Greek Affairs in his Bed: Sleeping with a Stranger\Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed\Bedded by the Greek Billionaire (8 page)

But if she did, she said nothing, and it was left to Rhea to say with some concern, ‘Is it too hot for you out here, Helen?’

‘Um—no, I’m fine,’ murmured Helen quickly, but Rhea still looked doubtful.

‘We can sit in the shade,’ she said, nodding to where a trellis overhung with bougainvillea sheltered a wicker table and chairs. ‘Marisa is on her way with the tray.’

‘How nice.’

Helen was sure she must sound as out of it as she was feeling and she was glad when Melissa exclaimed, ‘Rhea and me are going down to the beach for a swim, Mum. You can come with us, if you like.’

‘That sounds inviting.’ Helen didn’t even have the will to correct her grammar, but then Milos intervened.

‘I’m planning on showing your mother a little of the island this morning,’ he inserted smoothly, and Helen was amazed at his arrogance. ‘I believe she’s seen very little of it so far.’

‘Oh, I think a swim sounds much more appealing than riding around in a hot car,’ Helen protested, not looking at him as she spoke. He thought he could just order her around and, remembering what he’d been doing before the two girls had arrived, she rather thought he was right.

‘You can swim at Vassilios,’ he declared, evidently determined to have his own way. ‘I’m sure Rhea and Melissa don’t need a chaperon, do you?’

Melissa quickly came to the same conclusion. ‘Yeah, that’s right, Mum,’ she said as Marisa appeared with the tray. And, obviously hoping to end the discussion, ‘Mmm, lemonade! I love that stuff.’

‘So—it’s agreed.’ Milos seated himself opposite Helen as Rhea took charge of the coffee-pot. ‘We’ll meet back here for lunch,
ne
?’

No one else was willing to argue with him, but after the girls had driven away in Rhea’s open-topped buggy Helen faced him angrily.

‘I’m not going with you, Milos,’ she said, aware that at least Marisa was within calling distance if she needed her. ‘If you insist on talking, we can. But we’ll do it here. Not at Vassilios.’

Milos regarded her from between lowered lids. ‘Are you afraid of me, Helen?’

Hell, yes, she thought. She was afraid of him. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. ‘I just think it would be more—sensible if we stayed here,’ she insisted. ‘Melissa and Rhea won’t be long.’

‘Long enough,’ said Milos, crossing his arms over his body. ‘Come on. What have you got to lose?’

B
EFORE
he’d met Helen again, Milos had sworn to himself that he’d never let another woman get under his skin. All those years ago, when he’d let his senses get the better of his reason, he’d bitterly regretted it. He’d promised himself he’d never do anything like that again, and, although he hadn’t been a monk all these years, no woman had ever come close to achieving what Helen had achieved, almost without her being aware of it.

To begin with, he hadn’t wanted to believe he was never going to see her again. Even when she’d run out on him, he’d tried to find excuses for her, and it was only when she’d refused to speak to him that he’d had to accept that as far as she was concerned it was over.

He’d suffered agonies of remorse in the months after his return to Greece, not just because of his own feelings of betrayal, but because he’d let Sam down as well. It had taken years for him to regain his own self-respect and now he was in danger of losing it all over again.

He was such a fool! He’d barely brushed her mouth with his lips and he’d wanted to strip her clothes from her and bury himself in her hot little body. When Melissa and Rhea had interrupted them, he’d wanted to howl in frustration. Yet how could he feel anything but contempt for a woman who persisted in lying to him over and over again?

Now, with her sitting beside him in the front seat of his father’s elderly Aston Martin, he acknowledged that whatever happened he was never going to be indifferent to her. But he would deal with it, he told himself. He couldn’t let her ruin his life a second time.

He’d borrowed his father’s car because he’d ridden to San Rocco on the back of his Harley. He’d needed the unleashed power of the motorbike to clear his brain of the cobwebs that had clouded it when he’d woken up. Besides, he hadn’t known how he’d react having her spread thighs pressed against his butt. There was only so much a man could take.

Even so, there was no denying that being with her, feeling the heat of her warm body only inches from his, fired his blood. He was so stimulated, he could smell her—smell the flowery perfume he’d noticed once before, detect the tantalising scent of an arousal she’d already denied.

Taking her to Vassilios might be a mistake, too, he reflected. Did he really want to remember her there, at the heart of his existence? It was all right to tell himself that, at Vassilios, he was his own master. Only he realised how specious that description was.

The villa lay at the edge of a deep valley, where scarlet poppies and pink and white campion dotted the lush pastures where his horses grazed. The villa itself sprawled across a wide plateau, with white-railed paddocks surrounding it and a stream meandering under a stone bridge and down to a sandy shoreline.

Milos heard Helen catch her breath when she saw his home and was foolishly pleased by her reaction. He’d wanted her to like the place, particularly as she’d been so reluctant to come here. Besides, he was proud of it. The house had been built to his own design.

