The Greek Millionaire's Mistress

She stepped onto the road, stumbling a little in her high heels. Steadying her, Mikos spoke to his chauffeur who, to her dismay, climbed back into the Mercedes, turned the car around and sped back toward the village they’d left behind.

Within seconds, the night was filled with nothing but star-shine, the swish of the restless sea and the erratic thud of her heart. At her side, Mikos stood tall and dark as a monolith, his grip still firm on her elbow. Struggling to keep her tone even, she said, “I’m really not very comfortable with this situation. Exactly what do you have in mind?”

“A walk on the beach. What did you think?”

“That it’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and most people are in bed at this hour.”

He laughed softly. “Are you saying you’d rather be in bed with me, Gina?”

The thought had crossed her mind often enough over the course of the evening that she was glad the night hid her blush. “No,” she snapped. “I’m saying that I don’t understand why we’re here.”

“Well, look around you.” He looped his arm over her shoulders and turned her to face the water. “See how the reflection of the stars dances over the sea. Feel how softly the air caresses your skin. Breathe in the scent of the pine trees and oleanders. Then tell me that you’d rather be alone in your hotel room in Athens, a city that never sleeps.”

How could she, when every word he spoke was the indisputable truth? “It is beautiful here.”

He drew her closer so that the rough velvet of his voice rasped intimately against her ear. “Then put your doubts to rest and come with me.”

Did she have any other choice? Did she want one? That she risked breaking both ankles as she tottered behind him down a narrow path to the shore, was answer enough. “I’m wearing high-heeled sandals,” she panted, when at last she reached the beach, “and they don’t lend themselves to navigating rough terrain like this.”

He shrugged. “So take them off,” he said, and before she knew what he was about, he squatted in front of her, his fingers warm around her right ankle. “Lean on me.”

Such was his effect on her, it simply never occurred to her to refuse. Pathetic, docile fool that she was, she complied without protest, resting a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance and raising first one foot, then the other.

“There,” he said, swiftly completing his task. “How’s that?”

The sand drifted cool and soft as flour against the soles of her feet and between her toes. “Heavenly,” she admitted on a sigh of relief. But oh, how disturbing, that he could so easily bend her to his will!

Releasing her left ankle, he grasped the full skirted hem of her dress and slid it up her calf. “Be careful not to trip over this. It would be a pity to see such a lovely thing damaged.”

He sounded matter-of-fact enough, but there was nothing the least bit matter-of-fact about the way she turned limp with pleasure as his fingers whispered impersonally against her leg. “What next?” she asked faintly, bunching the yards of filmy fabric in her fist.

“We’ll walk along the water’s edge and make our way back to the village. It’s only about three kilometers, and won’t take more than half an hour.”

In fact, it took close to two. How did it happen that, during that time, she found herself holding hands with him? That she frequently caught him looking at her as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight of her? That, every once in a while, he grazed his mouth over hers in a fleeting kiss?

When did she abandon the dry sand and decide instead to let the waves splash cool around her ankles, and not care that they sometimes soaked the bottom of her dress? At what point did he remove his shoes and socks, roll his trouser legs up to midcalf and join her?

She couldn’t say, nor did she care. It was enough that, for a few short hours, she believed in fairy tales; in a handsome prince discovering Cinderella and freeing her, just for a little while, from the cares of real life.

Even when the tile roofs of the village rose up against a horizon faintly touched with the hint of dawn, the magic didn’t end. Mikos led her past a fleet of fishing boats rocking against a wooden pier, to a kafenion set right on the beach itself. Its window shutters stood open, releasing the aroma of strong Greek coffee, and spilling yellow light onto several small iron tables and chairs set on a cobbled terrace.

“Have a seat,” Mikos invited, pulling back one of the chairs.

She sat and gave an involuntary shiver. The metal struck cold through the thin stuff of her dress, and now that she wasn’t moving, the morning air struck unpleasantly against her damp legs and feet.

