Greek Affairs in his Bed: Sleeping with a Stranger\Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed\Bedded by the Greek Billionaire (11 page)

But he was. He came towards her at once, his dark disturbing eyes making her whole body feel hot and alive. She tried to tell herself it was natural for him to look at a woman in that way. But there was something intensely personal in the melting heat of his gaze.

‘Hi,’ he said softly, and, although he made no attempt to touch her, Helen felt as if his hands had stroked over every inch of her skin. ‘I’m glad you came. I wondered if you would. I was afraid your mother would change your mind.’

‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’

Her denial was instinctive, and she thought how pathetic she must sound to a man like him. Dear God, he would think she didn’t have a mind or a will of her own. Or that she was scared to tell her mother something she knew she wouldn’t like.

Milos’s lips compressed. ‘So where does she think you are?’ he inquired, and Helen shifted somewhat unhappily beneath his curious stare.

‘At the coffee bar,’ she said quickly. Then, ‘I suppose you think I’m stupid, not telling her where I was going.’

Milos shook his head. ‘I think it was probably very
wise,’ he said drily. ‘I got the distinct impression that your mother didn’t like me.’

Helen gave a rueful smile. ‘She has reason, don’t you think?’

‘Because I’ve invited you to have a drink with me?’ he asked. ‘Surely that’s not so unforgivable. I want to get to know you better. I’m hoping we can be friends.’

Friends?

Helen let that go, but she was under no illusion that her mother would ever allow her to be friends with a man who worked for her father. Still, it was nice to know that he didn’t have an ulterior motive, and she was woman enough to feel flattered that he should want to see her again.

‘Let me take your coat,’ he said now, and although Helen suspected she should keep it on—just in case—she obediently unfastened the zip. Besides, glancing about her at all the glamorously clad women entering and leaving the lobby, she could see that her parka was very much out of place. At least her shirt was new and fashionable, its deep vee neckline and string ties at the waist giving her a spurious look of maturity.

Her coat was deposited with the cloakroom attendant and then Milos directed her into the cocktail bar that adjoined the famous restaurant. A waiter, recognising her escort, immediately found them a corner table, and Milos made sure she was seated comfortably and then ordered champagne.

With hindsight, Helen had realised that she shouldn’t have drunk any champagne. She wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol, for one thing, and, for another, she’d never tried anything but beer before. And then only at a party when she would have looked a prude to refuse it. But she hadn’t liked the taste on that occasion and had dumped most of the bottle down the loo.

Champagne, as she discovered, was different. It was much sweeter, and the bubbles fizzed pleasantly on her
tongue. In addition to which, it seemed to give her confidence and she found herself chattering on about the subjects she was taking to A level, and her ambitions for the future, with an uncharacteristic lack of reticence.

In no time at all, it seemed, it was eight o’clock, and when Milos invited her to stay and have dinner with him it would have been churlish to refuse. Besides, she didn’t want to. She liked being with Milos; she liked the envious female eyes that were cast in her direction. But most of all she liked it that he made her feel like a woman, an attractive woman that he was proud to be with.

They struck a snag when Milos summoned the waiter and asked if he had a table in the restaurant. The man was most apologetic, but the earliest he could accommodate them was at half past nine, which Helen insisted was much too late. If, as she was considering, she intended telling her mother where she’d been after the event, she had to get home at an acceptable time.

‘Send the head waiter over, would you?’ Milos asked now, politely but a little autocratically, Helen thought, and almost immediately the
maître d’
presented himself, looking decidedly embarrassed at having to disappoint an apparently important guest.

‘We knew you were staying in the hotel, Mr Stephanides,’ he said, pressing his hands together a little diffidently. ‘But you did not reserve a table, sir, and one of our other guests, Prince Halil Mohammad—’ he said the other man’s name with some deference ‘—made an unexpected late reservation for himself and his entourage to dine in the restaurant.’ He threw up his hands in apology. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’

Milos was regarding him coldly, and Helen was feeling almost sorry for the man himself when he said, ‘I suppose you would not consider dining in your suite, Mr Stephanides. I would be happy to arrange for you to be
served immediately. With the management’s compliments, of course.’

Helen’s cheeks turned pink then. She knew what the man was saying was reasonable. If, as he said, Milos did have a suite of rooms, then it wasn’t as if he was suggesting they had dinner in Milos’s bedroom.