Stelios appeared from around the back of the building as they drove up to the house. The old man and his wife, Andrea, looked after the place for him. In recent years, Stelios had become troubled with arthritis, and Milos had had to employ a couple of younger men to do the rough work. But the old man was very proud of his position and
he never let any of the younger employees forget he was the boss.

Now, his beady eyes fastened on Helen as they drew up, and Milos guessed he was already speculating about their relationship. After all, he seldom brought any women to Vassilios.

‘Ya, Stelios,’
Milos greeted him now, pushing open his door and getting out of the car. Then, in his own language, ‘Would you ask Andrea to bring us some refreshments? We’ll be on the veranda.’

‘Sigoora, kirieh.’
Certainly, sir.

Stelios spoke only a little English, and although Milos guessed the old man expected him to introduce his guest, he didn’t. Right now, he had more important things on his mind.

Milos nodded his thanks and then, seeing that Helen had already alighted from the car, he spread one hand to indicate she should precede him up the shallow steps and into the house.

They entered a large atrium that rose through two floors to a circular glazed ceiling above. The staircase giving access to the upper floor fanned out from its centre, while open pocket doors on either side of the foyer revealed elegantly furnished living and dining areas.

Milos saw at once that Helen was impressed by her surroundings. The feeling of light and space he’d incorporated into his drawings, and which the architect had followed so meticulously, gave the area a cool airiness that owed nothing to artificial means.

Bypassing the living and dining areas, Milos led the way along a screened hallway, and out onto the veranda at the back of the villa. Here, cushioned chairs were set in the shade of the overhanging balcony, the magnificent view of the ocean beyond an ever-changing backdrop.

He heard Helen draw in a breath when she saw the mosaic-tiled
pool that lay below the patio. Curved stone steps led down, either into the pool itself or onto the stone apron that surrounded it. Canopied lounge chairs looked colourful and inviting in the sunlight, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t seen some beauty in the scene.

‘Shall we sit?’ suggested Milos, indicating the chairs in the shade of the veranda, but Helen moved towards the steps leading down to the pool.

Standing with her back to him, she was unaware of how the sunlight limned the rounded curve of her hips and her long legs, even through her dress. But Milos was aware of everything about her, and he pushed his hands into his jeans’ pockets, wondering if she had any idea how tense he was.

‘You have a lovely view,’ she said, glancing back over her shoulder as the errant breeze caught a strand of her hair and blew it across her mouth.

Didn’t he just? thought Milos, but he didn’t say anything. After all, he could hardly tell her what was in his thoughts.

She lifted her hand then to tuck the silky coil behind her ear, the thin fabric of her dress now drawn taut against her breasts. Did she know how provocative it was to lick her lips like that? he wondered. Or was this just a studied attempt to distract him?

‘So,’ she said as he fought the urge to go and make her as aware of him as he was of her, ‘what are we really doing here?’

Milos pulled his hands out of his pockets and thrust them through his hair. ‘I’m sure you know,’ he said, pleased that he sounded almost reasonable. ‘Why don’t you sit with me and we’ll talk?’

‘You talk, Milos. You’re the one with all the questions,’ she retorted swiftly. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll try and answer you.’

But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was, he acknowledged
grimly. His image of her now kept being overlaid with his image of how she’d looked the first time he’d seen her. A tall, slender girl, in the uniform jeans and sweatshirt she’d worn to the sixth-form college she’d been attending, she’d taken his breath away. He remembered his reaction to her then as if it had all happened yesterday and not more than fourteen years ago …

Milos was having afternoon tea in the sitting room with Sheila Campbell when Helen breezed into the house.

‘Hey, who does that swish car belong to?’ she was beginning—meaning the powerful Saab he had hired for the duration of his stay—as she came into the room. Then she came to an abrupt halt when she saw their visitor rising politely from the sofa at her entrance.

It was hard to say who was the most embarrassed at that moment. Sheila—who had admitted him to the house with obvious reluctance once she’d heard of his association with her ex-husband; Helen—because of the brashness of her arrival; or Milos himself—who knew he was here under false pretences and who had never expected Sam Campbell’s daughter would look anything like this.

Because Helen was beautiful, with the kind of untouched English beauty poets wrote about in books. Violet eyes, a faultless complexion, a mouth a man could only think of possessing. In other words, she was gorgeous, the tight faded jeans and navy sweat shirt in no way detracting from her appeal.

Her hair was fairly long, a thick blonde mane that had been streaked even by the weaker English sun. She wore it drawn back in a loose coil at her nape, and Milos guessed it would feel as lush and silky as it looked.

He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. From the moment her eyes had met his, he’d been aware of the connection between them. He wanted to get to know her;
no, he
needed
to get to know her. It was a long time, if ever, since he’d felt such an instantaneous attraction before.

Her mother spoiled it, of course.