Noticing, he removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders before taking his place opposite. Like her, he was barefoot still. His bow tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt collar open at the throat. Damp and salt-stained, his trouser legs hung in wrinkles about his ankles, their former knife-sharp crease washed away by the sea, but although he might have ruined what was surely a thousand-dollar dinner suit, he still carried himself with that leisurely self-confidence that made him stand out from the crowd.

Just then, the coffee shop owner appeared. “This is probably stronger than what you’re used to,” Mikos remarked, after the man had served them each a glass of water and a thimble-size cup filled with a black, evil-looking brew topped with a light layer of brownish foam, “but it’s how we Greeks like our coffee, especially when we’ve been up all night.”

“It’s fine,” she said, controlling a grimace as it ate a corrosive path over the lining of her stomach. “Um…do you have to work today?”

“No. My weekends are mine to do with as I please. What about you?”

My time’s my own, as well, she thought, swallowing half the contents of the water glass in one gulp. Then remembering why she was supposed to be in Athens, said, “I’ll go over my notes and get started on my article.”

“After you catch up on your sleep, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, her fairy tale morphing into reality when he didn’t follow up by suggesting they meet later on in the day.

Instead he cradled his demitasse in his hand—the cups hadn’t come with saucers, she noticed—settled his big frame on the uncomfortable little chair with the casual grace of a cat lounging on a cushion, and gave her his undivided attention. “Were you able to get enough material to satisfy your editor?”

You don’t have to bring me back anything, Gina, you know that, Lorne MacDonald, her former boss had told her, when she appealed to him for a press pass to get her into the Tyros birthday bash. I’m happy to help you out any way I can. But if it clears your conscience any, give me something I can publish—names of the rich and famous, what the women wore, what they were eating and drinking, who was cosying up to whom. You know the drill. You did it well and often enough in the old days.

“Not really,” she told Mikos. “I was hoping I’d get the chance to interview Mr. Tyros in person, but I suppose that was expecting too much.”

“Definitely,” he said. “Angelo seldom grants private interviews anymore. But if you have questions, I can probably answer them, so fire away.”

Oh, she had questions, although she seriously doubted he, or anyone but Angelo Tyros himself, could provide the answers! But this much she did know: one way or another, she’d find a way to corner the miserable old goat and force him to meet her demands. She hadn’t depleted her savings account and come all this way, just to go home empty-handed. There was too much at stake.

CHAPTER THREE

HE WATCHED her closely, veiling his scrutiny behind dark, reflective glasses as the sun conveniently inched above the horizon just enough to warrant his wearing them. “Don’t be shy, Gina,” he said. “Ask me anything. Anything at all.”

She took another sip of coffee and shuddered at its taste. “You mentioned he was a widower. Was he married just the one time?”

He couldn’t hold back his grin. His employer’s appetite for women was legendary. At the same time, it struck him as odd that she’d been sent on foreign assignment and not bothered to do her research beforehand. Five minutes on the Internet would reveal that Angelo had definitely been to the altar more than once. “Make that five times,” he told her. “His first wife, the mother of his son, died in her forties. He divorced the second and third within a year of marrying them, the fourth after six months and outlived the fifth who passed away eight years ago.”

“Is he likely to marry again, do you think?”

“It’s entirely possible. Angelo doesn’t like being alone, and he does very much like beautiful women.”

Gina’s laugh, brittle as ice cracking under pressure, struck a discordant note. “In other words, he uses them.”

“No,” he said flatly. “That is not what I said, and I caution you to exercise great accuracy when quoting me.”

Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. Clearly stung by his rebuke, she turned to study the fishermen tending their nets. “I apologize. Rest assured I shall treat my subject with all the respect he deserves,” she replied stiffly.

His jacket had slipped to reveal her long, graceful neck and sweetly rounded shoulders. She wore her hair in a chignon, but several strands had fallen free and curled loosely at her nape.

