The Greek Millionaire's Secret Child

Possibly not, and she had to admit the aroma was heavenly, but the strong beverage with its layer of foam and residue of grounds took some getting used to. She found the fruit and yogurt salad topped with almonds and drizzled with honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon much more enjoyable.

In the days that followed, she also found out that Pavlos had little faith in doctors, rated physiotherapists as next to useless and had no qualms about saying so to their faces. He could be fractious as a child when forced to suffer through the regimen of exercises prescribed to strengthen his hip, and sweet as peach pie if he thought Emily was working too hard.

While he napped in the afternoons, she swam in the pool, walked along the beach or explored the neighborhood, taking particular pleasure in the shops. In the evenings, she played gin rummy or poker with him, even though he cheated at both.

One morning, she was wheeling him along the terrace after his physiotherapy session when he asked, “Do you miss home?”

She looked out at the flowers in brilliant bloom, at the peacocks strutting across the lawns, the blue arc of the sky and the stunning turquoise sea. Soon the rainy season would come to Vancouver, its chilly southeasterly gales stripping the trees of leaves. People would be scurrying about under a forest of umbrellas where, just few weeks before, they’d been lying on the beaches taking in the last of summer’s sunshine. “No,” she said. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Good. Then you have no excuse for wanting to leave early.”

She thought not, either, until the beginning of her second week there, when Niko reappeared as suddenly as he’d left.

“So this is where you’re hiding,” he said, coming upon her as she sat reading in a wicker love seat on the patio—except they called it a veranda in Greece. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Though startled, she managed to hang on to her composure enough to meet his glance coolly and reply with commendable indifference, “Why? What do you want?”

Uninvited, he sat down beside her on the sun-warmed cushions. “To ask you to have dinner with me tonight.”

The nerve of him! “I don’t think so,” she said, projecting what she hoped was an air of cool amusement. “You’re likely to take off at the last minute and leave me to foot the bill.”

“The way I did the other night, you mean?” He grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry about that but—”

“Forget it, Niko. I have.”

“No, you haven’t. I haven’t, either, and nor do I want to. Spend the evening with me, and I’ll try to explain myself.”

“Whatever makes you think I’m interested in anything you have to say?”

“Because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be so ticked off with me. Come on, Emily,” he wheedled, inching closer. “Be fair, and at least hear me out before you decide I’m not worth your time.”

“I usually play cards with Pavlos in the evening.”

“Then we’ll make it a late dinner. How is my father, by the way? I stopped by his suite before I came to find you, but he was sleeping.”

“He still tires easily, but he’s better since he started physiotherapy.”

“I’m glad he’s on the mend.” He glanced at her from beneath his outrageous lashes, stroked his finger down her arm and left a trail of shimmering sensation in its wake. “So what do you say, sweet thing? Do we have a date?”

Resisting him was like trying to trap mist between her hands. “If that’s what it takes for you to leave me to read in peace now, I suppose we do. But I won’t be free much before ten, after your father’s settled for the night.”

He edged closer still, a long, lean specimen of masculine grace, handsome as sin, dangerous as hell, and kissed her cheek. “I can wait that long,” he said, “but I’m not saying it will be easy.”

He took her to a restaurant on the water, about a fifteen-minute drive from the villa. She’d pinned up her hair in a sleek chignon, and wore a black dress she’d bought on sale in a boutique just a few days earlier, and high-heeled black sandals. Simple but beautifully cut, the dress had a narrow draped skirt, strapless bodice, and a shawl lushly embroidered with silver thread. Her only accessory was a pair of dangling vintage silver earrings studded with crystals.

All in all, a good choice, she decided, glancing at her surroundings. Unlike the bougainvillea-draped tavernas she’d seen in the neighborhood, with their paper tablecloths and simple, sometimes crudely constructed furniture, this place gave new meaning to the term stylish sophistication. Crisp linens, a single perfect gardenia at every place setting, deep, comfortable leather chairs, a small dance floor and soft music combined to create an ambience at once elegant and romantic.

They were shown to a window table overlooking a yacht basin. Tall masts rose black and slender against the night sky. Beyond the breakwater, moonlight carved an icy path across the sea to the horizon, but inside the room, candles cast a warm glow over the stark white walls.

Once they’d been served drinks and he’d chosen their meal—noting no prices were listed on the menu, she’d left him to decide what to order—Niko leaned back in his chair and remarked, “You look very lovely tonight, Emily. More like a fashion model than a nurse.”

“Thank you. You look rather nice yourself.”

Which had to be, she thought, mentally rolling her eyes, the understatement of the century. The superb fit of his charcoal-gray suit spoke of Italian tailoring at its best, and never mind the gorgeous body inside it.

He inclined his head and smiled. “I like your earrings.”

“They were my mother’s. She loved jewelry and pretty clothes.” She touched her fingertip to one crystal pendant, memories of her mother, all dressed up for an evening out, as clear in her mind as if they’d taken place just yesterday. “I still have all her things—her dinner gowns and shoes and beaded handbags.”

“Do you use them?”

“Not often. I don’t have occasion to.”

His gaze scoured her face, meandered down her throat to her shoulders, and it took all her self-control not to shrink into the concealing folds of her shawl. “What a waste,” he murmured. “A woman as beautiful as you should always wear beautiful things.”

“My mother was the beauty, not I.”

“You think?”

“I know,” she said, nodding thanks to the waiter as he presented a tray of appetizers. Mezedes, she’d learned, were as integral to the evening meal as the main course itself. “And my father was incredibly handsome. They made such a glamorous couple.”

“Tell me about them,” he said, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, wineglass in hand. “What were they like—beyond their good looks, that is?”

“Crazy about one another. Happy.”

“Socialites?”

“I suppose they were,” she admitted, remembering the many times she’d watched, entranced, as her mother prepared for a gala evening on the town.

“What else?”

She stared out at the yachts rocking gently at their moorings. “They wrung every drop of enjoyment from life. They’d dance in the sitting room after dinner, go swimming at midnight in English Bay, dress up in fabulous costumes for Hallowe’en, decorate the biggest tree they could find at Christmas. They were on everyone’s guest list, and everyone wanted to be on theirs. And they died much too soon.”

Detecting the sadness infecting her memories, he framed his next question in quiet sympathy. “How did it happen?”

“They were on their way home from a party, driving along a road infamous for its hairpin bends. It was raining heavily, the visibility was poor. They were involved in a head-on collision and killed instantly.”