Baby of Shame (2 page)

Her eyes were wide—very wide.

Something changed about him. She didn’t know what. But there was a sudden, instant edge of tension.

‘In—in private,’ she added.

Her voice was breathy.

For a moment his eyes were veiled, unreadable.

Oh, God, she thought. He’s going to say no…

Then, slowly, he set down his port glass.

‘Of course,’ he replied. His eyes seemed to flicker over her, brushing like a very fine breath. He got to his feet. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, looking down at her, ‘we can find somewhere sufficiently private.’

His voice was smooth, but it was like the smoothness of a sea where deep currents lurked beneath.

Her breath tight in her throat,
Rhianna
stood up.

He was tall, she
realised
.
Towering over her five foot six.
She paused to stoop and pick up her evening bag. Then, with her heart beating like a drum, she let him usher her from the banqueting hall.

As he steered her towards the bank of lifts in the lobby outside
Rhianna
paused and turned, looking up at the tall, overpowering man behind her. Her stomach was churning again, and she fought to subdue her nerves. Yet at the same time relief was surging through her. She’d done it—she’d got him to agree to listen to her. She had a chance—a last, last chance—to save her father’s company.

Her father—lying in hospital, wires all over him
, fighting
for life…

‘
Mr
Petrakis, thank you so much for agreeing to—’

‘This way.’
He cut across her careful speech with a murmur and ushered her inside a lift. Presumably they were going to the foyer, or one of the hotel’s quieter bars.

But when the lift doors opened again they were on the penthouse floor. And the room whose door he opened with a single swipe of his electronic key was a suite.

For a second she hesitated. Then she crushed the feeling down. She needed to speak to Alexis Petrakis, and if he wanted to let her do so in his hotel suite then she was not about to object.

As she stepped inside and gazed around the suite’s opulent reception room her eyes widened. What on earth must a suite like this cost for a night?
Thousands of pounds?
It must! The thought gave her courage—surely to a man worth as much as Alexis Petrakis buying up a small yacht design business would be peanuts.

She opened her mouth to speak, fumbling with the clasp on her evening bag so she could take out the sheet of paper that gave an at-a-glance summary of the business case she was going to put forward to justify the takeover.

But before she could open her bag she heard a soft ‘pop’ behind her.

She turned.

Alexis Petrakis was pouring champagne, filling up two flutes from the sideboard.

He strolled towards her.

There was something very controlled about the way he was walking towards her. It made her think, just for a second, of a wildlife film, with a leopard approaching the camera. It got closer, and closer—and then the shot cut out, as the cameraman retreated.

But she had no line of retreat.

She shook her head minutely. What was she thinking of? She didn’t need a line of retreat. She just needed fifteen minutes of Alexis
Petrakis’s
time.

She certainly didn’t want champagne. But it seemed rude to reject it now that he’d opened a bottle specially—she tried not to think how much the hotel charged for champagne in the penthouse suite—so she took the proffered glass.

‘Please—you shouldn’t have—’

She sounded silly and immature. It was going to feel odd, she knew, putting forward a business case with a glass of champagne in her hand and wearing an evening dress, but she hadn’t any choice. Besides, either the figures would convince Alexis Petrakis or they wouldn’t. What she was wearing or drinking was irrelevant.

He was lifting his own glass.

‘
Stin
iya
sas
!’

She looked blank.

‘It is the equivalent of your “Cheers”,’ he said.

She gave a hesitant smile.

‘I—I don’t speak any Greek. I’ve never been to Greece.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You have never been to Greece?’

‘No.’

Her mother had not liked foreign travel. She’d liked to live in her little house in a small town in
Oxfordshire
, not going far. Nor had she liked the sea. She should never,
Rhianna
knew, have married a man whose obsession was designing ocean-going yachts. No wonder their marriage had broken up soon after she was born—even though her mother had always blamed her father for walking out on them.