Finely carved against a background of pale morning sky, her profile could have served as the model for a cameo brooch of matchless delicacy and beauty. Pure Anglo-Saxon elegance—except for the lush, passionate mouth and huge, dark eyes. Those, he decided, curbing a visceral tug of arousal, she must have inherited from some long-ago ancestors of Mediterranean origin.

“I apologize also,” he told her, and meant it. “I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly.”

“Don’t be sorry. You were merely doing what you’re paid to do, and you already told me that Mr. Tyros has earned your undying loyalty. I should have remembered that before I made such a thoughtless remark. Are the fishermen’s nets usually that orange color?”

“That or a deeper terra cotta,” he said, recognizing her question for the deliberate shift of topic that it was, and finding it odd that she’d so easily abandon the subject she claimed had brought her to Greece. “But what has that to do with your assign—?”

Anticipating his question, she cut him off before he could complete it. “Local color,” she said shortly. “It adds credibility to the article. Do they stay out all night—the fishermen, I mean?”

“A good part of it, yes.”

She shook her head, apparently mystified. “Doesn’t anyone in this country sleep at night?”

“Not so much in the summer months, no. Instead we sleep several hours during the day. That way, we avoid the worst of the heat.”

“So it’s quite normal for a little café like this to be open at dawn?”

“Certainly. Any time now, the villagers will come down to buy fish. Once they’ve sold their catch and cleaned up their boats, the men will crowd in here to drink coffee and talk. But I say again, none of this has anything to do with Angelo Tyros. Why have you suddenly lost interest in him, Gina?”

“Oh, I haven’t lost interest in him,” she said, with unexpected fervor. “I’m quite, um, fascinated by everything about him.”

Something didn’t ring true in her reply. Her peculiar little pause wasn’t lost on him, nor the fact that she settled on “fascinated” as if it were the least offensive word she could come up with at short notice. “You almost sound as if you have reason to dislike Angelo,” he remarked, eyeing her intently, “but that hardly makes sense, does it, since you’ve never met him? Or am I wrong to assume that?”

Stooping, she picked up a puppy that had wandered out of the kafenion, and snuggled it on her lap. “Not wrong at all,” she said, without the slightest hesitation this time. “Perhaps what you hear in my voice is disappointment that I’ve not had the pleasure. But that does bring up an interesting point. If he’s so reclusive, why did he authorize such a very public birthday celebration?”

“‘Reclusive’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe him. As I mentioned before, he dislikes being alone and loves to be surrounded by friends. But like other very rich men, he’s made his share of enemies over the years. When he was younger, he took that in stride but, understandably at his age, he’s more cautious now and avoids strangers unless he’s assured they intend him no harm.”

“To the point that he’s afraid to speak to someone as innocuous as me?” Too ladylike to snort with derision at such an idea, she did the next closest thing and wrinkled her elegant little nose. “What does he think I might do, stab him with my pencil?”

“Anything’s possible,” he said, envying the puppy that was pawing at her breasts and trying to lick her neck. “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac to those who don’t have any, and that makes him a target of unscrupulous individuals wherever he goes.”

She put the dog down and picked up her cup again. “What kind of target?”

“Three attempts at extortion in the last month alone. Kidnapping. And, of course, he’s always being hounded by amateur entrepreneurs who come creeping out of the woodwork claiming to be long-lost relatives. If they were all to believed, he’d have sired at least five hundred sons and daughters in the last sixty-six years.”

She choked on her coffee.

“Sorry,” he said, when she managed to regain her breath. “I didn’t mean to make you laugh at the wrong time.”

Except, he belatedly realized, she wasn’t laughing at all. If anything, she was thoroughly rattled, enough that she knocked her bag off the table. It fell open and spilled most of its contents over the terrace. A fortuitous accident, he thought, bending to retrieve a runaway lipstick before the pup ran off with it. When she found her room key was missing, he’d know exactly how to explain it.