But before she could make any comment, Milos intervened. ‘I think not,’ he said curtly, obviously expecting her to object. ‘I suppose I’ll have to make other arrangements.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

Helen could hardly believe she’d said the words. But the knowledge that to refuse would make her look like the kid she was had her accepting the
maître d’
s suggestion with apparent ease.

‘You’re sure?’

Milos was looking at her now, and she felt the frisson of excitement she’d felt earlier stirring inside her again. It might be the champagne, but she didn’t regret coming here. This was so much more thrilling than spending an evening watching Richard getting progressively wasted.

So, ‘I’m sure,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t regret her recklessness. ‘Thank you.’

M
ILOS
’
S
apartments were on the top floor of the hotel. Helen supposed it was a penthouse suite, with doublepanelled doors opening into a large sitting room. Other doors opened from the sitting room, one of them obviously being his bedroom, and she shivered a little uneasily as the heavy doors closed behind them.

They had ordered downstairs and the waiter had assured them they wouldn’t have to wait long for their food. Looking about her, Helen saw the table standing in the bay of the window with some relief. Obviously it was quite common to be served in the apartment and she made a determined effort to relax.

‘Would you like a drink while we wait?’ Milos suggested as she hovered near the window. ‘Some wine, perhaps. Or would you prefer some music?’ He bent to a sophisticated sound system and moments later the rhythmic sound of Santana filled the room.

Helen turned, her lips parted. ‘Oh, I love this,’ she said, unable to prevent the automatic shift her body made to the music. ‘Is it your CD?’

‘It is, actually,’ he said, coming towards her and holding out his arms. ‘Do you want to dance?’

‘Dance?’ Helen’s breath caught in her throat.

‘Why not?’ he asked, catching both her hands in his and drawing her forward into the hypnotic beat. ‘Your body obviously wants to.’

Helen licked her lips. ‘I’ve just—never done anything like this before,’ she confessed.

‘I know,’ he said, making no attempt to pull her closer. ‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’

‘Fun?’ Helen’s response was breathless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘Good.’

The knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen couldn’t exactly say she was sorry. Her legs had become increasingly shaky, and looking into Milos’s dark eyes was making her weak.

The waiter wheeled a trolley into the apartment and started setting the table. Pristine white place mats gleamed against the dark wood, silver tableware glinted in the light from candles set in the middle of the table, and tall wineglasses of the finest crystal prepared the way for wines of both white and red.

Their first course—a mousse of crab and lobster—was served and the waiter stood back, waiting for Milos’s instructions.

‘We’ll serve the rest ourselves,’ Milos told him as the crisp crackle of notes changed hands, and moments later the doors closed again and they were alone.

Later, Helen could hardly remember how the food tasted. It could have been arsenic or ambrosia, she doubted she’d have noticed. With Milos sitting beside her, his knee brushing hers, serving her tiny morsels of what he was eating from his plate, she was too bemused to pay attention to her own food. She only knew she was floating several inches above the table for most of the meal, the sensuous rhythm of the music and the disturbing directness of Milos’s gaze causing a sensation of elevation in the pit of her stomach.

After the meal was over, Helen needed to use the rest-room, and she discovered that one of the doors that opened off the living room led into a luxuriously appointed vanity-cum-bathroom. Lamp lit mirrors lined the walls, inviting inspection of her appearance, while the marble bathroom adjoining was as big as the largest bedroom back home.

She availed herself of the facilities and then paused for a moment beside the row of mirrors, intrigued by her appearance. She almost looked beautiful, she thought, touching the hectic colour in her cheeks, noticing how soft her lips looked in the flattering light. She also noticed that, despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, her nipples were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her shirt.

She crossed her arms over her chest and then let them fall again. Who was she kidding? she thought impatiently. If Milos was being unusually attentive to her it was because he’d promised her father he’d look after her. She shouldn’t run away with the idea that he was attracted to her. He was just being friendly, that was all.

The trolley had disappeared when she emerged from the bathroom. Either the waiter had been summoned to remove it, or Milos had pushed it out into the corridor himself. The table was now empty of everything except the wine and their glasses, but Helen, who had tried to drink sparingly during the meal, determined not to have any more.

