The Greek's Secret Son

The greeting from the concierge at the desk in the wide hallway seemed to make her shrink against him, and as they entered his top-floor apartment she gave a gasp.

‘I can’t stay here!’ she exclaimed, dismay in her voice. ‘I might mess something up!’

Her eyes raced around, taking in a long white sofa, covered in silk cushions, a thick dove-grey carpet that matched the lavish drapes at the wide windows. It was like something out of a movie—absolutely immaculate and obviously incredibly expensive.

Anatole gave a laugh. ‘Just don’t spill coffee on anything,’ he said.

She shook her head violently. ‘Please, don’t even say that!’ she cried, aghast at the very thought.

His expression changed. She seemed genuinely worried. He walked up to her. Found himself taking her hand with his free one even without realising it. Patting it reassuringly.

‘Speaking of coffee... I could murder a cup! What about you?’

She nodded, swallowing. ‘Th...thank you,’ she stammered.

‘Good. I’ll get the machine going. But let me show you to your room first—and, look, why not take a shower, freshen up? You must have had a gruelling night, from what you’ve said.’

He relinquished her hand, hefted up the broken suitcase again, mentally deciding he’d get a new one delivered by the concierge within the hour, and carried it through to one of the guest bedrooms.

She followed after him, still glancing about her with an air of combined nervousness and wide-eyed amazement at her surroundings, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life. Which, he realised, she probably never had.

An unusual sense of satisfaction darted within him. It was a good feeling to give this impoverished, waiflike girl, who’d clearly had a pretty sad time of it—both parents dead and a poorly paid job involving distressing end-of-life care—a brief taste of luxury. He found himself wanting her to enjoy it.

Setting down the suitcase, which immediately sprang open again, he pointed out the en suite bathroom, then with another smile left her to it, heading for the kitchen.

Five minutes later the coffee was brewing and he was sprawled on the sofa, checking his emails—trying very, very hard not to let his mind wander to his unexpected guest taking her shower...

He wondered just how far her charms extended beyond her lovely face. He suspected a lot further. She was slender—he’d seen that instantly—but it hadn’t made her flat-chested. No, indeed, Even though she was wearing cheap, unflattering clothes, he’d seen the soft swell of her breasts beneath. And she was petite—much more so than the women he usually selected for himself.

Maybe that was because of his own height—over six foot—or maybe it was because the kind of women he went out with tended to be self-assured, self-confident high-achieving females who were his counterparts in many ways, striding through the world knowing their own worth, very sure of themselves and their attractions.

Women like Romola.

His expression changed. Before Tia had plunged in front of his car he’d made the decision to cut Romola out of his life—so why not do that right now? He’d text her to say he couldn’t see her tonight after all, that something had come up, and that it was unlikely he’d be back in London any time soon, Say that perhaps they should both accept their time together had run its course...

With a ruthlessness that he could easily exercise whenever he felt himself targeted by a woman wanting more of him than he cared to give, he sent the text, softening the blow with the despatch of a diamond bracelet as a farewell gift as a sop to Romola’s considerable ego. Then, with a sense of relief, he turned his thoughts back to tonight.

A smile started around his mouth, his eyes softening slightly. He’d already played out King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid in offering Tia the run of his flat, so why not go the whole hog and give her an evening she would always remember? Champagne, fine dining—the works!

It was something he’d take a bet that she’d never experienced in her deprived life before.

Of course it went without saying that that would be all he’d be offering her. He himself would not be staying here—he’d make his way over to the Mayfair hotel where his father kept a permanent suite. Of course he would.

Anything else was completely out of the question—however lovely she was.

Completely out, he told himself sternly.

CHAPTER TWO

TIA STOOD IN a state of physical bliss as the hot water poured over her body, foaming into rich suds the shampoo and body wash she’d found in the basket of expensive-looking toiletries on the marble-topped vanity unit. Never in her whole life had she had such a lavish, luxurious shower.

By the time she stepped out, her hair wrapped up in a fleecy towel, another huge bath sheet wrapped around her, she felt reborn. She still hadn’t really got her head around what was happening because it all just seemed like a fairytale—swept off by a prince who took her breath away.