‘You should. It is one of the most beautiful countries on earth.’ He strolled towards the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Hesitantly she took a seat at one end, her narrow dress
susurrating
as she did so, depositing her handbag with its precious financial summary in it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Alexis Petrakis set the champagne bottle on the coffee table and lowered his tall frame down on to the far end of the sofa. He rested the hand holding his champagne glass on the arm of the sofa; his other arm stretched out along the back of the cushions.

Disconcertingly close to
Rhianna
.

But then everything about Alexis Petrakis was disconcerting.

Disturbing to her peace of mind, making strange sensations ripple through her, making her body hyperaware of itself—of him.

Distracting to her concentration—which she needed to focus on how to put the business case for
MML’s
takeover as persuasively as possible.

She didn’t need to continually be stopping herself from just wanting to gaze and gaze at him…

Why couldn’t he be fat and fifty?

She let her eyes flicker to him and promptly she wished she hadn’t. Oh, God, he was just so fantastic-looking—she felt her heart begin to thump in her chest again. She took a draught from her champagne glass, trying to steady herself.

She took a deep breath.

‘
Mr
Petrakis—’ she began.

Again, her voice had come out breathy. She hated it. She needed to sound cool and composed and businesslike.

‘Alexis…’

His voice was smooth. She didn’t know what to answer. She didn’t feel comfortable with addressing the head of a massive European business empire by his first name. And the low, accented pitch of his voice made a soft quiver go down her back…

Stop it! Just start telling him what you came here to tell him!

But he had started talking again.

‘You really should go to Greece. There are many private places tourists hardly visit—if ever. This time of year, early spring, is especially lovely. The countryside is vivid with wildflowers before the heat of summer arrives. You would find it very beautiful.’

His voice was bland, but his eyes—
Rhianna
felt her throat tighten—were watching her with an expression that was anything but.

Nerves started to jitter inside her. She took another mouthful of champagne to steady them. The bubbles beaded in her mouth and she swallowed hastily. She could feel the alcohol giving her a jolt. Uneasily, she wondered how much she’d drunk that evening. She’d been careful, knowing how much was at stake, but even small amounts could add up.

And have an impact. Make her feel ultra-sensitive to things—ultra-aware. Make her misinterpret things.

Things like the way Alexis Petrakis was looking at her through dark, veiled eyes, relaxing back against the sofa cushions, casually lifting his champagne glass to his mouth…his mobile, sculpted mouth.

His sensual mouth…

For a moment she felt her gaze hang, unable to pull it away.

He did have the most incredible, sensual mouth…

With sheer effort of will she pulled her gaze away. Her mouth felt dry, despite the champagne she’d just drunk. She pressed her lips together, as if to moisten them.

His eyes narrowed. She saw it happen.
Hardly at all, but discernible.

Hastily, she took yet another mouthful of champagne. It fizzed as she swallowed, and again she felt the alcohol kick through her. She took another breath, feeling her breasts lift as she did so.

‘
Mr
Petrakis—’

Again that low-pitched, accented voice interrupted her.

‘Alexis,’ he corrected.

She pressed her lips again.

‘Alexis.’ She forced herself to say his name. It came out like a soft breath.

‘
Rhianna
,’ he replied.

The way he said her name was much more evocative than any way she’d ever heard it pronounced before. He took a mouthful of his own champagne. ‘
Rhianna
,’ he mused. ‘It’s not an English name I know.’

‘It’s—
it’s
Welsh,’ she said.

‘How do you spell it?’

‘R-h-
i
-a-n-n-a,’ she spelt out.

He frowned. ‘There seems to be a Greek “
rho
” in there.’

‘I don’t know,’ said
Rhianna
, knowing she sounded stupid, but not knowing what else to say.

She didn’t want to sit here discussing her name. Not when Alexis Petrakis was leaning back, champagne glass trailing from one hand, the other dangerously near her bare shoulder along the back of the sofa, one long leg crossed over his knee, looking supremely relaxed…

Or was he? She studied him covertly a moment.