Milos was standing by the white marble fireplace when she re-entered the room, but Helen moved to the windows, to stand looking down at the lights of Knightsbridge sparkling thirty floors below. It was quite a view, even though a light rain had come to slick the pavements. It blurred the image, making her feel as if she were watching it through a mirror.

She was so absorbed that she got quite a shock when Milos put his hand on her shoulder. She’d been unaware of him coming to stand beside her, and the warm strength of his fingers caused a ripple of excitement in her stomach.

She turned towards him a little breathlessly, her agitation showing in the eyes she turned up to his lean face. Her lips parted in an unknowing invitation and she saw the way his eyes darkened as they identified her expression.

‘
Signomi
. I’m sorry,’ he said, his low voice with its distinctive accent like velvet on her skin. ‘Did I frighten you?’

‘You—startled me,’ she amended, aware of the quickening beat of her heart. She nervously cleared her throat. ‘I—er—I was admiring the view.’

‘So was I,’ he said softly, and her stomach wobbled at the realisation that he wasn’t talking about the scene outside.

‘Um—I suppose I should be going,’ she said, half afraid of her own reaction to his words. He was only being polite, she told herself, trying to remember how she’d felt when he’d turned up on her doorstep. This man was not her friend, she reminded herself. Her mother would be horrified if she ever discovered that Helen had had dinner with him in his suite.

‘Oh—you must stay and have coffee,’ he protested now, nodding towards the sofa, and she saw the tray she hadn’t noticed before residing on the low table close by. ‘Come,’ he added. ‘Let us sit down. And don’t worry about getting home. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to be available when we need them.’

Helen hesitated only a moment before doing as he suggested. But as she sank into the soft cushions she couldn’t help wondering when he’d ordered a car. Had he intended her to have dinner with him all along?

It was a disturbing consideration and her teeth dug into her bottom lip as Milos seated himself beside her. What did she really know about this man? she asked herself uneasily. How did she know she could trust him?

Milos’s weight depressed the cushions deeper than hers did, and she felt herself slipping closer. It took all her ingenuity to sustain a little space between them without his being aware of it. Or perhaps he was. She couldn’t be sure.

‘Will you …?’

He indicated the cups and Helen drew a deep breath and
moved forward. There was a tall jug of coffee and another smaller one of cream, and two white porcelain cups that seemed almost transparent.

The delicacy of the operation was not lost on her, and Helen couldn’t help her hand shaking as she lifted the pot and attempted to pour. Dear God, she was going to spill it all over the white linen cloth. Either that, or drop the pot on the fragile china.

She was aware of Milos watching her and her gaze was drawn irresistibly in his direction. Which was definitely a mistake. As she’d feared, the coffee cascaded over the side of the cup, filling the saucer and splashing hotly onto her jean-clad legs.

‘Oh, shit!’ she exclaimed, as much in pain as frustration, and without hesitation Milos took the pot from her trembling fingers and replaced it on the tray.

‘You’re hurt,’ he said roughly, snatching up a napkin and dabbing at the damp spots on her trousers. ‘
Theos
, this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been watching you.’

Helen would agree with that, but she couldn’t let him take the blame for something that was really all her own doing. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she insisted, pushing her hands over her knees in an effort to deflect his efforts. ‘Really. I knew I was going to make a mess of it.’

Milos tossed the napkin onto the tray, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement. ‘Well, you certainly did that,’ he agreed, nodding at the stained tray cloth. ‘Never mind. I’m not fond of English coffee anyway. So long as you’re not burned, that’s all that matters.’

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said ruefully, dragging her eyes from his. ‘My—er—my jeans took the worst of it.’

Milos’s eyes dropped to her knees and Helen’s stomach did a nervous somersault. There was such a look of tenderness in his gaze and her limbs turned to liquid when he captured her hands in both of his.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, and for a moment Helen hadn’t the first idea what he was talking about. When he’d touched her shoulder earlier, she’d been startled by her reaction, but that was as nothing compared to the way she felt when he raised one of her hands to his lips. He bestowed a fleeting kiss on her knuckles before turning her hand over and caressing her palm. His thumb massaged the moist centre in a deliberately sensual motion and she felt the heat he was generating spreading to every extremity. It was an almost physical invasion and she hardly dared to identify its effect.

