The Greek Tycoon's Pregnant Wife

Headlights scanning the runway were an indication that his father had got the message he’d sent earlier, though he guessed the old man would want to know exactly why he had avoided speaking to him personally.

His own personal assistant, Theo Vasilis, had travelled with him, and it was he who was first off the plane, organising the transport that would take them to the Souvakis estate. A sleek four-wheel-drive vehicle stood at the edge of the tarmac, waiting for the preliminaries of landing to be over. Then, when Demetri strode across the apron to get into it, he discovered it wasn’t his father’s chauffeur who was driving. Ariadne Pavlos was seated behind the wheel, her glossy lips parted in a smile that was both welcoming and slightly smug.

‘Eh,’ she said, when Demetri climbed into the vehicle beside her. ‘A nice surprise, no?’

Demetri’s jaw tightened momentarily, the knowledge that he would have preferred not to have to deal with Ariadne tonight giving him pause. But then, realising why he was feeling this way, he forced a smile and leant across the console to kiss her. ‘A very nice surprise,’ he said untruthfully. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘Only about six years,’ she responded artfully, her tongue making contact with his before he could pull away. ‘You have missed me, yes?’

Demetri turned to fasten his seat belt. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, avoiding a direct reply. Then, in an effort to change the subject, ‘How is my father? Not too pleased that I cut the oil conference, I’ll bet.’

‘He is—OK.’ Ariadne spoke indifferently, glancing round with some impatience when Theo Vasilis deposited their luggage rather heavily into the back of the car. ‘Prosekheh!’ she exclaimed irritably. Be careful. Then her eyes widened even further when Theo swung open the rear door and climbed into the back. Her head swung round to Demetri. ‘Must he come with us?’

‘Why not?’ Demetri’s response was innocent enough, but he couldn’t deny a sense of relief that Theo was coming along. He nodded towards the laptop the other man was carrying. ‘My father will expect a report on the meetings we’ve had while we’ve been in London.’

‘The meetings with your wife?’ suggested Ariadne silkily, her dark eyes alight with malice. ‘Oh, yes. I will be interested to hear about those myself.’

Demetri expelled a long breath. ‘Not that meeting,’ he said flatly. ‘The meetings we had with business associates.’

‘Ah, but those meetings are so boring, no?’ said Ariadne archly. ‘Tell me about your wife. Is she going to be difficult, do you think?’

Difficult! Demetri stifled the groan of frustration that rose inside him. But, ‘Not difficult, no,’ he told her, and then turned again to Theo in the back seat. ‘Did you collect all the papers from the plane?’

His meaning couldn’t have been plainer and, although Ariadne tossed her head as she reached for the ignition, she knew better than to pursue the matter now. There’d be time enough later, Demetri could almost hear her thinking. And dammit, why not? It was because of her—and his father’s illness—that he’d gone to see Jane in the first place.

Leaving the airport behind, they drove along the narrow country lane that led to the Souvakis estate. There was little to see in the car’s headlights but the coarse grass that grew alongside the road and the occasional stunted cypress. But Demetri knew that running parallel with the track were the sand dunes and beyond that the blue-green waters of the Aegean. It was spring in the islands and it would be good to wake up tomorrow morning and hear the murmur of the ocean instead of the hum of traffic outside his window.

But thinking of London wasn’t the wisest thing to do in the circumstances. It reminded him too much of what had happened earlier in the day. And he couldn’t help but compare Ariadne’s dark, somewhat sultry, good looks with his wife’s fair-skinned beauty. They were so different, he thought, not welcoming the comparison: Ariadne, full-figured and voluptuous, and Jane, tall, slender, hiding her sensuous nature behind a tantalising façade of cool composure.

He squashed that thought, saying tersely, ‘Did you attend your cousin’s wedding?’

‘Julia? But, of course.’ Ariadne shrugged as the tall wooden gates that marked the entrance to the estate came into view. She flashed the car’s headlights, and a man appeared from the white-painted gatehouse to one side of the gates, hurriedly releasing the latch and throwing them wide. ‘Naturally, I was the only woman there without an escort. Thia Thermia said I should not have allowed you to go away at such a time.’

‘She would.’ Demetri’s mouth compressed. He wasn’t unduly worried what Thermia Adonides thought of him. She was also Ianthe’s mother and because of that she already disapproved of him. He’d been amazed that she hadn’t attempted to thwart his and Ariadne’s relationship, but evidently the advantages of his wealth far outweighed any misgivings she might retain.

