His Virgin Mistress

‘It is.’ She turned away from him then, bracing her hands on the terrace wall again and gazing purposefully out to sea. ‘Oughtn’t you to go and get some clothes on, Mr Kastro? I shouldn’t like you to catch a chill.’

‘Oh, I am sure you would,’ he corrected her, making no move to go back into the villa. ‘But I would hate to waste this opportunity for us to get to know one another better.’

‘We don’t need to get to know one another better, Mr Kastro,’ she retorted, and although she wasn’t looking at him he could see the tension in the slender cords of her neck.

‘Well, there, you see, you are wrong,’ he argued softly, resisting the temptation to run his finger along the sensitive curve of her nape. He drew a steadying breath. ‘And I think we can dispense with formality, no?’

She licked her lips then, and his stomach twisted with sudden emotion. Theos, he thought, the intensity of his reaction reminding him that he was playing with fire here. Why was he persisting with this? It was his father he should be harassing, not her.

‘What formality are you talking about?’ she asked now, and he had to concentrate hard to remember what he’d said.

‘I—think you should call me Demetri,’ he essayed at last, congratulating himself on his memory. ‘May I call you Joanna?’

Her lips were pressed together when she turned to give him a doubtful look, and Demetri guessed she had expected some kind of accusation. Long lashes, several shades darker than her hair, shaded her expression, however, and instead of feeling any sense of triumph Demetri found himself imagining how they would feel against his lips. He wanted to kiss her, he realised suddenly. He wanted to press that slim luscious body against his own and ease his aching need between her legs…

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mr Kastro,’ she said, and his arousal abruptly deflated. ‘You don’t like me, so why pretend you want to get to know me?’

Why indeed?

‘Because I do,’ he insisted, deciding that he had nothing more to lose. ‘Why are you so afraid to talk to me?’ His dark brows elevated. ‘I am not so terrifying, am I?’

She turned then, resting her hips on the low wall behind her and folding her arms across her midriff. ‘I am not afraid to talk to you, Mr Kastro,’ she said, and once again he had to admire her spirit. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

Demetri’s hair was dripping onto his neck and he lifted one hand to wipe the moisture from his nape. He refused to accept that it was done to buy himself a little time, but there was no doubt that she had caught him off guard.

‘Entaxi.’ It was an indication of his state of mind that had him lapsing into his own language for the exclamation. ‘All right. Tell me how you met my father?’

There was a perceptible hesitation when that tempting tongue appeared again, and then she seemed to straighten her spine before saying slowly, ‘We met in London.’

Demetri gave her a dry look. ‘Yes. I had gathered that.’ He paused. ‘I asked how you met my father, Mrs Manning. Not where.’

She looked down at her feet then, and Demetri found himself doing the same, watching as she crossed one slim bare foot over the other. Until then he hadn’t realised she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and there was something infinitely sensuous about the way she rubbed the sole of one foot across the arch of the other.

To distract himself, he spoke again, his words a little harsh as he struggled to sustain his composure. ‘Were you his nurse?’

‘His nurse?’ She smiled then, and he was treated to the sight of a row of almost perfect white teeth. ‘Heavens, no!’

‘What, then?’ Demetri was impatient at the way she could apparently best him at every turn. ‘His doctor?’

She shook her head, and her hair dipped confidingly over one shoulder. ‘I am not a member of the medical profession, Mr Kastro.’

Demetri’s nostrils flared. ‘Do not play with me, Mrs Manning. You might just get more than you—what is the expression you use?—bargained for, no?’

Her smile disappeared. ‘I wouldn’t dream of playing with you, Mr Kastro,’ she declared coolly. ‘I just wonder why you are so interested in what I do for a living.’

‘I am not.’ But he was and she knew it, damn her. ‘I am merely curious to know how a man who has spent the last two weeks in hospital could have acquired such a—close relationship with a woman his family knew nothing about.’

She took a deep breath. ‘As you say, your father has been in hospital.’

‘Where I visited him,’ put in Demetri shortly. ‘On more than one occasion. Yet he apparently chose not to mention your existence to me.’

Her slim shoulders lifted. ‘I suppose he preferred to wait until we could be introduced.’

‘You are prevaricating again, Mrs Manning.’ Demetri’s temper was slipping. ‘I suggest that, far from knowing my father for some considerable time, as you told Livvy, yours has been what a kinder person might call a whirlwind romance, no?’

‘No.’ She was angry now. ‘What I told your sister was—is true. I work—I have worked—for Bartholomew’s for several years. They’re—’

‘One of the foremost auction houses in London,’ Demetri inserted tersely. ‘I have heard of Bartholomew’s, Mrs Manning.’