Her eyes had been drawn back to his, but now she tried to look away. She didn’t want him to see how vulnerable she was, how easily he had breached barriers she had had years to erect.

She didn’t understand it. She’d been Richard’s girlfriend for almost two years and he’d never come close to arousing her in this way. Oh, they’d kissed and petted, of course they had, and just occasionally she’d been tempted to find out what all the fuss was about. But she’d always been in control of her emotions and Richard had known she didn’t sleep around.

Yet now, the melting sensation in her stomach was causing all sorts of problems. There was a tightness in her breasts, a moistness between her legs, and the blood that had been pounding through her veins now seemed to have congealed just beneath her skin. She was hot and cold by turns, sweating one minute and shivering the next, while a wave of goose-bumps enveloped her in a rippling cloak of excitement.

She was beginning to realise how reckless she had been in coming here, yet she also knew Milos wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. Despite her earlier doubts, she thought she could trust him. The trouble was, she didn’t trust herself.

As if sensing her confusion, Milos chose that moment to
release her hands. ‘You are very sweet,
agape mou
,’ he said, patting her knee with what she recognised was genuine affection. ‘And so innocent,’ he continued, looking into her flushed face. ‘You make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.’

Helen’s lips parted. ‘What things?’ she asked naïvely, but she knew. She just wanted him to say them, to admit that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling the intimacy between them.

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘I do. I do.’ She gazed up at him eagerly. ‘Please; you have to tell me.’ She paused and then added provocatively, ‘Do you think I’m attractive?’

Dear God! Helen almost cringed then. Where had that come from? She’d thought the meal had banished the worst effects of the champagne from her system, but she’d been wrong. Terribly wrong.

Milos, however, chose to answer her. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I find you very attractive.’

‘Was that why you wanted to see me again?’ In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Helen recklessly. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about my father.’

‘I did. I should,’ he amended, a little roughly. ‘But—we’ve talked about other things.’

‘Me,’ said Helen ruefully. ‘Were you bored?’

‘Very,’ he said drily. ‘That’s why I asked you to have dinner with me.’

Helen bit her lip. ‘You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?’ she ventured with a frown, and he shrugged.

‘I
am
very boring,’ he said flatly. ‘And now I think I ought to take you home.’

Helen protested. ‘It’s early yet.’ She glanced towards the sound system. ‘Couldn’t we play some more music? Maybe dance again?’

‘I think not.’

‘Why?’

Milos said something then that she thought wasn’t very complimentary, but almost against his will, it seemed, he didn’t get up from the sofa.

Instead, he hesitated only a moment before lifting his hand and slipping it under the hair at the back of her neck. His strong fingers first massaged and then gripped her nape, forcing her to look at him.

‘You know exactly why I have to take you home,’ he told her roughly. ‘Why we have to put an end to this right now.’

Helen pressed her lips together. ‘Because you’re tired of me?’ she asked ingenuously. ‘Because you don’t want to dance with me again?’

Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘That’s not what I want to do, and you know it.’

Helen angled her neck beneath his hand. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Helen!’ He spoke harshly. ‘Don’t make this any harder than it already is. You’re just an eighteen-year-old student, while I—I’m not.’

She was actually seventeen, but Helen didn’t think this was a good time to say that. But it did explain why he’d offered her champagne.

‘You’re not old,’ she said instead. ‘And I’m not exactly inexperienced, you know.’

Milos breathed deeply. ‘Where are you going with this?’

‘Where do you want to go?’

She was being deliberately provocative, but she trembled when his fingers tightened on her nape.

He was going to kiss her, she thought unsteadily, hoping she wouldn’t regret this. She wanted him to kiss her, she told herself. She wanted to have some point of reference so that when she let Richard kiss her again she’d be able to gauge which of them was the best.

But Milos didn’t kiss her. He just stared at her with tormented eyes, and she felt herself shrinking beneath his dark disturbed gaze.

‘I know you don’t mean to be cruel,’ he said grimly. ‘But, Helen, this isn’t a game. Whatever experience you think you’ve had, forget it. You’re going to hate me if I take you at your word.’

‘I’m not.’ The protest burst from her, a need to reassure him now taking precedence over her own fears. ‘I like you, Milos. And I thought you liked me. What could possibly be wrong with that?’