Greek Affairs: In His Bed: Sleeping with a Stranger / Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon's Bed / Bedded by the Greek Billionaire

‘But you are still a student. And I don’t have time to haul you out of bed in the morning.’ She sniffed. ‘In any case, I thought you told me you preferred to see Richard at weekends.’

‘I do.’ Helen was indignant. ‘And I’m not meeting Richard Shaw. As I say, I’m going to the coffee bar. Is that all right?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Sheila was dismissive. ‘Oh, go on. Enjoy your evening. But don’t you miss the last bus home.’

‘I won’t,’ said Helen guiltily, wondering if Milos would bring her back to her door. Well, to the end of the street, anyway, she amended, feeling again the frisson of excited anticipation she’d felt since she’d agreed to have a drink with him.

They were meeting in the bar of his hotel and Helen wondered if she’d been entirely wise in agreeing to that. But at least she could be reasonably sure she wouldn’t see anyone she knew at the Cathay Intercontinental. The rates there were phenomenally high. Or so she’d always believed.

She just hoped that what she was wearing wouldn’t look totally out of place. She would have liked to have worn her new slip dress and the suede jacket she’d been saving up for for ages, but that would have been foolish and she knew it. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to become suspicious, so the tight-fitting jeans and black parka would have to do. But she had put on the purple silk shirt her mother had bought her for her last birthday under the parka, away from Sheila’s prying gaze.

Which made her feel really sneaky and she didn’t like it. She was no better than her father, she thought, keeping secrets from her mother.

But when she walked into the foyer of the Cathay Intercontinental and found Milos standing near the entrance waiting for her, she was selfishly glad she had deceived her. He looked so good in his dark suit and turtle-neck sweater, and she could hardly believe this gorgeous hunk was waiting for her.

But he was. He came towards her at once, his dark disturbing eyes making her whole body feel hot and alive. She tried to tell herself it was natural for him to look at a woman in that way. But there was something intensely personal in the melting heat of his gaze.

‘Hi,’ he said softly, and, although he made no attempt to touch her, Helen felt as if his hands had stroked over every inch of her skin. ‘I’m glad you came. I wondered if you would. I was afraid your mother would change your mind.’

‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’

Her denial was instinctive, and she thought how pathetic she must sound to a man like him. Dear God, he would think she didn’t have a mind or a will of her own. Or that she was scared to tell her mother something she knew she wouldn’t like.

Milos’s lips compressed. ‘So where does she think you are?’ he inquired, and Helen shifted somewhat unhappily beneath his curious stare.

‘At the coffee bar,’ she said quickly. Then, ‘I suppose you think I’m stupid, not telling her where I was going.’

Milos shook his head. ‘I think it was probably very wise,’ he said drily. ‘I got the distinct impression that your mother didn’t like me.’

Helen gave a rueful smile. ‘She has reason, don’t you think?’

‘Because I’ve invited you to have a drink with me?’ he asked. ‘Surely that’s not so unforgivable. I want to get to know you better. I’m hoping we can be friends.’

Friends?

Helen let that go, but she was under no illusion that her mother would ever allow her to be friends with a man who worked for her father. Still, it was nice to know that he didn’t have an ulterior motive, and she was woman enough to feel flattered that he should want to see her again.

‘Let me take your coat,’ he said now, and although Helen suspected she should keep it on—just in case—she obediently unfastened the zip. Besides, glancing about her at all the glamorously clad women entering and leaving the lobby, she could see that her parka was very much out of place. At least her shirt was new and fashionable, its deep vee neckline and string ties at the waist giving her a spurious look of maturity.

Her coat was deposited with the cloakroom attendant and then Milos directed her into the cocktail bar that adjoined the famous restaurant. A waiter, recognising her escort, immediately found them a corner table, and Milos made sure she was seated comfortably and then ordered champagne.

With hindsight, Helen had realised that she shouldn’t have drunk any champagne. She wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol, for one thing, and, for another, she’d never tried anything but beer before. And then only at a party when she would have looked a prude to refuse it. But she hadn’t liked the taste on that occasion and had dumped most of the bottle down the loo.