He’s just so gorgeous! So incredibly gorgeous! And he’s being so kind! He could just as easily have left me on the pavement with my broken suitcase. Driven away and not cared!

But he hadn’t driven away—he’d brought her here, and how could she possibly have said no? In all her confined, unexciting life, dedicated to caring for her poor mother and for others, when had anything like this ever happened except in her daydreams?

She lifted her chin, staring at her reflection, resolve in her eyes. Whatever was happening, she was going to seize this moment!

She whirled about, yanking off the turban towel, letting her damp hair tumble down, then rapidly sorting through her clothes, desperate to find something—anything—that was more worthy of the occasion than her ancient jeans and baggy top. Of course she had nothing at all that was remotely suitable, but at least she had something that was an improvement. She might never hope to be able to look like a fairytale princess, but she’d do her damnedest!

As she walked back into that pristine, palatial lounge her eyes went straight to the darkly sprawling figure relaxed on the white sofa. Dear Lord, but he was unutterably gorgeous!

He’d shed his formal business jacket and loosened his tie, undone his top button and turned up his cuffs. And through her veins came that same devastating rush she’d felt before, weakening her limbs, making her dizzy with its impact.

He rose to his feet. ‘There you are.’ He smiled. ‘Come and sit down and have your coffee.’

He nodded to where he’d set out a plate of pastries, extracted from the freezer and microwaved by his own fair hand into tempting, fragrant warmth. Two had already been consumed, but there were plenty left.

‘Are you on a diet?’ he asked convivially. ‘Or can I tempt you?’

Anatole watched with a sense of familiarity as the colour rushed into her face and then out again. Maybe he shouldn’t have used the word ‘tempt’. He had the damnedest feeling that it wasn’t the thought of the pastries that were making her colour up like that.

Snap!

Because if she was experiencing temptation, then he knew for sure that he was as well. And with good reason...

She’d changed her clothes and, although they were still clearly cheap and high street, they were a definite improvement. She’d put on a skirt—a floaty cotton one, in Indian print—and topped it with a turquoise tee shirt that gave her a whole lot more figure than the baggy jumper she’d had on previously. On top of that, her freshly washed hair was loose now, still damp, but curling in a tousled mane around her shoulders. The redness had finally gone from her eyes, and her skin was clear and unblemished. Her lips rosy, tender...

Still the ingénue, definitely...but no longer a sad waif.

With an expression of intense self-consciousness on her face, she gingerly sat herself down on the sofa, slanting her slender legs. He saw her hands were shaking slightly as she took the coffee he’d poured with a low murmur of thanks.

She drank it thirstily, hoping it would steady her wildly jangling nerves, and her eyes jumped again to Anatole to drink in the gorgeous reality of his presence. Her eyes met his and she realised he was watching her, a smile playing around his mouth. It was a smile that sent little quivers shimmering through her and made her breath shallow.

‘Have a pastry,’ he said, pushing the plate towards her.

Their warm, yeasty cinnamon scent caught at her, reminding her that she’d not had a chance to eat all day. She took one, grabbing a thick, richly patterned paper napkin as she did so, terrified of dropping buttery flakes on the pristine upholstery or the carpet.

Anatole watched her polish off the pastry, letting his eyes drift over the sweet perfection of her heart-shaped face, the cerulean eyes, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curls of her fair hair.

She is breathtakingly lovely—and she is taking my breath away just looking at her...

He glanced at his watch. It was coming up to seven, though the evenings were still light. They could drink champagne on his roof terrace. But first...best to order dinner.

He reached for his laptop, brought up the website for the service he used when dining in, then tilted the screen towards her. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, ‘and see what you’d like for dinner. I’m going to order in.’

Immediately—predictably—she shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please—not for me. I’m absolutely fine just eating these pastries.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not,’ he rejoined affably. ‘Come on—take a look. What sort of food do you like best? And do not,’ he added sternly, ‘say pizza! Or Indian. Or Chinese. I’m talking gourmet food here—take your pick.’

