Irresistible Bargain with the Greek

‘To a suddenly more interesting evening,’ he said, and tilted the tumbler at her.

The dark glint in his eye revealed his intentions and the tug at his mouth showed satisfaction.

For a second Talia felt something clench inside her—a kind of hollowing out that went right to the core of her and made it impossible for her to break the dark, binding hold of his eyes.

Oh, God, what has he done to make me react like this?

With a final effort she schooled her expression and, making no reply—which would have been impossible anyway, struck as she was with sudden breathlessness—reached for her wine glass, which was also now on the bar. Did her lifting of the glass make her hand tremble slightly? Or was it the after-effect of that assessing perusal?

She took a mouthful of her spritzer—a larger gulp than she’d intended. But she felt she needed it. Badly.

She realised the man was holding out his free hand towards her. He was wearing dark trousers and a white, deceptively simple shirt that she could tell was expensively tailored. It was open-necked, the cuffs turned back, exposing tanned, sinewy wrists, and he was sporting a watch she recognised as a luxury brand. Even the kind of people who frequented flashy, fashionable parties like this could not easily afford such a custom-made timepiece.

The dark eyes were resting on her still. The glint was gone, and now there was only speculation in his gaze.

‘Luke,’ he said, his hand still extended.

He was clearly waiting for her to respond in kind. And he seemed to have every confidence that she would.

As if of its own volition, she felt her hand take his. Felt the coolness of his fingers, the strength in them. A door seemed to be opening—a door that beckoned enticingly, alluringly.

‘Talia.’ She smiled.

Quite deliberately she used the name she had adopted as her own. Her father always called her Natasha, in place of her given name, Natalia, which was preferred by her mother. But ‘Talia’ was neither her father’s dutiful imprisoned daughter nor her mother’s protective guardian. ‘Talia’ was herself—and tonight...oh, tonight, on this brief, rare opportunity to be herself, it seemed fitting.

‘Talia...’

She heard it echoed in a way that made it sound somehow more exotic, more sensual. His low voice had the trace of an accent in it, a timbre that seemed to set her vibrating at some subliminal level.

The dark glint of his eyes came her way again, and that knowing tug at his mouth. He took a considered mouthful from his glass, then set it back on the bar, letting his forearm rest on the surface. His stance altered, became relaxed.

But he wasn’t relaxed. The thought flickered in her head. He was like a panther, trying not to startle its prey before it was ready to pounce.

‘So, Talia, tell me about yourself.’

The invitation was casual, merely a gambit to continue the exchange. An exchange that was based, as she was so electrically aware, not on who they were but on the current that was running between them.

She paused a moment, taking another sip of wine. Should she go along with this, considering the powerful physical impact this man was having on her? Because of it?

Yet even as she hesitated, hovering between habitual caution and that intoxicating glimpse of freedom, she heard her own voice answer. ‘I’m an interior designer,’ she said.

Her voice was quite composed, she was glad to note, which was so at odds with what she was actually feeling as she sipped again at her spritzer. She saw him lift one questioning eyebrow towards the stark interior around them.

‘This place, for example?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, this isn’t my style at all!’

She glanced around the bare brick walls, the industrial RSJs exposed across the lofty roof space, the reclaimed floorboards and the spotlit modern art adorning walls.

Her eyes shadowed momentarily. Though this starkly modernist interior was not to her taste, it was true, her own style was not something she was ever allowed to express. Her father dictated exactly what he wanted her to do: produce flashy interiors that looked as if they cost a lot of money. And she was expected to produce them on a miniscule budget in order to maximise her father’s profit on resale.

She hated everything she produced for her father.

No!

She would not think about her father now, nor about anything to do with the prison she lived in. Not when this amazing man was focusing on her, making her pulse quicken, making her eyes want only to gaze on him, drink him in...

‘And what about you?’ she heard herself asking, absorbing the way the planes of his face accentuated his looks, the way his dark eyes matched the sable of his hair—absorbing everything about him...everything...