The Greek's Virgin Bride

Nikos jerked her backwards, turning her around to get her out of the room.

She went. Getting away from that vile, ugly scene was sud­denly the most urgent thing in the world. As she was frog­marched out she tried to shake herself free.

'Let me go! I'm getting out of here!'

As they entered the hallway, the two security guards stepping smartly aside to let them pass, Nikos released her.

'You little savage! What were you thinking of, behaving like that? Do you run so wild you can't have a civil discussion without yelling your head off?'

Her eyes flared.

'He hit me! He hit me and you defend him?'

Nikos, exasperated, gave a sharp intake of breath. 'No, of course I do not defend him, but—'

The t

wo security staff walked by, heading back to their own quarters. Nikos waited till they were out of earshot. He knew the type. Utterly professional, utterly incurious. They would do the bidding of their employer, whatever orders they were given. Manhandling a young woman upstairs to her bedroom would have been a piece of cake for them.

A thought struck him and he called out after the men as they were about to disappear. Old Man Coustakis had looked fit to have a seizure—him dropping dead right now would be highly inconvenient.

'Send Kyrios Coustakis's valet to him—he may need atten­tion.'

One of the men paused and nodded, then went off with his companion. Nikos glanced back at the woman he had agreed to marry for the sake of Coustakis Industries. His mouth tight­ened.

Andrea was holding the back of her hand to her reddened cheek. Her own colour was high, irrespective of the blow she had taken. Theos, she had obviously inherited the old man's temper, thought Nikos. What a termagant!

An immense sense of exasperation overcame him. What the hell was he doing here, stuck in the middle of a battle between Old Man Coustakis and his spitting she-wolf of a granddaugh­ter? Why the hell couldn't the old man have sorted it out first with the girl, telling her about the husband he had chosen for her instead of letting him get caught in the cross-fire like this?

He needed a drink. A strong one. Perhaps that would calm the girl down as well.

She was still trembling with anger. His frown deepened. Her ear and cheek were still red where Yiorgos's hand had impac­ted.

He tilted her face into the light. 'Let me see.'

She brushed his arm aside, and jerked free. 'Don't touch me!' she spat.

She was still in complete meltdown, chest heaving, stomach churning, adrenaline going crazy inside her.

'You need a drink—it will calm you down.' He spoke grimly.

He took her elbow again, and this time Andrea let herself be led back into the drawing room. She collapsed down on a silk-upholstered sofa while Nikos went to raid the antique in­laid drinks cabinet. He returned with two generous measures of brandy.

'Drink,' he ordered, handing Andrea one of the glasses.

She took a sip, finding her hands were shaking. The fiery liquid seemed to steady her, and she took another sip. Across the room Nikos was standing, his expression closed and moody, one hand pushing back his tuxedo jacket, resting on the waistband of his trousers. Absently she noticed the way the white lawn shirt showed the darker shading of chest hair, the way the material stretched across toned pecs and abs.

She dragged her eyes away and rubbed again at her stinging cheek. She was in shock, as well as everything else, she knew.

I've got to get out of here, she thought wildly. She would leave, first thing in the morning, and head back to London. To home, to sanity.

It was the only thing to do.

She still couldn't take it in. Couldn't believe it.

'Is it true? Tell me?' She heard the question burst from her.

Nikos frowned.