.

It took a while, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief that only two garments required minimum repairs, and she’d assembled those needing the dry-cleaner.

Ilana crossed to the refrigerator and filched bottled water, unscrewed the top and took several long swallows before capping it.

Almost done.

For a moment she indulged in a mental review of the previous evening, visualising each garment in each category…only to pause with a frown.

The red evening gown. It wasn’t among the collection of garments returned to the workroom.

A tight ball of tension curled inside her stomach.

She had to be wrong…but she knew with sickening certainty she wasn’t.

Danika. It had to be.

What she wanted to do was call the model and breathe fire and brimstone!

Damn. She needed the complication like a hole in the head!

Instead, she had little recourse but to contact Danika’s agency, explain, request return of the gown and offer another in its place.

At that moment her cellphone pealed, and she picked up, offered her usual greeting…and received silence.

She checked the battery level, saw it was fine, then heard the call disconnect.

Within minutes it rang again, with the same result, and when she activated the call-back feature it registered a private number, denying access.

Weird. Unless the caller was close to an out-of-range area and the cellphone was cracking up.

Ilana had the model agency she used on speed-dial, and an answering machine picked up.

It was Sunday…what did she expect? A further call to the manager’s cellphone went straight to message-bank.

A muttered oath spilled from her lips. Defeated and angry, she had little option but to lock up, go have lunch, then return to her apartment.

She chose a café, ordered, and picked up the leading city newspaper from a selection the café offered its clientele.

The waiter delivered a chai latte, and she barely had time to take more than a sip when her cellphone pealed.

‘Should I warn him you’re a frigid little bitch?’

The call disconnected before she had a chance to respond, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to control the surge of shocked anger rising from deep within.

Grant?

Emerging out of the woodwork after nearly two years?

An icy shiver shook her slender frame. Why? And why now?

Unless…

No, it wasn’t possible anything she’d done or said had stirred the dark beast that lurked beneath her ex-fiancé’s surface charm.

Her mind went into overdrive as she replayed his words.

Then it clicked.

The photographers at the Fashion Design Awards. Surely one of them hadn’t captured the moment Xandro touched her mouth with his own?

Ilana flipped pages until she reached the social section, and she quickly scanned the featured prints, honed in on one of them and felt the breath catch in her throat.

If the photo didn’t spell it out, the caption certainly did, followed by printed text speculating Xandro Caramanis and Ilana Girard were an item, given they’d been seen together several times over the past few weeks.

Hell. The omnipotent innuendo of the Press.

Did they realise what they’d done?

An item?

Together?

She wanted to curl her hands into fists and hit something. Or someone!

Could she demand a correction?

Sure, and pigs might fly! The newspaper editor would fall about laughing.

He had no conception of the effect that particular photo, caption and text would have on her life, or any knowledge her ex-fiancé was a practised chameleon capable of extreme rage.

A waiter delivered her food, and she looked at the Caesar salad, then forced herself to fork a few mouthfuls before pushing the plate to one side, her appetite gone.

Ilana paid her bill and walked towards her apartment building. Nervous tension tightened the muscles in her stomach to a painful degree, and it wasn’t until she was safely inside that the tension began to ease a little.

The light was blinking on her answering machine, and she hit the play-back function, pen in hand.

A message from Liliana, one from Micki, a few congratulatory calls, then Grant’s voice—

‘I’m watching you.’

Her landline was ex-directory, and it unnerved her Grant had managed to access it.

Anger meshed with very real fear as she retrieved Xandro’s card and dialled his cellphone.

He picked up on the third ring. ‘Ilana.’

Her fingers tightened on the phone. ‘Do you have any idea what problems the newspaper photograph and idle social supposition has caused?’ Her voice was tight, controlled and angry. ‘Or its ramifications?’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘You can’t—’

‘Ten minutes, Ilana.’

The call disconnected, and she hit redial, heard it ring, then it went direct to message-bank.

A very unladylike oath fell from her lips.

Damn him!

If he arrived at her apartment building and Grant was watching…

Without thought she collected her bag and keys, then took the lift down to the lobby.

She was a mass of nerves by the time Xandro’s Bentley swept into the entrance, and she had to consciously force her feet to walk at a normal pace, when every nerve-end suggested she run.

Calm, she must remain calm, she told herself as she reached the car, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

‘Please. Can we get away from here?’

Xandro wanted to demand an answer, and he would…soon. But for now he did as she asked, and drove until he reached Double Bay, then he cut the engine.

‘Let’s go.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘We’ll relax, eat, and you can tell me what’s worrying you.’

She flung him a cautious look. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

He crossed round to her side of the car and opened the door. ‘Maybe you’ll be tempted by an entrée.’

Minutes later they entered a charming restaurant where the maître d’ greeted Xandro with the deference of a valued patron, seated them, then sent the wine steward to their table.

Ilana declined in favour of chilled water, and Xandro joined her before perusing the menu and ordering for both of them.

The waiter retreated, and Xandro regarded her carefully, noting the agitated way the pulse beat at the base of her throat. The barely controlled anxiety emanating from her slender frame.

‘The photograph in today’s newspaper,’ he prompted.

Where did she begin? And how much did she explain?

Enough…just enough to have him understand.

‘My ex-fiancé made certain…threats, when I cancelled the wedding.’

‘And you’re concerned the photograph will reach his attention?’

Ilana hesitated a fraction too long, and his eyes narrowed. ‘It already has?’

‘Yes.’

‘Problems?’

She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly as she inclined her head.

He regarded her carefully. ‘As in?’

‘Please…just accept my word for it.’

‘Do you consider yourself to be in any danger?’

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Did abusive phone calls come under that heading?

Threats…as long as they remained verbal, were nuisance value.

Yet if Grant acted on any of them, then the answer had to be yes.

Except who knew for certain? How could she judge?

What good would it do to explain her ex-fiancé was mentally unbalanced?

It wouldn’t change a thing, for the photograph constituted damage already done.

The waiter delivered their order, and Ilana toyed with the food on her plate while Xandro ate with enjoyment.

‘I want to spend time with you.’

Her heart seemed to stop, then race to a quicker beat. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Because of your ex-fiancé’s threats?’

She wanted to cry out that he didn’t understand…except somehow she suspected he knew too well.

‘Perhaps I’ve lost all trust in the male of the species?’

‘You’re sufficiently intelligent to know all men are not the same.’

‘They all want the same thing.’

‘Sex? There’s a vast difference between sex for the sake of it, and lovemaking.’

‘Really?’

His eyes speared her own. ‘A man who ignores gifting a woman pleasure whilst seeking his own displays carelessness.’

‘Who could doubt your vast experience?’

His soft laughter did strange things to her equilibrium, and for a wild moment she mentally envisaged what it might be like to take Xandro as a lover.

Akin to inviting emotional nirvana…with only one end.

It wouldn’t last, of course. How could it? But oh, what a journey!

‘I have tickets for dinner and a show Tuesday evening. I’d like for you to join me. Shall we say six-thirty?’

Xandro was asking her out?

‘I don’t think—’

‘Six-thirty,’ he insisted as he signalled for the bill.

Independence had her reaching for her wallet, only to have Xandro voice a determined refusal.

Ilana sat in silence as he sent the Bentley along the arterial road leading to Bondi.

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