The Greek Millionaire's Mistress

Since that was something he never permitted himself, no matter how tempting the distraction, the smart thing would be to pass her off to a more impartial member of his team, and let them keep her occupied. Yet when the orchestra swung into a slower, more sultry tempo, he pulled her into his arms and held her close.

She was so petite that his splayed fingers spanned an area from the slight swell of her hip, and past the indent of her waist to the upper edge of her gown. Spread them a centimeter farther apart, and his thumb could test the soft skin between her shoulder blades. Slide his arm more snugly around her, and he’d graze the outer curve of her right breast. The realization shot a surge of heat to his groin and cast a death blow to the caution that was his usual trademark.

Blithely unaware of her effect on him, she glanced up from beneath long, silky eyelashes. “Are you from Athens, Mr. Christopoulos?”

“No,” he said, making a valiant effort to rein in his overactive libido. “I was born in a village in the northwest corner of the country. And I wish you’d call me Mikos.”

“Is that Greek for Michael?”

“A regional variation of the same. My full name is Mikolas.” To avoid collision with a large elderly couple bent on cutting a wide swath through the crowd, he swung her into a sudden reverse turn. From the unhesitating way she followed his lead, they might have been dancing together for years. But the satin whisper of her gown flirting with his trousered thighs, the soft resilience of her breasts against his starched dress shirt, left him fighting to control his breathing.

The music came to an end. “So what else should I know about, Ms. Gina Hudson?” he inquired, forcing himself to concentrate on his prime objective. “How do you spend your time when you’re not covering high society events for your magazine?”

A fleeting uneasiness crossed her face before she was able to camouflage it with another breathless little laugh. “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid.”

But you are, he thought. Exciting…and more than a little evasive.

Keeping his hand in the small of her back, he led her to where her bag lay exactly as he’d left it. She slipped the silver chain over her shoulder again and deftly steered the conversation away from herself. “So how long have you lived in Athens?”

“Ever since my teens, when I came here to work.” He smiled bleakly at the memory of those grueling years. “In other words, a very long, and different, lifetime ago.”

She looked out the window at the traffic streaming along Vassillissis Sofias, and grimaced. “You don’t mind the frantic pace? The noise and pollution?”

“Not as long as I can escape it once in a while. Am I right in thinking you’re not much for city life yourself?”

“I was, once. Now, I live at my family’s home in the Gulf Islands.”

She surprised him with that. He judged her to be in her early to mid-twenties. A tad old, he’d have thought, still to be living at home, but definitely too young to shut herself away on an island. “I have a small place a few kilometers offshore, too,” he remarked conversationally, sparing Theo an inquiring glance and receiving a barely discernible nod in reply, “as well as an apartment here, on Lycabettus Hill.”

To reply, she had to raise her voice over the sudden eruption of laughter from a nearby table. “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m not at all familiar with the layout of the city.”

He hadn’t expected she would be. Bringing his mouth close enough to her ear to catch a faint whiff of her perfume, he said, “Then what do you say to my ordering us something cold and refreshing to drink, and I’ll take you up to the hotel roof garden for a bird’s-eye tour of the area? Quite apart from anything else, it’ll be much quieter up there and we can talk without having to shout.”

“Well…” She tilted her head and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “This ballroom is rather noisy.”

“Wait here, then, and I’ll be right back.”

Theo joined him at the bar a few seconds later. “So, what did you find in the bag?” Mikos asked.

“Nothing untoward,” the security guard replied. “A valid Press pass, a little cash and the usual girly stuff—comb, lipstick, mirror, breath mints, that sort of thing.” He patted his jacket pocket. “Oh, and the key to her hotel room. The old-fashioned kind, with the room number engraved on it.”

“Press pass, hmm? She did say she was here on assignment for a magazine.”

“Looks as if she told the truth then, doesn’t it?”

“Certainly does.” His rush of elation was premature, to say the least, but telling himself so didn’t quell it one iota. “Nice work, Theo. Think you can manage without me for a while?”

Theo made no attempt to hide his smirk. “For as long as it takes, and whatever it takes, to find out which hotel she’s staying at.”

The view from the roof of the Grande Bretagne was no doubt impressive. The elegant old hotel, she quickly learned, occupied the most prestigious block in the city center, overlooked Syntagma Square, the House of Parliament and National Gardens, and lay within easy walking distance of such popular tourist spots as the Agora, Plaka, Monastiraki flea market, Acropolis and Presidential Palace.

All very interesting, she was sure, and normally she’d have soaked up the information but, in this instance, she found it difficult to concentrate. Even the ancient, floodlit columns of the Parthenon failed to hold her attention for more than a second or two. And all because, much closer—and far too close for comfort—the sleeve of Mikos Christopoulos’s immaculate dinner jacket repeatedly brushed against her bare arm. His warm breath ruffled her hair. His voice, darker than midnight and more seductive than chocolate, mesmerized her with its foreign intonation. Most disturbing of all, his exceedingly masculine aura enveloped her in a web of sexual awareness that left her trapped like a hapless butterfly pinned to a collector’s mounting board.