Demetri raised a hand to Georgiou, the gatekeeper, as they drove past, and then the powerful vehicle was accelerating up the long, winding drive to the main house. The villa, which stood on a small plateau overlooking the ocean, was still occupied by his parents. Demetri had built his own house on the property, but since Jane’s departure he tended to spend much of his time elsewhere.

His mother often complained that they saw little of him, and it was true that until his father’s illness, Demetri had spent little time at home. He worked hard, and there was no denying that his work had saved his sanity. If he’d played hard, too, he’d told himself he deserved it. He’d been certain he’d never succumb to any other woman’s appeal.

And he hadn’t. It was only when he’d discovered his father’s illness was terminal that he’d been persuaded to consider marrying again. Ariadne was the perfect candidate: she was single, she was Greek and his mother approved of her.

A paved forecourt fronted the cluster of buildings that comprised barns and garages as well as his parents’ home. Ariadne brought the car to a halt and turned off the engine. But when Theo sprang out and Demetri made to open his door, her hand on his arm arrested him.

‘Wait,’ she said huskily. ‘Talk to me, Demetri. Tell me you haven’t changed your mind.’

Demetri stared at her, the lights that encircled the courtyard illuminating the anxious expression in her dark eyes. ‘Changed my mind?’ he echoed, suddenly feeling horribly guilty. He put out his hand and cupped her cheek. ‘Sweetheart, whatever gave you that idea?’

CHAPTER FOUR

WELL, she was pregnant.

Trying to think pragmatically, Jane took a deep breath and pushed the cartridge she’d been examining back into her bag. It was the third positive reaction she’d had in the last two weeks, and, however much she tried to persuade herself that these tests could be faulty, even she didn’t believe it could happen three times in a row.

Dammit!

Smudging back a tear, she sniffed ferociously. How could it have happened? She’d been so sure that when she and Demetri had made—had had sex, she amended, fiercely, her monthly cycle had been too far along for her to conceive. She’d always been so regular in the past. Though she had to admit that when they were living together, she hadn’t left anything to chance.

In the beginning, they’d both agreed that having children could wait. For a year or two, at least. And because Jane wanted to go on working, Demetri had opened a small gallery for her in the town of Kalithi itself. It had meant that she’d been able to keep in contact with Olga, who’d been happy to exchange antiquities and paintings with her erstwhile student.

It had all worked very well, and because she owned the gallery Jane had been able to accompany Demetri on his business trips whenever she chose. It had seemed an idyllic existence, and she’d never been happier.

But then Ianthe had revealed she was pregnant, and her whole house of cards had come tumbling down about her ears. Jane hadn’t been able to forgive Demetri for betraying her, her only relief in the knowledge that they had no children to suffer the break-up of their parents’ marriage.

She sighed. If she was honest, she’d have to admit that taking precautions hadn’t figured too highly in her thoughts when Demetri had kissed her. The sensual brush of his tongue had banished all other thoughts from her head. She’d wanted him, she acknowledged, just as much as he’d wanted her. It had been far too easy to convince herself that he wasn’t just using her for his own ends.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, when she still hadn’t had her period, that she’d even considered the alternative. And even then it had been hard to believe that that reckless consummation had had such a result. It was five weeks now since Demetri had come to her apartment. She’d already received notification that he’d contacted his solicitors about the divorce. Dear God, what was she going to do?

The appearance of her employer forced her to shelve the problem for the moment. Although Olga Ivanovitch was almost seventy, she strode into Jane’s office at the gallery with all the vitality of a much younger woman. A Russian Jew, whose parents had been living in Germany just before the last war, she and her family had fled to England. It was her father who’d founded the gallery, but Olga who had made it a success, moving the premises from Croyden to their present enviable position in the West End.

In long skirts and with a cloak floating freely about her tall generous figure, she looked a little like an ageing flower-child, Jane thought. But Olga had been her mentor, taking her on when all Jane had to commend her was a degree in fine arts from a redbrick university and an enthusiasm Olga had recognised that matched her own.

Now Olga brushed back her mane of incongruously red hair and said impatiently, ‘Did he come?’ And, although she’d lived in England long enough to have mastered the language completely, her accent still remained for artistic effect.

‘He came,’ agreed Jane, knowing at once who Olga was talking about. A famous collector of antiquities had expressed an interest in the set of bronzes Jane had brought back from Bangkok. He’d promised to call at the gallery that morning to examine them again and make his decision.