Apart from a facial tissue, which she used to mop up the tears pooling at the outer corners of her eyes, she rammed everything back in the bag, and favored him with a bloodshot glare. “Actually,” she wheezed, “I didn’t find it funny. In fact, nothing I’ve so far learned about Angelo Tyros strikes me as amusing. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t give you an answer.”

“Perhaps it’s simply that you’re on overload and exhausted. You might see him in quite a different light after you’ve caught up on your sleep.”

She smothered a yawn. “I am very tired, suddenly.”

“In that case, we’ll head back to the city. The car’s on the road, but it’s a bit of a climb to get up there. Do you want to put on your shoes before tackling it?”

She got up from her chair and made a face. “No, thanks! My feet are still in recovery and probably will be for the next week.”

Stuffing his socks in his trouser pocket, he shoved his feet into his own shoes and reclaimed his jacket. “I guess that leaves me with only one option then,” he said, and ignoring her squeaks of protest, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and made his way to where his driver, face betraying no expression, stood holding open the car door.

“That,” she huffed, landing on the back seat in a flurry of silk and indignation, “was completely unnecessary!”

He averted his gaze, dangerously aroused by the shapely length of leg exposed as she tried to put her skirt to rights again. “Not from my point of view, Gina,” he said obliquely.

She didn’t remember curling up against him. Had no recollection at all of his slipping his arm around her and drawing her head down to rest against his shoulder. Only when the blare of traffic horns penetrated her drowsy haze did she become aware of the smooth starched cotton of his shirt against her cheek, the muscled contours of his chest beneath her hand—and everywhere, everywhere that his body touched hers, the velvet heat of his skin.

Opening her eyes, she ventured a glance up at him. He was staring out the window, his expression preoccupied. “I’m not very good company, am I?” she croaked, her voice rusty with sleep.

He swung his gaze to meet hers and a smile lightened his face. “Do you hear me complaining?”

“No.”

But she wished he would. Wished he’d say something along the lines of, We wasted precious time while you slept. Instead, as the car turned into the forecourt of her hotel, his only comment was, “I kept you out too late. You look weary.”

That was reassuring! Straightening, she fiddled self-consciously with her hair; wondered if her mascara had run, or her lipstick smudged. Had she drooled in her sleep? Worse yet, had she snored?

The possibility sent a wash of embarrassment through her. As far as she knew, she didn’t snore, but who was there to tell her differently, when no one shared her bed?

Angling a surreptitious glance at Mikos, she saw that even without socks, with the laces of his shoes untied, his trouser legs all creased, and his shirt not quite as pristine as it had been a few hours before, he still managed to look elegant. Even with the shadow of new beard growth darkening his jaw, and his black hair decidedly mussed, he was still the picture of unparalleled masculine beauty. It wasn’t fair.

The driver snicked open the car door. Mikos swung his long legs out and unfolded to his full six feet plus. Extended his hand. “Gina?”

She nested her palm in his. Felt his fingers close warmly around hers. In one smooth move he had her standing barefoot beside him on the forecourt’s cool paving stones, with her skirt falling in disarray around her ankles. Aware that the window of opportunity was rapidly closing, she searched his clear green eyes for a hint, a shred of hope, that he’d ask to see her again.

“Thank you for a wonderful time,” she said.

He smiled. Stepped closer. Bent his head. Dropped a swift, sweet kiss on her mouth. “Parakalo. Sleep well,” he murmured.

So let down it was all she could do not to burst into tears, she nodded, turned away and was almost at the hotel’s front doors when he suddenly called out, “Gina, wait!”

She spun back to face him, hope percolating through her blood. Her rhinestone sandals dangled from his hand. “Don’t forget these,” he said.

Like a cake taken too soon out of the oven, her moment of optimism sank into a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. Accepting the benighted shoes, she muttered a listless “Thanks,” and quickly entered the hotel before she made a complete fool of herself.

Before the wide glass doors had swung closed behind her, Prince Charming and his limousine had been swallowed up by the noxious fumes of the traffic roaring down the narrow street. So much for fairy tales!