Wide-eyed, Tia stared at the long page of menu options on the screen. She couldn’t understand most of them. She swallowed.

‘Will you let me choose for you?’ Anatole asked, realising her dilemma.

She nodded gratefully.

‘Anything you’re allergic to?’ he asked.

She shook her head, but all the same he chose relatively safe options—no shellfish, no nuts. A midnight dash to A&E was not the way he wanted this evening to end.

And you’re not going to let it end the way you’re thinking right now either! his conscience admonished him sternly.

Not even when he was leaning towards her, and she towards him, so they could both read the screen, and he could catch the fresh scent of her body. All he would have to do to touch her would be to lift his hand, let it slide through those softly drying curls, splay his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw that sweet, tender mouth to his...

He straightened abruptly, busying himself with putting the order through, then closing his laptop. Time to fetch the champagne.

He returned a few moments later, with a bottle at the perfect temperature from his thermostatically controlled wine store and two flutes dangling from his hand. He crossed to the picture window, sliding it open.

‘Come and see the view,’ he said invitingly.

Tia got to her feet, following him out on to a roofline terrace with a stone balustrade along it. She was still in a daze. Was he really intending to have dinner with her? Drink champagne with her? Her heart was beating faster, she knew, just at the very thought of it.

As she stepped out the warm evening air enveloped her. Sunshine was still catching the tops of the trees visible in the park beyond. Nor was that the only greenery visible—copious large stone pots adorned the terrace, lush with plants, creating a little oasis.

‘Oh, it’s so lovely!’ she exclaimed spontaneously, her face lighting up.

Anatole smiled, feeling a kick go through him at her visible pleasure, at how it made her eyes shine, and set down the champagne and flutes on a little ironwork table flanked by two chairs.

‘A private green haven,’ he said. ‘Cities aren’t my favourite places, so when I’m forced to be in them—which is all too often, alas—I like to be as green as I can. It’s one of the reasons,’ he went on, ‘that I like penthouse apartments—they come with roof terraces.’

He paused to open the champagne with a soft pop of the cork, then handed her one of the empty flutes.

‘Keep it slightly tilted,’ he instructed as he poured it half full, letting the liquid foam, but not too much. Then he filled his own glass and lifted it to her, looking down at her. She really was petite, he found himself thinking again. And for some reason it made him feel...protective.

It was an odd thought. Unfamiliar to him when it came to women.

He smiled down at her. She was gazing up at him, and the expression in her eyes sent that kick through him again. He lifted his glass, indicating that she should do the same, which she did, glancing at the foaming liquid as if she could not believe it was in her hand.

‘Yammas,’ he said.

She looked confused.

‘It’s cheers in Greek,’ he elucidated.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s what you are! I knew you must be foreign, because of your name, but I didn’t know what—’

She coloured. Had she sounded rude? She hadn’t meant to. London was incredibly multicultural—there had been no reason to say he was ‘foreign’. He was probably as British as she was—

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking dismayed. ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘No,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘I am foreign. I’m a Greek national. But I do a lot of work in London because it’s a major financial hub. I live in Greece, though.’ He smiled again, wanting to set her at her ease. ‘Have you ever been to Greece? For a holiday, maybe?’

Tia shook her head. ‘We went to Spain when I was little,’ she said. ‘When my dad was still alive and before mum got MS.’ She swallowed, looking away.

‘It’s good to have memories,’ Anatole said quietly. ‘Especially of family holidays as a child.’

Yes—it was good to have such memories. Except he didn’t have any. His school holidays—breaks from boarding at the exclusive international school in Switzerland he’d attended from the age of seven—had been spent either at friends’ houses or rattling around the huge Kyrgiakis mansion in Athens, with no one except the servants around.

His parents had been busy with their own more important lives.

When he’d reached his teens he’d taken to spending a few weeks with his uncle—his father’s older brother. Vasilis had never been interested in business or finance. He was a scholar, content to bury himself in libraries and museums, using the Kyrgiakis money to fund archaeological research and sponsor the arts. He disapproved of his younger brother’s amatory dissoluteness, but never criticised him openly. He was a lifelong bachelor, and Anatole had found him kindly, but remote—though very helpful in coaching him in exam revision and for university entrance.