‘And?’ Olga couldn’t hide her excitement.

‘He bought them,’ Jane responded drily. ‘He wants them packed and delivered by courier to his home in Suffolk.’

‘Wonderful!’ Olga was delighted. ‘And a healthy commission for you, too, leibchen. You have done well. I must send you away again. You have the knack for finding treasure in the most unexpected places.’

Jane managed a small smile, but inside she felt chewed-up, unable to think of anything but the cartridge she’d hidden in her bag. Her hand stole disbelievingly over her flat stomach. Was it possible that Demetri’s baby was already growing inside her? How soon would it be before it became noticeable? How soon before Olga suspected that something was wrong?

And, as if she’d already sensed her employee’s abstraction, Olga rested a hip on Jane’s desk. ‘You are looking pale,’ she said, dark brows drawing together above her long nose. ‘Are you getting enough sleep? Or is that young man of yours keeping you up half the night, hmm?’

Jane shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘I don’t have a young man, Olga. I’ve told you so a dozen times. Alex Hunter and I are just friends.’

‘Does he know that?’

Predictably, now that the news of the bronzes was out of the way, Olga was directing all her attention towards her assistant. How would she react when she found out Jane was having a baby? How would Alex react when she’d already assured him that her relationship with Demetri was over?

Playing for time, she said weakly, ‘I beg your pardon—’

‘Mr Hunter,’ said Olga testily. ‘I was asking if he was aware that you have nothing more than friendship in mind?’

‘Oh…’ Jane made a helpless gesture. ‘Our relationship isn’t that serious. I like Alex. He’s good company. But we’ve only known one another for a comparatively short time.’

‘Long enough.’ Olga was persistent. ‘I worry about you, Jane, I really do. When are you going to put the past behind you and get on with your life?’

‘Oh, I—’

Jane was still trying to think of an answer when Olga spoke again. ‘Isn’t it time you thought about getting a divorce?’

Sometimes Olga’s perception was truly startling, Jane thought incredulously. At any other time, she might have admired her ability to sense what she was thinking. But not today. This was one occasion when Jane would prefer to keep her thoughts to herself.

While she waited for Jane to answer, Olga rummaged in her pocket and drew out a pack of her favourite Gauloise cigarettes. Placing one between her lips, she flicked her lighter, inhaling deeply before blowing a stream of blue smoke into the air above their heads. Jane had never liked the smell of cigarettes and this morning she found it nauseating. Feeling the bile rising in her throat, she made an incoherent little sound and then rushed wildly out of the room.

In the small bathroom that adjoined the gallery, she was violently sick. Leaning against the tiled wall afterwards, a tissue pressed to her mouth, she thought it was a long time since she’d felt so ill. What had she eaten, for God’s sake? She’d only had toast for breakfast, so it couldn’t be that. Mind you, she hadn’t really wanted any breakfast. She’d been feeling distinctly out-of-sorts since she’d got out of bed.

And then, feeling immensely stupid, she realised what was happening. It wasn’t food-poisoning. It wasn’t even the smell of Olga’s cigarette, although heaven knew they were an acquired taste. No, this had to be the start of morning sickness, and if she needed any further confirmation of her condition, this was it.

A tentative tapping at the door roused her. ‘Jane? Jane, are you all right?’ Naturally, it was Olga. ‘Is something wrong?’

Everything, thought Jane heavily, struggling to pull herself together. But she managed to say, ‘No, I’m OK, Olga. I think I must have eaten something that disagreed with me and when I smelled your cigarette—’

‘Mein Gott!’ Olga sounded horrified. ‘My cigarette has made you ill?’

‘No. No, not really.’ Jane felt ashamed. She couldn’t let Olga take the blame for something that was her own fault. She opened the door to find the old woman waiting outside, wringing her hands anxiously. ‘Sorry about that.’

Olga said something Jane couldn’t understand and then wrapped her arm about the younger woman’s shoulders. Thankfully, she’d ditched the cigarette but Jane could still smell the scent of tobacco on her clothes.

‘Leibchen,’ she murmured with evident concern. ‘Are you sure you and Mr Hunter are just good friends?’

‘What do you mean?’ Jane tried to sound confused but it didn’t quite come off.

Olga sighed, looking down at her with considering eyes. ‘Because…well, because I am wondering if there might be another reason for you feeling—unwell, no?’

‘Another reason?’ Jane swallowed.