Champagne, as she discovered, was different. It was much sweeter, and the bubbles fizzed pleasantly on her tongue. In addition to which, it seemed to give her confidence and she found herself chattering on about the subjects she was taking to A level, and her ambitions for the future, with an uncharacteristic lack of reticence.

In no time at all, it seemed, it was eight o’clock, and when Milos invited her to stay and have dinner with him it would have been churlish to refuse. Besides, she didn’t want to. She liked being with Milos; she liked the envious female eyes that were cast in her direction. But most of all she liked it that he made her feel like a woman, an attractive woman that he was proud to be with.

They struck a snag when Milos summoned the waiter and asked if he had a table in the restaurant. The man was most apologetic, but the earliest he could accommodate them was at half past nine, which Helen insisted was much too late. If, as she was considering, she intended telling her mother where she’d been after the event, she had to get home at an acceptable time.

‘Send the head waiter over, would you?’ Milos asked now, politely but a little autocratically, Helen thought, and almost immediately the maître d’ presented himself, looking decidedly embarrassed at having to disappoint an apparently important guest.

‘We knew you were staying in the hotel, Mr Stephanides,’ he said, pressing his hands together a little diffidently. ‘But you did not reserve a table, sir, and one of our other guests, Prince Halil Mohammad—’ he said the other man’s name with some deference ‘—made an unexpected late reservation for himself and his entourage to dine in the restaurant.’ He threw up his hands in apology. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’

Milos was regarding him coldly, and Helen was feeling almost sorry for the man himself when he said, ‘I suppose you would not consider dining in your suite, Mr Stephanides. I would be happy to arrange for you to be served immediately. With the management’s compliments, of course.’

Helen’s cheeks turned pink then. She knew what the man was saying was reasonable. If, as he said, Milos did have a suite of rooms, then it wasn’t as if he was suggesting they had dinner in Milos’s bedroom.

But before she could make any comment, Milos intervened. ‘I think not,’ he said curtly, obviously expecting her to object. ‘I suppose I’ll have to make other arrangements.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

Helen could hardly believe she’d said the words. But the knowledge that to refuse would make her look like the kid she was had her accepting the maître d’s suggestion with apparent ease.

‘You’re sure?’

Milos was looking at her now, and she felt the frisson of excitement she’d felt earlier stirring inside her again. It might be the champagne, but she didn’t regret coming here. This was so much more thrilling than spending an evening watching Richard getting progressively wasted.

So, ‘I’m sure,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t regret her recklessness. ‘Thank you.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MILOS’S apartments were on the top floor of the hotel. Helen supposed it was a penthouse suite, with doublepanelled doors opening into a large sitting room. Other doors opened from the sitting room, one of them obviously being his bedroom, and she shivered a little uneasily as the heavy doors closed behind them.

They had ordered downstairs and the waiter had assured them they wouldn’t have to wait long for their food. Looking about her, Helen saw the table standing in the bay of the window with some relief. Obviously it was quite common to be served in the apartment and she made a determined effort to relax.

‘Would you like a drink while we wait?’ Milos suggested as she hovered near the window. ‘Some wine, perhaps. Or would you prefer some music?’ He bent to a sophisticated sound system and moments later the rhythmic sound of Santana filled the room.

Helen turned, her lips parted. ‘Oh, I love this,’ she said, unable to prevent the automatic shift her body made to the music. ‘Is it your CD?’

‘It is, actually,’ he said, coming towards her and holding out his arms. ‘Do you want to dance?’

‘Dance?’ Helen’s breath caught in her throat.

‘Why not?’ he asked, catching both her hands in his and drawing her forward into the hypnotic beat. ‘Your body obviously wants to.’

Helen licked her lips. ‘I’ve just—never done anything like this before,’ she confessed.

‘I know,’ he said, making no attempt to pull her closer. ‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’

‘Fun?’ Helen’s response was breathless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘Good.’

The knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen couldn’t exactly say she was sorry. Her legs had become increasingly shaky, and looking into Milos’s dark eyes was making her weak.

The waiter wheeled a trolley into the apartment and started setting the table. Pristine white place mats gleamed against the dark wood, silver tableware glinted in the light from candles set in the middle of the table, and tall wineglasses of the finest crystal prepared the way for wines of both white and red.

Their first course—a mousse of crab and lobster—was served and the waiter stood back, waiting for Milos’s instructions.