Captivated by the Greek

His expression changed again.

‘All of which accounts for my notion that inviting a fantastically beautiful complete stranger as my “plus one” would be the ideal answer to my predicament,’ he finished, keeping his gaze steady on Mel’s face.

He paused. His eyes rested on her with an unreadable expression that Mel could not match.

‘You fit the bill perfectly,’ he said. And now, suddenly, his expression was not unreadable at all...

As she felt the unveiled impact of his gaze Mel heard her breath catch, felt emotion swing into her as if it had been blown in on the wind from an opened door. He was offering her an experience she’d never had in her life—a glittering evening out with the most breathtakingly attractive man she’d ever seen.

So why not? What are you waiting for? Why hesitate for a moment?

She thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t go—he might be the most ridiculously good-looking and most ludicrously attractive man she’d ever seen, but he was also the most infuriating and arrogant and self-satisfied man she’d ever met.

But he’s apologised, and his self-satisfaction comes with a sense of humour about it, and he’s given me a cogent reason for his out-of-the-blue invitation...

But he was a complete stranger and could be anyone.

I know his name—and, anyway, he’s talking about a posh charity bash at a swanky West End hotel, not an orgy in an opium den...

But she had nothing suitable to wear for such a thing as a posh charity bash at a swanky West End hotel.

Yes, I have—I’ve got that second-hand designer evening gown I bought in a charity shop that was dead cheap because it had a stain on it. I can cover the stain with a corsage...and I can make the corsage from that over-the-top bunch of lilies he’s just sent...

But she ought to be working—she made good tips on a Friday night at the restaurant.

Well, I can work an extra shift on Sunday lunchtime instead, when Sarrie’s is closed...

One by one she could hear herself demolishing her own objections against accepting Nikos Parakis’s invitation. Heard herself urging on the one overwhelming reason for accepting it.

A little thrill went through her.

She was about to start a new life—her own life. She would be free of obligations to anyone else. Free to do what she wanted and go where she wanted. Free to indulge herself finally!

And when it came to indulgence what could be more self-indulgent than a gorgeous, irresistible man like the one standing in front of her? It was just too, too tempting to turn down.

If anything could herald her new life’s arrival with the sound of trumpets it must surely be this. So why not grab the opportunity with both hands?

Why not?

‘Well,’ she heard him say, one eyebrow quirked expectantly, ‘what’s the verdict? Do we have a deal?’

Her eyelids dipped briefly over her eyes and she felt a smile start to form at her mouth.

‘OK, then,’ she said. ‘Yes, we have a deal.’

CHAPTER THREE

MEL TWISTED AS best she could, but it was no good. She couldn’t possibly see her full length reflection in the tiny mirror she’d got propped up on top of the filing cabinet where Sarrie kept the accounts.

Well, it didn’t matter. She knew the dress suited her because she’d loved it from the moment she’d first seen it in the charity shop. It was the prize piece in the collection she’d been scouring charity shops for over the last year, putting together a cut-price but stylish wardrobe for her foreign travels.

The dress was silk, but in very fine plissé folds, which made it ideal for travelling as she could just twist it into a roll for packing. The colour suited her perfectly, she knew, because the pale blue was shot with a deeper hyacinth-blue, with a touch of lilac to it that set off her eyes. And its simple folds suited her preference for unfussy, ‘no bling’ styles.

With the reassurance of its designer label she knew she could go anywhere in it—even the Viscari St James. She’d looked up the hotel on Sarrie’s PC and had whistled. It had a cachet that was way, way beyond any place she’d ever set foot in. But that was hardly surprising—for the internet had also revealed to her that Nikos Parakis was the scion of the Parakis banking dynasty—a Greek-based outfit that seemed to be rolling in it to the tune of zillions.

And he came slumming along into a humble sandwich bar! she thought with mordant humour. No wonder he’d been so outraged at her lack of awed deference.

But, to his credit, he had at least apologised, and she’d draw a line under it. Now, she realised, she was simply looking forward to seeing him again. Would they still spar with each other?