‘Do I have to draw you a picture, leibling?’ Olga turned to take her by the shoulders, making it impossible for Jane to avoid her calculating stare. ‘Is it possible that you might—be fooling yourself?’

‘Fooling myself?’ Jane blew out a breath, wondering if it was worth pretending she didn’t understand. Giving in, she said, ‘Are you suggesting I might be pregnant? Is that what you think?’

Olga shook her head. ‘I’m simply saying it’s a possibility you should consider, no? You wouldn’t be the first young woman to fall for the charms of a handsome young man like Mr Hunter.’

Jane pulled away from her. ‘I’ve told you!’ she exclaimed fiercely. ‘Alex and I—Alex and I have never—’

‘Never?’ Olga was sceptical.

‘Never,’ retorted Jane crossly. ‘Now, can we talk about something else?’ She scrubbed at her mouth one last time and then started back towards her office. ‘Have you given any thought as to where we might find the other pieces Sir George is looking for?’

Olga shrugged, following her more slowly, and Jane knew the old woman still wasn’t convinced of her answer. However, until she’d decided what she was going to do, Jane didn’t feel capable of discussing her situation with anyone. For heaven’s sake, she still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that she was pregnant herself.

But, throughout the rest of the day, Jane found her thoughts constantly drifting to the dilemma she was facing. What was she going to do? How soon would she have to decide whether she was going to keep the baby or not? For, although her salary was generous, there was no way she could afford the cost of child-care in London on her own.

The alternative was to tell Demetri about the baby. But how could she tell her husband she was expecting a baby when he was already preparing to get a divorce? And there were other people involved, not least the woman he hoped to marry. As well as his mother. Jane could well imagine Maria Souvakis’s reaction when she discovered her son had fathered another child. With the despised English girl.

Jane packed up early and left for home, telling Olga she was feeling shivery. She hoped mentioning another ailment would divert her employer’s mind from the suspicions she’d voiced earlier. But feeling the woman’s eyes upon her as she ran down the steps from the gallery, Jane wasn’t confident she’d succeeded.

It was raining and she took the bus home, afraid that if she took the underground the smell of cigarette smoke would make her sick again. And it was such a relief to walk into the quiet, airy spaciousness of her apartment, so good to sink down onto the sofa with a freshly-made cup of tea.

However, she hadn’t been sitting there for very long before the phone rang. Her mother, Jane guessed, assuming that she’d phoned the gallery and Olga had directed her here. It was to be hoped her employer hadn’t decided to confide her fears to Mrs Lang. It might account for the timeliness—or untimeliness—of her call.

She contemplated not answering for all of ten seconds. But the possibility that it might be someone else had her reaching for the receiver. ‘Yes,’ she said, aware that her tone was less than cordial, and then she nearly dropped the instrument when Demetri’s rich, dark voice came on the line.

‘I see your temper hasn’t improved,’ he remarked drily, the slight echo indicating he was calling long-distance. ‘Who has upset you this time?’

Jane caught her breath. Then, gathering her scattered senses, she said, ‘Nobody’s upset me, Demetri. I haven’t spoken to you in weeks.’

Demetri snorted. ‘Always ready with the acid comment,’ he said wryly. ‘I suppose you were expecting me to call.’

Jane frowned. ‘Why would I expect to hear from you?’ she retorted, wondering if there was a letter in today’s mail she’d overlooked. This had to be something to do with the divorce. There was no other reason for Demetri to contact her. That he knew of, at least.

‘I spoke to your mother earlier,’ Demetri explained with more patience than she’d have expected. ‘I didn’t have the gallery’s number so I was forced to contact her. She gave me the number—not without some reluctance, I have to admit—but, as you know, the effort was wasted. You’re an elusive woman, Jane.’ He paused. ‘I trust you’re feeling better.’

Jane moistened her lips. Despite the fact that her mind was buzzing with the reasons why Demetri had rung, she wondered rather apprehensively what Olga might have said. Nothing indiscreet, she assured herself, although Olga wasn’t known for her discretion.

‘Um—I suppose Olga told you I’d gone home because I wasn’t feeling well,’ she ventured cautiously.

‘Something like that,’ Demetri agreed obliquely. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’

Serious enough, thought Jane tensely, but Demetri hadn’t rung to discuss her health. ‘Just a cold,’ she said, realising she had to move the conversation along. ‘What did you want, Demetri?’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Your father’s not worse, is he?’

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