The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife

It was almost ten when she caught Liliana’s attention and indicated her intention to leave.

One of the bouncers stepped forward as she exited the main entrance. ‘Is your car parked close by, miss?’

‘Not far from my own.’ The male voice was far too familiar. ‘We’ll walk together.’

She didn’t want his company, didn’t need to suffer his disturbing presence. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Touch me and I’ll hit you, Ilana vowed silently as she stepped out briskly. If he’d deliberately timed his exit to coincide with her own…

She made no attempt at conversation, and it irked unbearably he chose silence, when she so badly wanted the opportunity to snub him.

How long did it take to reach her car? Minutes…five at the most, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief as she deactivated the alarm and reached for the door, only to have her hand collide with his own.

Warm, hard, strong beneath her fingers, and she snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned by a flame.

‘Thank you.’ Two polite, succinct, stilted words as he pulled open the door for her to slide in behind the wheel.

Xandro leant forward and placed a business card on the dashboard. ‘My private cellphone number.’

An invitation to call him?

Offer her business card in exchange for his?

As if!

Ilana slid a key into the ignition and fired the engine as he closed the door, aware as she drove away the mild headache she’d harboured for the past half-hour had turned into a full-blown migraine.

Great. That was all she needed.

Too little sleep, too much tension…

It was a relief to reach her apartment, undress, remove her make-up and pop a couple of painkillers.

Tomorrow, she reflected as she hit the pillow, was another day.

CHAPTER THREE

ORDERED CHAOS REIGNED in the workroom.

Fingers flew, soft and not-so-soft curses registered beneath the music flowing from one of the city’s popular radio stations, the steam iron hissed in harmony with the rain hitting the tin roof.

Ilana checked schedules, confirmed the agency supplying the models, and ensured the van-hire firm had the pick-up time right.

It would all come together on the night…it always did, she allowed wryly. But today…well, the day before awards night meant blood, sweat and a few tears.

‘Delivery boy out front.’

A frown creased Ilana’s forehead. Delivery? All the deliveries were in for the day.

Micki’s assistant went out the front and returned with a generous bouquet of pink and cream tightly budded roses.

Liliana?

Ilana detached the card from the Cellophane.

Xandro. There was no mistaking the name written by a male hand…following a personalised message: Good luck.

‘Wow. Nice. Who?’ demanded Micki.

Thinking quickly on her feet, she pocketed the card and managed a smile. ‘Good-luck wishes for tomorrow night.’ She moved to the tiny alcove that served as a minuscule kitchen and withdrew a vase from the storage cupboard.

It was a kind gesture…if only simple kindness were his motivation. Somehow she doubted anything about Xandro Caramanis could be simple.

There was little time to even think as Saturday dawned and team Arabelle went into action with preparations for the evening’s awards.

Practice didn’t make perfect, for it failed to factor in the many variables that could cause a hitch or three, or more.

An hour before the first model was due to hit the catwalk saw the backstage dressing room filled to capacity with racks of clothes, anxious designers, a fraught seamstress or two, hair and make-up assistants lobbying for room in front of inadequate mirrors. Not to mention cellphones pealing and chirping every few minutes.

Bedlam didn’t begin to cover it.

And it would get worse.

There was hardly room to move, and too many bodies in too small a space made for short tempers…successfully muted by background music piped into the large hotel ballroom seating over a thousand guests.

Organisation and co-ordination were the order of the night. Each designer had a list detailing each category and order of appearance.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

Ilana heard the voice, vaguely recognised it, turned…and felt her heart sink.

Danika was the replacement model?

Oh, my.

OK, so they’d handle it.

But not too well, Ilana determined as she sought to batten down a sense of frustration at Danika’s continuing contretemps.

‘These shoes aren’t right.’

‘That belt…are you out of your mind?’

Swept-up hairstyle, when Danika insisted on wearing it loose.

‘Definitely not that faux jewellery…get me something else.’

Muted grumbles from various designers were enhanced by eye-rolling and unladylike muttered oaths.