Oblivious to his effect on her, he directed her attention to a block of real estate just east of the hotel. “Down there is Kolonaki, one of the most sought-after areas in Athens. Often referred to as Embassy territory, it’s also home to the business district, as well as some high-priced apartment buildings and many trendy coffee houses where the social set likes to hang out.”

“But that’s not where you live, is it?” she asked weakly, less because she really gave a hoot where he lived than because she felt she had to say something to indicate she still had a working brain. “When we were downstairs, you mentioned an apartment in Lika-something Hill.”

“Lycabettus, that’s right.” He cupped her shoulders in his big, warm hands, and turned her slightly to the north. “You can see it quite clearly from here. But I work in Kolonaki, in the Tyros office complex.”

Mention of Angelo Tyros’s name served as a stark reminder of why she was in Greece to begin with. Fighting to keep her tone neutral, she said, “How long have you worked for him?”

“Almost half my life, though not always in my present capacity.”

“So you know him well?”

“As well as anyone does, yes.”

“What kind of man is he—besides rich and famous, that is?”

Mikos gave the question some thought before answering. “Indestructible,” he finally replied. “As you know, he just turned eighty, but he’s still very much a hands-on chairman of the board, at his desk every morning by nine and expecting everyone else to be at theirs. He takes enormous pride in the fact that he’s never missed a day’s work in his life, not when his wife died, nor even when his son and only child was killed in an auto racing accident, some thirty years ago.”

That figures, Gina thought bitterly. What does family matter, compared to the amassing of more wealth? “And you admire such a man?”

“I respect him, I’m grateful to him, and yes, I’m fond of him. Deeply so. I might not always agree with him or the choices he makes, but I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for Angelo Tyros.”

Nor would my mother!

How she kept the words from flying out of her mouth, she’d never know, but something of her contempt must have shown on her face because Mikos tilted his head to one side, the better to observe her. She’d noticed earlier that his eyes were not the dark brown she’d have expected of a man so classically Greek in every other respect, but a light, clear green. Framed by thick, black lashes, they made an arresting statement in a face already blessed with more than its fair share of masculine beauty. But more than that, they were sharply observant and full of keen intelligence. He wouldn’t be easily fooled.

She’d do well to remember that, she thought, glancing away before she lost herself in the depths of that alluring gaze. If she played her cards right, this man could introduce her to Angelo Tyros, but not if she gave him reason to be suspicious of her motives. Without his help, a journalistic nonentity like herself hadn’t a chance of getting within spitting distance of the old brute. His army of sycophants would see to that, as she’d realized the moment she set foot in the ballroom.

Interpreting her silence as disapproval, Mikos said, “If I’ve given the impression that he’s cold and unfeeling, and more concerned with power than people, let me balance that by saying with absolute sincerity that he’s also capable of great generosity and kindness.”

“I’ll try to remember that when I write my article.”

His voice sank lower, rolling over her skin with the soft abrasion of velvet dragged against the nap to bring every nerve ending in her body to tingling life. “And I will never forget this night, or this moment.”

“Why’s that?” she whispered haltingly.

Again, he brought his hands to her shoulders, but this time ran them up her neck and along the underside of her jaw until they cradled her face. “We both know why, calli mou.”

Well, she didn’t. Not really. Oh, she knew he was going to kiss her. Had known it from the moment they’d stepped out onto the deserted roof garden, just as she’d known she was going to let him because, quite apart from any other consideration, he happened to be handsome as the proverbial Greek god, and so charming that his smile alone was enough to set her entire body vibrating right down to her toes, and it had been such a long time since she’d felt desirable. But in no way did any of that answer the real question, why?

The ballroom had been overflowing with beautiful women clad in the very latest, most sumptuous designer fashions. She had on a dress she’d last worn five years ago, and even in its prime, it hadn’t exactly qualified as being on the cutting edge of haute couture.

Those other women had diamonds threaded through their hair, and draped around their necks and wrists, and swinging from their ears. Her only adornment consisted of a piece of costume jewelry—a big old purple-colored pendant, studded around the perimeter with grimy crystals, which she used to wear when she played dress-up as a little girl. Although its chain had long since been lost or broken, she’d scrubbed its paste gems in ammonia until they sparkled, then attached it to a wide band of black velvet, which she now wore at her throat. It was a pretty enough bauble to suit the occasion, especially in the subdued light of the ballroom, but it didn’t compare to the real thing.

Which brought her back full circle to her original question: Why had Mikos Christopoulos singled out her, a social nobody from Canada, with neither pedigree, position nor money to make her stand out from the crowd?