Feeling pathetically sorry for herself, she rode the elevator to her fourth-floor room, only to discover when she got there that she’d lost her key. She had no idea where or when or how it had happened, but she did know it was the last straw and, giving vent to her frustration, she let fly with a solid kick at the door.

The only thing that suffered was her big toe. She hopped on one foot as agonizing pain knifed through the other, and yelped loudly enough to bring a maid scurrying out of the room next door. Taking in the situation with a single glance, she muttered sympathetically in broken English, and used her master key to open Gina’s door. Then, after helping her to the small armchair next to the window, the woman hurried away, and returned a short time later with a large plastic bowl half full of ice cubes.

“You grow big, Kyria,” she announced, eyeing the rapidly swelling toe mournfully. “Better you do this!” And to make sure her message had come across loud and clear, she plunked Gina’s foot in the bowl.

Whether she burst into tears because of the shocking crunch of ice against her injured toe, or because someone was looking after her for a change, or simply from the culmination of a fatigue that had been building for months, was anyone’s guess. All Gina knew was that, one minute she was smiling gamely, and the next she was sobbing against the matronly breast of the chambermaid who stroked her hair and murmured Greek words of comfort that somehow transcended the language barrier.

“I’m so sorry,” Gina hiccuped when she finally gained control again. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me since I arrived here, that I’m so emotional all the time.”

“Neh, neh,” the maid crooned. “Neh, katalaveno. I understand.”

Gina smiled wistfully. No, you don’t, she thought, but your saying so makes me feel better anyway.

The maid smiled, too, and poked herself in the chest. “Me lene Apostolia. You?”

Understanding, she replied, “Gina.”

The maid nodded. “You okay now, Gina?”

“Yes. Much better, thanks.” She made a shooing motion toward the door. “You should go. I don’t want you to be in trouble because of me. But thank you again, Apostolia. You’ve been very kind. Efkharisto!”

“Parakalo.” Apostolia gave a final nod and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Gina sat for a few minutes, staring out the window at the looming hulk of the Acropolis. In the blazing light of morning, with her toe throbbing and her eyes gritty from lack of sleep, she saw everything to do with the previous ten hours for what they really were: a glamorous, romantic interlude as ephemeral as stardust. She’d met a man who’d made her feel like a woman again. He’d flirted with her, and shown her a time she’d never forget. But he was no more part of her real world than she’d ever be part of his.

Not only that, she’d sensed an ambivalence about him at times, caused, not as he claimed because he didn’t trust himself, but as if he wasn’t sure he could trust her. It showed in the way he suddenly drew back when everything else about him indicated he wanted more, far more, than he felt able to take.

Why? What was it about her that had made him withhold himself? Had she been too eager? Too transparently hungry? Because heaven knew, nothing frightened a man off faster than a woman so desperate that she might as well have gone after him wielding a net.

I should have been the one applying the brakes, she thought dismally. Pity I didn’t ram my head against the door. It could use having some sense knocked into it.

A glance at the bedside radio clock showed it was eight on Saturday morning, Athens time, which made it nine on Friday evening on Canada’s West Coast. A good time to call home. Her mother would be in bed, leaving Lynn O’Keefe, the temporary care giver, free to talk. Hobbling to the desk, Gina picked up the phone.

Lynn answered on the first ring. “I expected it would be you,” she said. “How’s Athens?”

“Hot, noisy, exotic and exhausting,” Gina replied. “How’s my mom?”

“She had a good day. We walked on the beach this morning and collected shells, then went into town after lunch and ate ice cream in the park.”

“Does she realize I’m gone, do you think? Does she miss me?”

“I don’t think so,” Lynn said kindly. “She’s off in her own world most of the time. You know how it is for her, Gina.”

“Yes,” she said, flooded with sudden guilt at the realization that she hadn’t spared her mother more than a passing thought in the last twelve hours. “But she doesn’t handle change well, and I’m afraid—”

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