Forgiven but Not Forgotten?

She looked up and had the impression of a very tall man, broad all the way through to his shoulders. A pristine tuxedo with a white bow-tie marked him out as slightly different. As Siena’s mouth opened to say excuse me her gaze reached his face and her heart stopped.

He was no stranger.

Andreas Xenakis. Here.

The recognition was instantaneous. The knowledge was cataclysmic. It was as if mere minutes had passed since she’d last seen him, yet it had been five years. He looked bigger, darker, leaner.

She could instantly read the unmistakable light of cold hatred in his eyes and her insides contracted painfully. Of all the people to meet in this situation… No one would get more mileage out of it than Andreas Xenakis. And could she even blame him? a small voice mocked.

‘Well, well, well.’

His voice was painfully familiar, immediately twisting her insides into a knot of tension.

‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Siena could feel his eyes rake her up and down, taking in her server’s uniform of white shirt, black tie and black trousers. The effect he had on her now was as devastating as it had been five years before. It was as if she had been plugged into an electrical socket and the current was running through her blood, making it hum, as disturbing and disconcerting as she remembered—especially in light of what had happened.

Her insides contracted even more painfully.

Dark slashing brows framed his incredible navy blue eyes. High cheekbones drew the eye down to a strong jaw. And his mouth…that beautiful sensuous mouth…was all at once sexy and mocking. He lifted one brow, clearly waiting for a response.

Struggling to retain some sense of composure, when she felt like a tiny boat being lashed on high seas, Siena managed to find her voice and said coolly, ‘Mr Xenakis. How nice to see you again.’

His arched brow went higher and he let out a curt laugh. His voice wasn’t so heavily accented any more. It had more of a mid-Atlantic twang. ‘Even now you can make it sound as if you’re greeting me at your own dinner party—not serving drinks to people you once woudn’t deign to look in the eye.’

Siena flinched minutely. She didn’t have to be psychic to recognise that the man who stood before her now was a much harder and more ruthless creature than the man she’d met in Paris. Xenakis’s meteoric rise to become one of the world’s most prominent hoteliers at the ridiculously young age of thirty had been well documented in the press.

‘I’m flattered you remember me,’ he drawled, ‘After all we’ve met only once—as memorable as that meeting was.’

He mocked her. Siena felt like pointing out pedantically that it had actually been twice. After all, she’d seen him again the morning after that catastrophic night. But that memory was far too much to handle right now.

‘Yes.’ She glanced away for a minute, uncomfortable under that dark gaze. ‘Of course I remember you.’

Suddenly it was too much. The tray of glasses started to wobble alarmingly in Siena’s hands as the full magnitude of seeing him again hit her. Surprising her, Andreas took it competently out of her white-knuckled grasp and put it down on a nearby table before she could object.

Just then they were interrupted by Siena’s boss, who was shooting none too subtle daggers at Siena while smiling obsequiously at Andreas.

‘Mr Xenakis, is everything all right here? If my staff have been in any way remiss—’

‘No.’ His voice was abrupt, cold. He truly was Lord of all he surveyed now. Exuding power and confidence and that tangible sexual charisma.

Feeling a little dizzy, Siena tuned back in to Xenakis’s voice, being directed to her boss.

‘Everything is fine. I am acquainted with Miss—’

Siena cut in urgently before Xenakis could say her hated name, ‘Mr Xenakis, like I said, it was nice to see you again. If you’ll excuse me, though, I really should get back to work.’

Siena picked up the heavy tray again and, without looking at Andreas Xenakis or her boss, fled on very shaky legs.

Andreas followed the progress of the bright blonde head, inordinately annoyed with this small rotund man for interrupting them. He was saying now, in a toadying voice, ‘I’m so sorry about that, Mr Xenakis. Our staff have the strictest instructions not to make conversation with any of the guests, but Miss Mancini is new—’

Andreas bit out coldly, ‘I spoke to her, actually.’ Then he realised something and looked at the man, ‘You say her name is Mancini?’

‘Yes,’ her boss said absently, and then he smiled even more slimily, saying sotto voce to Andreas, ‘Of course her looks are a bonus—she could be a model, if you ask me. I don’t know what she’s doing waitressing, but I can’t complain. I’ve never had so many requests for her phone number.’

Andreas desisted from informing the man that she was waitressing because she was persona non grata in polite society across Europe. He pushed aside the fact of her name-change and felt something like rage building inside him. He fixed the manager with a look that would have felled many. ‘I presume you do not give out her number, of course?’

The man immediately went puce and blustered, ‘Well, I… Well, of course not, Mr Xenakis. I don’t know what kind of a service you think I’m running here, but I can assure you—’