The Greek's Blackmailed Mistress

‘I don’t drink. Water, please,’ she told him, settling into her seat, seemingly unaware that he was riveted to his, locked there by the equally clingy glittery top that showcased her breasts. The smooth pale expanse of soft firm flesh and only the merest hint of cleavage sent the pulse below his belt to throbbing discomfort and a level of arousal that set his even white teeth on edge, because he was neither a horny teenager nor a sex-starved man and anything excessive in any personal field set off Xan’s caution alarm.

She didn’t drink. That didn’t bother Xan at all because he had had the experience of several women who liked to drink a little too much and turned into public embarrassments. An alcoholic in the family, he recalled; naturally she was careful. He ordered wine for himself and ordered meals for both of them, as was his habit with companions.

Elvi sipped her water and watched food selections she hadn’t ordered brought to the table with great pomp and ceremony. She wasn’t that surprised by his failure to offer her a personal choice or a menu. He was a control freak. He was accustomed to commanding what other people did, even, it seemed, what they ate. He would probably be hell in bed, she found herself thinking ruefully, imagining what that innate selfishness would translate to in terms of sex with another person. But then what did she know about it? Maybe that was the norm for a rich man like him. A woman of her status was simply a new toy for him to play with, nothing more.

Elvi cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘So, this arrangement...how long would it last exactly?’

‘Three months,’ Xan heard himself declare, although he had never before mentioned anything longer than two. He was being practical, he told himself, ensuring he could keep her until he got bored, and he could get bored the very first month, couldn’t he? That had happened on a couple of occasions and could well happen with her.

Elvi studiously stared down at her water. ‘And how often...er, would I...see you?’

‘I doubt if there’s a virile man in the world who would answer that question in advance,’ Xan quipped, amusement flashing through him as he wondered how many one-night stands she had enjoyed. At her age, that was the norm, wasn’t it? Or was it? He had no idea because he had never made use of that kind of freedom, reluctant to follow in the footsteps of a father who had been a notorious womaniser and playboy. He had never slept around, never been attracted by indiscriminate casual sex with strangers.

Elvi reddened, heat coursing through her as she met brilliant dark eyes alive with the kind of powerhouse energy he had kept in abeyance during that interview in his office. Stupid question, she conceded uneasily, insanely aware of the tightening of her nipples and the bizarre flush of warmth rising from her pelvis. Both sensations were unhappily familiar, echoes of what she had felt every time she’d seen Xan walk past her months earlier. She hadn’t known attraction could make her feel like that about a man and she hadn’t appreciated the yearning sense of vulnerability it infused her with.

‘I will provide you with an apartment and a new wardrobe. You need clothes,’ Xan intoned with a casualness that shot her straight back out of her reverie.

An apartment. Elvi swallowed hard, reminding herself that it would only be for a few months and that she could hardly act the mistress while sharing a bedroom with her adoptive mother.

‘Why do I need you to buy me clothes?’ she queried rather sourly.

‘When I need a partner to attend a social engagement, you will be my companion,’ Xan informed her, startling her afresh because she had assumed that being a mistress was a very discreet role in a back room some place where she would be hidden from public view.

‘Not sure I would be up to that challenge,’ Elvi admitted ruefully. ‘You live in a very exclusive world.’

‘You would merely be on my arm,’ Xan told her as if she were a man bag. ‘You wouldn’t even need to speak. I would handle conversation—’

‘Like you handled ordering my meal for me?’ Elvi gently nudged her untouched plate away another few inches. ‘If you had asked, I would’ve told you that I don’t eat fish—’

‘Fish is healthy,’ Xan informed her smoothly.

‘But you’re not my doctor or my dietician and I am not so stupid that I require your guidance. I hate fish,’ Elvi spelled out with emphatic cool.

Xan shrugged a broad shoulder, impervious to her reproof. ‘So, order something else.’

‘I’m really not hungry,’ Elvi told him truthfully. ‘As I said in my text, I’m

only here to hear the conditions.’

‘Of servitude,’ Xan reminded her silkily. ‘I like that word. It has a lovely medieval ring to it.’ He removed something from an inside pocket and set it down beside her hand: it was a key with a label attached. ‘The apartment key and the address. Do you require assistance to move in?’

‘How soon will you withdraw the theft charge?’ Elvi pressed anxiously. ‘And no, no assistance required. I don’t have much stuff.’

‘The day you move in, the charge will be withdrawn,’ Xan supplied. ‘I will not do anything before that. You could still back out—’

Elvi tensed. ‘And if I gave you my word of honour that I wouldn’t?’

A cool smile curved his wide sensual lips. ‘I wouldn’t trust it. Women can be unpredictable—’

‘As can men.’ Elvi grasped the apartment key as though it were a stinging nettle and thrust it hurriedly into her bag. ‘I’ll move in tomorrow. What about my job?’

‘You quit. When I want you, I naturally want you to be available,’ Xan pointed out smoothly.

‘I’ll need to work a notice period,’ she protested.

‘No, you simply leave,’ Xan contradicted arrogantly. ‘From this moment on, you’re my responsibility—’

Elvi froze as if he had struck her. ‘Servitude is biting right now,’ she conceded between gritted teeth. ‘I don’t like depending on anyone outside my family.’