The Greek Tycoon's Reluctant Bride

He laughed, and she could tell he had recognised how he’d patronised her. ‘Vaguely,’ he admitted, his eyes glinting in the dim light, sending a strange shiver of foreboding through Althea. She shouldn’t let him affect her like this…even if he was different.

‘So.’ She placed her wine glass on the table and leaned forward, her wrap slipping off one shoulder. ‘What kind of hope do I give you?’ she asked, and there was a knowing, sardonic edge to her voice that had his eyebrows rising in surprise.

His eyes flicked over her, resting briefly on her bare shoulder. ‘I think you know,’ he murmured.

She smiled, leaned back, and said nothing. She felt the slight, stupid sting of disappointment. It was about sex. Always about sex. Just sex. Of course. Had she thought for a moment he wanted something more? Had she hoped for it? Why?

Maybe he wasn’t so different after all.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ she said after a moment. Demos shrugged.

‘I’m a yacht designer. I also run a business letting luxury yachts to the discerning customer.’ He smiled and she nodded, her interest piqued. He wasn’t another boy intent on spending his father’s inheritance. He was a man who had presumably made his own money.

‘You like it?’ she asked.

‘Very much.’

‘Why?’

The question surprised him, she could tell. He took a sip of wine before speaking. ‘I like to see the designs come to life. From nothing, to lines on paper, to something made of steel and glass—something that races across the sea.’ He gave a little smile, almost of embarrassment, as if he’d said too much.

‘That must be a nice feeling,’ Althea agreed, and she couldn’t quite keep the wistful note from her voice. ‘To create something.’

‘And what do you do? Besides play and party.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I need to do anything else?’

‘A beautiful woman need only exist,’ Demos replied smoothly. Too smoothly.

‘An ornament, you mean?’ Althea said flatly, and she could tell he was surprised. He thought he’d been complimenting her.

‘So tell me what you do, then,’ he said, a cool note entering his voice.

Althea smiled sardonically, although she kept her voice light. ‘I exist, of course.’ Exist. So much less than living, loving. Nothing more than a state of being.

She could feel Demos’s eyes on her—felt his curiosity, his interest and, worse, a flicker of compassion. Pity.

‘Are you happy?’ he asked, and Althea realised no one had ever asked that before.

She looked up, saw him smile and laughed—a hard, brittle sound. ‘Of course I am. Look at me.’ She raised her arms. ‘Do you honestly think a woman like me could be unhappy?’

It was a bold question, one she didn’t want answered. She was beautiful; she knew that. Beautiful people didn’t have problems. Beautiful people were always happy. They had to be.

Demos’s gaze moved over her slowly, thoughtfully. Althea watched and waited. She wanted to look away; she wanted to hide. She hated feeling examined, explained away, yet for some reason Demos didn’t look like a man trying to find answers. He looked more in search of questions. ‘I would find it difficult to believe,’ he finally said, and Althea dropped her arms.

‘There you are, then,’ she said, and drained her glass.

The ensuing silence hummed and buzzed between them with expectation, and Althea toyed with the stem of her wine glass. ‘Are you married?’ she asked after a moment.

Demos’s own glass slammed onto the table with enough force to send liquid sloshing over the rim. Andreolos hurried forward and dabbed at the spill before retiring once more.

‘What the hell kind of question is that?’

Althea shrugged. ‘I have to ask.’

‘Do married men pick you up in clubs often?’ he asked, and she wondered if the distaste thickening his tone was for her or for the married men.

‘I try to stay away from wedding rings,’ she replied.

Demos arched one eyebrow. ‘Even on your own finger?’

‘Absolutely.’

He paused, his eyes hard and bright with speculative satisfaction. ‘Then we shouldn’t have a problem.’

He smiled, and she watched as he poured her more wine. No problem, she thought, because he had no intention of marrying. No intention, perhaps, of even calling her or seeing her again. A few preliminaries, the standard ‘tell me about yourself’, and then his undoubtedly well-used one-liner about Pandora’s box. Hope.

For heaven’s sake. She’d almost fallen for it, almost wondered—believed—that he was different.

That she was.

Althea closed her eyes briefly; she felt a sudden sorrowful weariness that threatened to wash over her in an endless tide. She was so tired of men like Demos. So tired of nights like this. So tired of being the party princess who never said no to a drink, a dance.

Who didn’t know how.

She opened her eyes and saw Demos looking at her with far too much perception—and yet not nearly enough. Had she thought he might understand? Might want to? Was that why she’d come out with him alone, unescorted, unprotected? Dancing in a club was safe. Flirting, partying, promising. All safe.

This wasn’t.

She needed safety. She needed escape. She needed it now.

She flicked her hair back with a little smile, her decision made. ‘Where’s the ladies’ room in a place like this?’

‘It’s a closet in the back,’ Demos replied. His eyes narrowed slightly as he added, ‘Probably not what you’re used to.’

‘Not to worry.’ Althea slid from her chair, taking her wrap and her tiny beaded bag, trying to act casual. Her heart was starting to thump so loudly she was sure Demos could hear it, see it through her skimpy dress. ‘Be back in a moment,’ she promised with a little smile, and he nodded.

She wove her way through the tables, down a narrow corridor to the bathroom at the back. She could see a few men in greasy aprons cooking in the tiny kitchen at the end of the hallway. They glanced up as she approached, then turned back to their flaming skillets. There was a door, she saw with relief, to a back courtyard.

She waited a moment, until she couldn’t see anyone either in front or behind, and then strode quickly to the back door. For a second, no more, she imagined turning around and going back to the table. Sitting with Demos, drinking good wine, talking, laughing, learning about each other.

And where would it lead? Where would he expect it to lead? Where did he intend for it to lead? He’d already told her. Hope.

Ha.

With a grim little smile she clenched the knob and wrenched the door open. Outside in the cramped courtyard she breathed in a lungful of greasy fumes; the vent from the kitchen blew out into the cluttered space. There was an overflowing skip of rubbish next to the door, a couple of rickety chairs, no doubt placed for the waiters to have their cigarette breaks, and high, soot-stained stone walls separating the courtyard from those of the neighbouring buildings. On every side.

There was no way out.