He looked relaxed, but there was something about the way he was holding his body that made her think he was not. Not relaxed at all. As though a fine thread of tension were running through him.

Keeping him on a leash.

She felt her own body tense. Looking at him was a mistake. Every time she’d looked at him over dinner she’d felt that devastating weakness go through her, that tightness in her breath, that quickening of her heart-rate.

And she mustn’t feel that. She just mustn’t.

Suddenly she felt as if the walls of the room had moved in closer, crushing out some of the oxygen in the air. It was very quiet—the luxurious opulence had a deadening effect on sound, and the double-glazed windows let in no sound from the busy street far, far below.

With a tight intake of breath she made a third attempt to broach the subject she had to open.

‘
Mr
—um—Alexis—’ She stumbled over his name, still finding it hard to address him by his given name and not the more formal and honorific surname.

‘
Rhianna
…’ he echoed again. And again that was that slight quirk of his mouth, as though he found amusement in what she had just said.

He rested his eyes on her. Night dark, flecked with gold. If she looked long enough she could see the flecks quite clearly…

‘Um—I just wanted to—to…’

Her voice was breathy again, and she hated it, but she couldn’t make it sound crisp and businesslike. She was too wound up, too tense.

‘Yes?’ There was polite enquiry in his voice, and his expression was bland. But that thread of speculation was still there.

As if he’s playing with me.

A prickle went down her spine.

She took another mouthful of champagne. It definitely helped, she thought.

‘Tilt your glass.’

She blinked. He’d reached forward to pick up the champagne bottle on the table. Docilely, she found herself tilting her glass.

You don’t need any more champagne!

Abruptly, she pulled her glass back. For the briefest second the golden effervescing liquid splashed on to her lap, before he straightened the bottle with a Greek expletive. The icy liquid soaked instantly through the fine material of her dress and made her cry out, and jolt, and then the frothing champagne was spilling out of her foaming glass, all down the bodice of her dress, just as icy.

She gave another cry.

‘Oh,
no!’
she cried, appalled, jumping to her feet, gazing horrified at the soaked material. Champagne stained, she was sure of it—and, worse than that, the wet material was clinging tightly to her braless breasts, outlining them completely. Added to that, the cold of the liquid had had a predictable effect on her nipples, which were suddenly standing out like pebbles.

Mortified, she spread her free hand as
concealingly
as she could over her bodice, wanting the earth to swallow her. Abruptly, Alexis Petrakis—who was, she
realised
gratefully, taking the incident very calmly—removed the all-but-empty glass from her fingers.

‘Perhaps you would like to go and change?’ he suggested.

Rhianna’s
eyes flew to him. Was he being sarcastic or something? But she was in no position to care. And she
realised
he must just be trying to be as tactful as possible in a mortifyingly embarrassing situation.

He set down the champagne bottle and both flutes, and got to his feet.

‘Let me show you where the bathroom is.’

‘Thank you—I’m so—so sorry!’ she gasped, her voice sounding breathy again, her eyes wide with embarrassment.

‘Not at all,’ was all he said, in a smooth, accented voice, as he tugged the light cord to illuminate the interior.

She dived inside and shut the door as quickly as she could. Her eyes flew to her reflection in the mirror over the huge basin, and she dropped her arms.

She had to get the champagne out fast, or it would stain. The dress had cost a fortune—she’d known she had to look as if she
were
an habitué of posh London business dinners—and she was loath to ruin it the first time she wore it.

Setting her teeth, she reached behind her and slid the zip
hdown
. It was soaked anyway—water wouldn’t make it any wetter. She stepped out of the dress and caught her reflection in the mirror over the basin.

Her half-naked body looked…different.

Her breasts, still peaked by the effect of the cold champagne, were fuller, rounder. Her waist, accentuated by her suspender belt and skimpy briefs, seemed slimmer.
Her legs, in their sheer stockings, more slender.
Her hair, cascading down her completely naked back, much longer.