The Greek's Virgin Bride

'Zoe, kyria,'' said the girl.

'Andrea,' she replied. 'And I don't believe in servants.' Some twenty minutes later, staring at herself in the long mirror set into the door of the closet, Andrea was stunned.

She looked—fantastic! That was the only word for it. The dress was a miracle of the couturier's art, its soft folds con­trasting with the rich vividness of its colour. True, the bodice, held up by tiny shoestring straps, was draped dangerously low over her full breasts, encased in a fragile, strapless bra, but she had to admit the effect was very...well, effective^. It gave the dress the finishing touch to the 'wow' impact it made.

She had scooped her hair up into a knot on her head, with tendrils loosening around the nape of her neck and gracing her cheeks and forehead, and she'd redone her make-up to match the impact of the dress.

With a final look at her reflection, she turned and headed towards the door, where the manservant who had come to sum­mon her stood waiting. Staff though he was, she could see the admiration in his eyes. For an instant, in he

r mind's eye, it was not one of the house staff who stood there, but the man she had encountered on the terrace that afternoon, looking at her with those powerful grey eyes, making her stomach give a little skip...

She bestowed a slight, polite smile on the manservant, and headed towards the curving marble staircase. It was time to go into battle once more...

Nikos Vassilis stepped on the accelerator, changed gear and heard the powerful note of the engine of the Ferrari change pitch. He was not in a good mood. Twice in one day now he'd made the journey out of Athens at the behest of Yiorgos Coustakis. Tonight was not a good night to be dining with the old man. He'd planned a leisurely evening with Xanthe, whose petite, curvaceous body was, he had discovered, a pleasant al­ternative to Esme Vandersee's greyhound leanness. Xanthe was proving very attentive—she was clearly keen to take his mind off Esme Vandersee, and was now pulling out all the stops to renew Nikos's interest. Which meant, he mused, that she was coming up with some very interesting ideas indeed to do so... A smile indented his mouth. Last night with Xanthe had been very enjoyable—she had seen to that. Ah, he thought pleasur-ably, there was nothing like a Greek woman for making a man feel good! Yes, Esme Vandersee might be eager for him, he was certainly a catch for her, but as an American she suffered that infernal affliction of thinking that a woman had a right to give a man a hard time if she chose! Usually, of course, any petulance that Esme displayed he disposed of very swiftly— she was as sexy as a cat and getting her horizontal soon im­proved her mood...

But even so, he mused, Xanthe understood what it was that a man wanted a woman to be. And she made it obvious that she was keen to be so very attentive to his every need....

His smile vanished. Well, he'd be kept waiting tonight be­fore availing himself of Xanthe's rediscovered charms! Yiorgos Coustakis was obviously taking considerable pleasure in jerk­ing his strings—just for the hell of it, it seemed. Their meeting that afternoon, ostensibly to discus the technicalities of revers­ing Vassilis Inc into Coustakis Industries, had hardly been ur­gent, and could have been left to their respective finance di­rectors to sort out. But obviously Old Man Coustakis had relished getting Nikos Vassilis to come traipsing out of Athens to that overblown villa of his whenever he snapped his fingers. Thinking about the afternoon meeting brought another image vividly to mind—that of Yiorgos Coustakis's flame-haired mis­tress.

Nikos's mouth tightened. The woman had been so blatant, and so unashamed of what she was doing at the Coustakis villa. Not to mention eyeing him up and trying her wiles out on him to boot!

Mind you, Nikos thought, had the woman not been tainted by her distasteful association with a man old enough to be her grandfather, then her approach to him might well have got a warmer welcome.

Considerably warmer, in fact...

An image of her dark auburn hair floating around that perfect face, the way her breasts had thrust against the material of her jacket, played in his memory. Oh, yes, she was worth remem­bering, all right! Her beauty was so flamboyant, so eye­catching, that almost—almost he had been tempted to overlook just for whose benefit it had been paraded that afternoon. Not for him—for a seventy-eight-year-old man.

He thrust her memory from him. However alluring the woman, she was beyond the pale so far as he was concerned. He revved the engine again, enjoying the superb handling of the extortionately expensive car beneath his hands. Driving a high-performance car like this was like having sex with a high-performance woman...they were both so extraordinarily re­sponsive to his touch...

His mind snapped away from the analogy. For the next few hours, until the ordeal of a tedious, overlong dinner with Yiorgos Coustakis was done with, he had better keep his libido under control.

Think of your bride, Nikos!

That sobered him all right. It was about time Old Man Coustakis brought the girl out from wherever he had her stashed. She would know all about her intended bridegroom by now, no doubt, and she and her mother were probably already waist-deep in wedding plans. Presumably the girl wanted a lav­ish society wedding. Well, he didn't care one way or the other, and, since the whole purpose of marrying her was to seal his acquisition of Coustakis Industries, the more high-profile the better! After all, he had nothing against the girl—let her have her extravagant wedding if she wanted. Once she was his wife it would be her who would have to fit herself around what he wanted—that was what Greek wives did. Oh, he would be gen­erous, of course, and considerate to her position-—he had no intention of making a bad husband—but he did not envisage changing his life a great deal on account of the Coustakis heir­ess.

Pity she was obviously so plain... The thought of having a sexually desirable, docile and attentive wife had its attractions, now he came to think of it.

He braked the Ferrari in front of the security-guarded gatess of to Coustakis villa, presented his credentials, and moved on down the drive at a speed greater than he would normally. He wanted this evening over and done with.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nikos stood in the ornate salon, itching for dinner to be an­nounced. His host seemed to be in no hurry. He was regaling his guest with a lengthy description of his latest toy—a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht which he had just taken delivery of. It was, by all accounts, an opulent vessel, and Yiorgos was telling him in great detail about the splendour of the decor of its interior—and how much it had all cost. The telling seemed to be putting him in a good humour. His colour was high, but his eyes were snapping with satisfaction.

'And you, my friend,' he said, slapping Nikos on the back with a still powerful hand, 'will be the first to try her out! You will spend your honeymoon on it! What do you think of that, eh?'

Nikos smiled briefly. Again, a honeymoon spent on board Yiorgos Coustakis's new yacht would send just the message to the world he wanted.

'Good, good,' said his grandfather-in-law-to-be, and slapped him once more on the back. Then bis head snapped round. Automatically Nikos followed his gaze. A servant had opened the double doors to the salon.

A figure stepped through.

It was the flame-haired temptress!

Nikos felt a kick to his gut that was as powerful as it was unwelcome.

What the hell was she doing here?

The woman had paused for a moment in the doorway— making sure all eyes were on her, Nikos thought—and now started to glide forward towards them. Her head was held high—that glorious dark auburn hair twisted up into a topknot that revealed the perfect bone structure of her stunning face.