The Greek's Virgin Bride

Steel eyes, flecked with gold, rested on her. 'But I,' he said with a softness that raised the hairs at the nape of her neck, 'have a great deal to say to you, Andrea mou.'

She felt faint, hearing him say her name, that had once been an endearment, now edged with scorn. Behind her, Kim stepped forward and closed her hand protectively around Andrea's arm.

'Mr Vassilis, if my daughter does not wish to speak to you—'

The rest of her words were cut off by a rasp sounding in Nikos's throat. Shock etched across his face, and his eyes flashed back to Andrea.

'This woman is your motherT Disbelief was in every word.

It was Kim who answered. 'Yes, I am Andrea's mother, Mr Vassilis. And perhaps...' she took a faltering breath '...you would explain what is going on?'

Nikos's eyes were scanning from face to face, his eyes nar­rowed, comparing the two women. Andrea knew what he would see—she and Kim did not look much alike. Kim was slighter in build, and her hair was fair, greying now at the temples, her faded eyes blue. All that she had got from her mother was her bone structure and her fine skin. Her red hair had come from Kim's grandmother, she knew, and her chestnut eyes were a legacy from her father.

But whatever he saw must have convinced him. 'Mrs Coustakis—' he began. His voice sounded shaken, but deter­mined none the less.

Kim shook her head. 'I'm Kim Fraser, Mr. Vassilis. Andreas and I never married.'

Her words were quietly spoken, and not ashamed. She had, her daughter knew, nothing—nothing—to be ashamed of.

Shock etched across Nikos's face again. It stabbed at Andrea. Telling her everything she needed to know. Bitter, bit­ter though that knowledge was.

'You see—' she twisted the words out of her mouth '—I'm not the woman you thought I was! Look around you!' Her arm swept the narrow hallway. 'Do I look like an heiress? Living here?'

Her words were a bitter, defiant challenge.

"This isn't possible.' Nikos's voice was flat. His denial total.

She gave a mocking, angry laugh. She had known, always known, that he would be horrified to discover her humble or­igins—to discover she did not come from his rich, sophisticated world. After all, what would a man as rich as Nikos Vassilis want with a wife from a council fiat?

He moved suddenly, a hand flattening on the door beside aim that led into the living room, pushing it open. He walked in. The room was clean and tidy, but the carpet was cheap and worn, the chairs and sofa-bed where Andrea slept shabby and frayed.

'You live here?'

His voice was still flat. Andrea followed him in.

'Yes. All my life.'

'Why?'

The word exploded from him- Andrea gave a high, short laugh.

'Why? Because it's all Mum could afford, that's why! She lived on benefits until I was old enough to start school, and die council housed us here—she was lucky to get it, a flat of her own, a single, teenaged mother as she was! When I started school she got a part-time job, but it's hard work to put aside enough money to try and buy a place of your own when you've a child to bring up single-handed.'

'Single-handed? When your grandfather is Yiorgos Coustakis?' His voice was a sneer.

Her eyes flashed. 'Yiorgos Coustakis—' she ground out her grandfather's name with contempt '—told my mother she had no claim on my father's estate. She's brought me up on her own—totally.'

As she spoke, his lips compressed. He scanned the room again, taking in every last detail. His gaze hardened.

'Are you telling me,' he demanded, and his face was set, tight as a bow, 'that your grandfather does not support you?'

'That's right,' she said evenly. 'I told you—I'm not a Coustakis at all.'

Kim's voice intervened, sounding confused and distressed.

'Andrea, what about the money? You told me Yiorgos had given you all that money of his own free will! If you extorted it from in any way then you must give it back! You must!’

'No!' she cried, appalled. 'No! The money's yours, it's yours totally—to buy you an apartment in Spain, to pay your debts, to—'