‘This is Mr Stephanides,’ she said stiffly. ‘He works with your father. He’s on holiday at the moment and apparently your father asked him to look us up.’

Milos saw the way Helen’s face froze at the mention of her father. It was as if whatever emotion his name inspired was not for public consumption. ‘My father?’ she said stiffly. ‘You know my father?’ And when Milos inclined his head, she murmured reluctantly, ‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s fine,’ Milos assured her, silently acknowledging what Sam had already told him: that Helen had taken her mother’s side during the divorce. ‘But he sends you his love, naturally. I believe it’s over a year since you’ve seen him.’

‘Almost two,’ Sheila Campbell broke in irritably, not liking being left out. ‘Not that that means anything to him. Helen knows what her father thinks of her. He made that very clear when he left us for that Greek woman. If you’ve come to plead his cause, Mr Stephanides, you’re wasting your time.’

‘I haven’t—that is—’ Milos knew he mustn’t show his hand too soon. Sam had warned him that Sheila would try to block any communication between him and Helen. By taking Sam’s side, he was only going to alienate them both. ‘As I say, I’m on holiday at the moment. As I know—few people in England, Sam gave me your address.’

‘He had no right to,’ said Sheila Campbell at once. ‘I know what his game is. He wants you to go back and tell him that we’re only struggling along without him. What’s the matter? Isn’t his second marriage working either? Well, he needn’t think he can come back here. We’re managing very nicely without him, aren’t we, Helen?’

‘Oh—I—sure.’

Helen looked a little discomforted by her mother’s animosity, but it might be only wishful thinking on his part. ‘Sam’s fine,’ he said anyway. And happy, he could have added, feeling the need to defend the other man. But he held his tongue and turned to Helen. ‘That’s my car out there, actually. I’m glad you think it’s—what was it you said? Swish?’ He smiled, trying to reach her despite her mother’s presence. ‘It’s not mine, I’m afraid. I’ve just hired it from a rental agency.’

Helen gave a careless shrug. ‘I didn’t recognise it, that’s all.’

‘Helen’s not interested in expensive cars,’ Sheila Campbell broke in crisply. Then, looking at her daughter, ‘I expect you’ve got homework to do, Helen. Don’t let us keep you. Helen’s at sixth-form college, Mr Stephanides. She’s hoping to go to university.’

Helen was evidently glad to escape. With a brief word of farewell, she left the room as quickly as she’d entered it. Milos wanted to detain her. He wanted to tell her he’d come to see her, not her mother, but that was impossible at the moment. Apart from anything else, if Sheila Campbell even suspected his motives, she’d probably forbid her daughter from having anything to do with him, and he had no real confidence in his own ability to make Helen listen to what he had to say.

It was two days before he saw her again.

Deciding the Saab was too noticeable, Milos had changed it for a more popular model, realising that if he wanted to get in touch with Helen he would have to do so surreptitiously. Consequently, he’d parked some distance from the house the following morning, hoping he might be able to intercept his quarry on her way to college.

He’d been too late. Although he’d wasted the better part of the morning waiting for her, the only person he’d seen was Mrs Campbell evidently on her way to work. She’d
backed an ancient Ford out of the driveway and taken off in the opposite direction, leaving Milos not really knowing if Helen had already left or not.

He’d considered waiting for her after school, but that had presented too many problems. For one thing, he didn’t know where the school was or from what direction she’d approach the house, and for another, her mother would expect her to be home at a certain time. Any deviation from her usual schedule might make her mother suspicious.

Milos took up his position the following morning much earlier than the day before. Hunched over a takeaway coffee, he thought how ludicrous it was that he had to act this way. He hadn’t had time to shave, and he’d had no breakfast. Not exactly the scenario he’d anticipated when he’d agreed to Sam’s request to speak to his daughter.

Once again, the first person to appear was Sheila Campbell. As on the previous morning, she reversed out of her gateway and took off down the street. Milos scowled. Dammit, if Helen was going to school, wouldn’t her mother have given her a lift? He couldn’t have missed her again. It was barely eight o’clock.

He waited until after nine before making any move. When he’d attended university in England, schools had started well before a quarter past nine. She’d either left already without his seeing her, or she was still at home. She could be ill, he supposed doubtfully. He hadn’t thought of that.

Either way, he had nothing to lose by going and knocking at her door. If a neighbour saw him, he or she would probably assume he was a door-to-door salesman. Sheila Campbell was unlikely to hear about it, which was all that mattered to him.

He parked the car across the street, just in case anyone was watching. Then, thrusting open his door, he crossed
the road and walked up the path to the white-painted front door.

He rang the bell, as he’d done a couple of days ago, and waited somewhat impatiently to see if anyone was home. He was half inclined to think the house was empty. There was no instantaneous rustle of someone coming to answer the door. But then his eye was caught by the awareness that someone had twitched the curtain of the window to one side of the door aside, and when he turned his head he found Helen staring at him from the other side of the glass.