‘Good.’ Her eyes challenged his. ‘As you’re aware, your father is a keen collector of antique snuffboxes. He has been a regular customer there for many years.’

Demetri was stunned. He was ashamed to admit that, because of her beauty, he’d been inclined to dismiss her as an airhead. Now, learning that she had a career far removed from any cosmetic pursuit disturbed him more than he cared to admit. It also made her relationship with his father that much more serious somehow.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me…’

She was leaving him, and Demetri could no longer think of an excuse to keep her there. But what troubled him most was that he should want to do so, and he abruptly stepped aside, opening her path to the villa.

‘Until later,’ he said, but she didn’t answer him. If he hadn’t known better he’d have said she was trembling with apprehension. Only it wasn’t apprehension, it was rage.

Joanna made it to her apartments before she gave in to the fit of shaking that had threatened her downstairs. Dear Lord, she thought, she would never have ventured outdoors if she’d even suspected she might run into Demetrios Kastro on the patio. A naked Demetrios Kastro, moreover. Her mouth dried again at the thought.

But she’d looked over her balcony and there’d appeared to be no one about. Oh, she’d seen a couple of men working in the gardens, and a youth of perhaps fifteen sweeping the steps. Yet even he had disappeared by the time she’d stepped out of the villa, and she’d walked to the boundary wall with the first feeling of freedom she’d had since coming here.

And the view was so beautiful. Acres of flower-filled gardens falling away into dunes of sun-bleached sand. A wooden jetty pointed into the blue-green waters of the Aegean, a two-masted schooner bobbing at anchor, all gleaming steel and polished teak. A millionaire’s plaything in a million-dollar setting.

Then Demetrios had emerged from the pool and everything had changed. Her sense of wellbeing had vanished, replaced by the tension that man always evoked. She’d known him for less than twenty-four hours, yet he’d already succeeded in setting her nerves on edge whenever he was near. She had the feeling he looked at her and saw right through her. He didn’t like her: that much was obvious. But, more than that, he despised her for what he thought she was doing with his father.

Now Joanna wrapped her arms about herself and crossed the room to the windows. Despite her revulsion for the man, she felt compelled to see if he was still enjoying his swim. She had only interrupted his pleasure. He had destroyed hers.

But the pool was empty. Although she waited half apprehensively to see if he was briefly out of sight, hidden by the lip of the deck, he didn’t appear. The water was as smooth and unbroken as a mirror, reflecting only the sunlight and the waving palms that grew close by.

Stepping back into the room again, she looked bleakly about her. And then, annoyed that she had let Demetrios sour her mood, she walked through the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom.

She felt a little better after a shower. The cool water had washed away the perspiration that had dried on her skin, and she felt more ready to face the day. Constantine had said he would take her to the small town of Agios Antonis this morning, and she was looking forward to seeing a little more of the island. Since their arrival two days ago they had spent all their time at the villa. Constantine had been weary after the flight from London, and yesterday he had had the reception Olivia had organised to contend with. Joanna knew he would have much preferred to stagger the celebrations for his homecoming, but Constantine hadn’t wanted to disappoint his elder daughter. Besides, until his younger daughter’s wedding was over he didn’t intend to discuss his illness with any of his family.

Joanna finished drying her hair and paused on the threshold of the dressing room that was next to the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling closets lined two of the walls, but the clothes she had brought with her looked lost in their cavernous depths.

Nevertheless, Constantine had insisted on equipping her with several new outfits for the trip to Theapolis. And, although Joanna still felt slightly uncomfortable about that arrangement, she had to admit that the clothes she usually favoured would not have borne comparison with the designer fashions she had seen since their arrival.

The fact that she normally shunned anything that emphasised her femininity had not been lost on Constantine. And, despite the fact that he respected her preference for severe skirt-and trouser-suits, he had persuaded her that they would definitely look out of place in the hot dry climate of the island in late summer.

Besides, they would have detracted from the image he wanted her to present. It was because she could do what he asked that he’d chosen her, and in the circumstances Joanna had been unable to refuse.

Perhaps she’d wanted to do it for her own sake, she reflected, riffling through the rail of expensive garments, all of which were designed to inspire and provoke masculine attention. Flimsy shirts and tight-fitting basques; low-cut bodices and clinging skirts; hems slashed to expose her legs from thigh to hip—items that until two weeks ago she’d have avoided like the plague.

But it hadn’t always been so. Once she would have revelled in their style and beauty. Oh, she had never owned anything too revealing, but she had appreciated her own body and dressed in a way to make the most of her assets. She’d spent so many years believing she was worthless that when the opportunity had come to make the most of her appearance, she’d taken it. She’d wanted to be admired. She’d wanted to know the thrill of feeling beautiful.

And then she’d met Richard Manning…