Anatole had come to value him increasingly for his wise, quiet good sense.

He cleared his thoughts. ‘Well, here’s to your first trip to Greece—which I’m sure you’ll make one day.’ He smiled, tilting his glass again at Tia, then taking a mouthful of the softly beading champagne. He watched her do likewise, very tentatively, as if she could not believe she was doing so.

‘Is this real champagne?’ she asked as she lowered her glass again.

Anatole’s mouth twitched. ‘Definitely,’ he assured her. ‘Do you like it?’

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge smile split her face, transforming the wary nervousness of her expression. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ she exclaimed.

Just like you are!

Those were the words blazing in her head, as she gazed at the man who was standing there, who had scooped up the crumpled heap she’d made on the road and brought her here, to this beautiful apartment, to drink champagne—the first champagne she’d ever tasted.

Should I pinch myself? Is this real—is this really, really real?

She wanted it to be—oh, how she wanted it to be! But she could scarcely believe it.

Maybe the single mouthful of champagne had made her bold. ‘This is so incredibly kind of you!’ she said in a rush.

Kind? The word resonated in Anatole’s head. Was he being kind? He’d told himself he was, but was the truth different?

Am I just being incredibly, recklessly self-indulgent?

He lifted his glass again. Right now he didn’t care. His only focus was on this lovely woman—so young, so fresh, so breathtakingly captivating in her simple natural beauty.

She is practising no arts to attract me, making no eyes at me, and she asks nothing of me—

He smiled, his expression softening, a tinge of humour at his mouth. ‘Drink up,’ he said, ‘we’ve a whole bottle to get through!’

He took another mouthful of the fine vintage, encouraging her to do likewise.

She was looking around her as she sipped, out over the rooftops of the houses nearby. ‘It’s nice to think,’ she heard herself say, ‘that even though up here used to be the attics, where the servants lived, they got this view!’

Anatole laughed. ‘Well, the attics have certainly gone up in the world since then!’ he answered, thinking of the multi-million-pound price tag this apartment had come with. ‘And it’s good that those days are gone. Any house staff these days get a lot better than attics to live in, and they are very decently paid.’

Probably, he found himself adding silently, a lot more than you get as a care worker...

He frowned. Essential though such work was, surely it would be good if she aspired to something more in her life?

‘Tell me,’ he said, taking some more of his champagne, then topping up both their glasses, ‘what do you want to do with your life? I know care work is important, but surely you won’t want to do it for ever?’

Even as he asked the question it dawned on him that never in his life had he come across anyone from her background. All the women he knew were either in high-powered careers or trust fund princesses. Completely a different species from this young woman with her sad, impoverished, hard-working life.

Tia bit her lip, feeling awkward suddenly. ‘Well, because I was off school a lot, looking after Mum, I never passed my exams, so I can’t really go to college. And, though I’m saving from my wages, I can’t afford accommodation of my own yet.’

‘Have you no family at all to help you?’ Anatole frowned.

She shook her head. ‘It was just Dad, Mum, and me.’

She looked at him. Nearly a glass down on the champagne and she was definitely feeling bold. This might be a daydream, but she was going to indulge herself to the hilt with it.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t Greek families huge?’

Anatole gave a thin smile. ‘Not mine,’ he said tersely. ‘I’m an only child too.’ He looked into his champagne flute. ‘My parents are divorced, and both of them are married to other people now. I don’t see much of them.’

That was from choice. His and theirs. The only regular Kyrgiakis family gathering was the annual board meeting when all the shareholders gathered—himself, his parents and his uncle, and a few distant cousins as well. All of them looked to him to find out how much more money he’d poured into the family coffers, thanks to his business acumen.

‘Oh,’ Tia said, sympathetically, ‘that’s a shame.’

An unwelcome flicker went through her. She didn’t want to think that fantasy males like this one could have dysfunctional families like ordinary people. Surely when they lived in fantastic, deluxe places like this, and drank vintage champagne, they couldn’t have problems like other people?

Anatole gave another thin smile. ‘Not particularly,’ he countered. ‘I’m used to it.’

Absently, he wondered why he’d talked about his family at all. He never did that with women. He glanced at his watch. They should go indoors. Dinner would be arriving shortly and he didn’t want to think about his family—or his lack of any that he bothered about. Even Vasilis, kindly though he was, lived in a world of his own, content with his books and his philanthropic activities in the arts world.

He guided his guest indoors. Dusk was gathering outside and he switched on the terrace lighting, casting low pools of soft light around the greenery, giving it an elvish glow.

Once again, Tia was enchanted. ‘Oh, that’s so pretty!’ she exclaimed, as the effect sprang to life. ‘It looks like a fairyland!’

She immediately felt childish saying such a thing, even if it were true, but Anatole laughed, clearly amused.

The house phone rang, alerting him that dinner was on its way up, and five minutes later he and Tia were seated, tucking in to their first course—a delicate white fish terrine.

‘This is delicious!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up as she ate.

She said the same thing about the chicken bathed in a creamy sauce, with tiny new potatoes and fresh green beans—simple, but beautifully cooked.

Anatole smiled indulgently. ‘Eat up,’ he urged.

It was good to see a woman eating with appetite, not picking at her food. Good, too, to see the open pleasure in her face at dining with him, her appreciation of everything. Including the champagne as he topped up her glass yet again.

Careful. He heard the warning voice in his head. Don’t give her more than she can handle.

Or, indeed, more than he could handle either—not when he still had to get to the hotel for the night. But that wasn’t yet, and for now he could continue to enjoy every moment of their evening.

A sense of well-being settled over him. Deliberately, he kept the conversation between them light, doing most of the talking himself, but drawing her out as well, intent on making her feel relaxed and comfortable.

‘If you do ever manage to get to Greece for a holiday, what kind of thing would you most like doing? Are you a beach bunny or do you like sightseeing? There’s plenty of both across the mainland and the islands. And if you like ancient history there’s no better place in the world than Greece, to my mind!’ he said lightly.

‘I don’t really know anything about ancient history,’ she answered, colouring slightly.

She felt uncomfortable, being reminded of her lack of education. Such realities got in the way of this wonderful, blissful daydream she was having. This real-life fairytale.

‘You’ve heard of the Parthenon?’ Anatole prompted.

A look of confusion passed over Tia’s face. ‘Um...is it a temple?’

‘Yes, the most famous in the world—on the Acropolis in Athens. A lot of tall stone pillars around a rectangular ruin.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen pictures!’ she acknowledged, relieved that she’d been right.

‘Well, there you are, then.’ He smiled, and went on to tell her the kind of information most tourists gathered from a visit to the site, then moved on to the other attractions that his homeland offered.

Whether or not she took it all in, he didn’t know. Mostly she just gazed at him, her beautiful blue eyes wide—something he found himself enjoying. Especially when he held her gaze and saw the flush of colour mount in her cheeks, her hand reaching hurriedly for the glass of iced water beside her champagne flute.

As they moved on to the final course—a light-as-air pavlova—he opened a bottle of sweet dessert wine, calculating that she would find it more palatable than port.

Which, indeed, she did, sipping the honeyed liquid with appreciation.

When all the pavlova was gone, Anatole got to his feet. He’d set coffee to brew when he’d fetched the dessert wine, and now he collected it, setting it down on the coffee table by the sofa.

He held his hand out to Tia. ‘Come and sit down,’ he invited.

She got up from the table, suddenly aware that her head was feeling as if there was a very slight swirl inside it. Just how much of that gorgeous champagne had she drunk? she wondered. It seemed to be fizzing in her veins, making her feel breathless, weightless. As if she were floating in a blissful haze. But she didn’t care. How could she? An evening like this—something out of fairyland—would never come again!

With a little contented sigh she sank down on the sofa, the dessert wine glass in her hand, her light cotton skirt billowing around her.