Greek Affairs in his Bed: Sleeping with a Stranger\Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed\Bedded by the Greek Billionaire (21 page)

‘Thank you.’

She removed her hand and stared fixedly ahead, and Xante held his tongue as another rugby legend took to the microphone.

‘Miss Wallis,’ an official discreetly spoke when the last of the speeches was over. ‘We’ll be moving down for the parade now.’

‘Parade?’ Xante frowned as Karin stood, and so
too on instruction did he, and was led through the maze of corridors beneath the stands. Xante was somewhat bewildered but tried not to show it as they were lined up in order, with the elderly greats and their loved ones, or the families of those who were no longer living.

The tunnel was cold and windy. It was a blustery day in London, and gusts swept along the tunnel where they waited for Karin’s turn. To Xante she looked terribly alone.

‘Will Mr Rossi be walking out with you?’ an official checked, and he knew the answer before it came.

‘No. It will just be me.’

The line was moving; each England legend was being announced. Never had Xante felt more of a fool for keeping her waiting in the hotel lobby, and for not knowing just how big and how grand today was for her—and for even considering letting her come without the rose.

‘I didn’t realise how important today was.’ Xante cleared his throat.

‘Why else would I have called you?’ He could see the flash of tears in her eyes and chose not to take it personally, could see the trouble she was having holding it together as the line moved forward.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Xante said instead, which only confused her more.

Why the hell did he have to suddenly be nice? She knew she was being unfair to him, but it was the only way she could keep from folding. He had no idea what it had taken to ring him, to humiliate herself like that. She had sobbed to him on the phone, and she had never
cried to anyone. Around Xante she’d developed the impulse control of a two-year-old. She was freezing; the new designer coat she couldn’t afford offered no barrier to the wind, and she felt sick at the thought of going out there, facing the riot of applause and wondering what the crowd would feel if only they knew the truth.

One by one they called the great men’s names out, and they or their loved ones stepped out as the crowd roared their approval. Black and white images of their glory days filled the large TV screens around the stadium, and then it was Karin’s turn.

As her grandfather was announced the crowd went wild, chanting his name, and Xante saw her hesitate. For a split second he could have sworn she was about to turn heel and run.

‘You’ll be fine.’ He pulled her into his coat, held her for a fraction of a second and kissed the top of her head. Like a father kissing a child on her first day at school, he sent her on her way, and for Xante it was like watching Jonah being swallowed by the whale as she walked out into the ravenous crowd. He had never seen anyone look more little or alone, and even though she was smiling, even though she was waving to the crowd, he knew she was bleeding inside.

What he didn’t get, though, was why it should bother him so.

‘Karin.’ The pre-match entertainment was long since over and they were seated in the stands. The game was underway and still she had barely spoken to him. ‘I know today is hard for you.’

‘You know, do you?’ she sneered. She had to be cruel to him, because otherwise she’d curl into his arms and weep. She had to hold it together for just a little while longer, because there were so many reasons why she couldn’t fall apart. ‘You could
never
know what today means.’

It had been a thrilling match, worthy of the legends they were honoring. England had roared to victory! But it had been the most appalling date, if you could have called it that. Xante had been merely a commodity, her ‘plus one’ in every way possible, but he had been too much of a gentleman to just walk. When the last hands had been shaken and she’d declined his offer to come back to the hotel, Xante had dismissed his driver and taken her home himself. As his car crunched on the gravel of her lovely stately home, Karin began to rummage in her bag. For a fleeing moment Xante thought she was maybe going to tip him, but she was only locating her keys.

‘Thank you.’ She gave him a crisp smile.

She stared up at the house, at the chink of light through the front-lounge curtains. She knew what lay behind them and she didn’t want to go in, just wanted to tell Xante to drive on, to just escape.

Xante watched her wrestle with the decision as to whether or not to ask him in, and wondered why she was having so much trouble over just a cup of coffee. She was staring ahead now, still not getting out, her perfect profile rigid, and even when he turned the engine off still she remained seated.

‘Are you going to ask me in?’

‘No.’

‘So why aren’t you getting out?’

‘You haven’t opened the door for me!’ It was the most stupid answer—snobby, superior and everything she didn’t really feel—except the words just spilled out.

‘Allow me,’ Xante said. Gentlemen
did
open doors for ladies, but he liked to do things his way, and anyway there was a point to prove. Leaning over, Xante unclipped her belt for her and felt her recoil, pinning herself to the seat, but still she made no move to get out. He knew she wanted him, he could sense it, smell it, taste it, and he knew her head was fighting right now with every other throbbing cell in her body. So what was stopping her?

He leant further over her, flicking a switch so that the door clicked open. A gush of cool night air did nothing to reduce the heat between them. His hair was against her face, his firm body in contact with hers, as way too slowly he moved back. Karin held her breath and could almost feel the ground giving way beneath her; she felt this desire to fall, to just fling herself into the horizon, to just give in. He hadn’t returned to his seat; his face turned to hers, nothing but a breath separating them. ‘Good night, Karin,’ Xante said coolly, still holding her gaze. Karin was mired in conflict. The door was open and she could so easily leave; she wanted this horrible day to be over so that she could walk out of that door and never see him or his vulgar money again. But still she could not move from her seat.

‘Why do you fight it so, Karin?’

‘Fight what?’

‘This.’ His lips lightly pressed onto hers and, as much as Karin thrilled to his touch, still she refused to give into his kiss, refused to move as he continued to kiss her.

‘Why?’ Xante asked, pulling back just a touch, ‘Would you fight something so nice?’

He was kissing her again, only less gently now, his tongue parting her lips. It
was
nice, the soft, bruising contact infinitely nicer than anything she had experienced. She could taste whisky and passion—but more than that she tasted the escape his lips promised, lips that soothed and inflamed, that hardened on stirring. And as she kissed him back it was like tripping a switch; this flood of confined energy as his mouth devoured hers was pressing her into the seat; his weight, his strength, was warmly received.

Xante had many kisses in his repertoire; like a skilled magician, they appeared with apparent ease yet were planned and executed to perfection. But not this one.

This was a kiss that even Xante was unfamiliar with. There was no trickery now, no master plan, no voice in his head, just the sweet, sweet sensation of her flesh beneath his.

And then, as her lips parted and his tongue slid inside and met hers, the contact was so shocking that he could feel her tremble. His arms that had been loosely by his sides pulled her into his magical circle, and though he wanted to deepen the kiss he held back, aware at some level that if he moved too fast, too soon, she would disappear for ever.

Only now Karin wanted to stay and wanted to kiss him for ever, because for the first time she forgot.

She was completely and utterly lost in his kiss, and it felt wonderful.

His hands were working down her arms now, as still he kissed her, his fingers stroking her aching nipples through her coat. She wanted them there, only she didn’t want them to slip inside, didn’t want him to feel the gnarl of the scar beneath. Like the house behind her, the exterior belied what lay within.

He was pressing hard against her and her hands were pulling him closer still, urgent for contact now, not kisses. His mouth was working down her neck as one hand cupped one aching breast, making her stomach curl inside. She felt his other hand wrestle with the buttons of her blouse, and for a second the need for his touch was so urgent, she forgot … forgot … It was heaven to feel his hand slip into her camisole, heaven to rest the weight of her tender breast in his warm palm, heaven till she remembered. Her hand clamped around his, stunned at her own body’s reaction, and she refused Xante any more access to her body. Beyond embarrassed, Karin pulled her face away; she could scarcely believe what had taken place.

‘Still fighting it?’ There was a glint of triumph in his eyes, a look that told her he knew.

‘There’s nothing to fight.’ She gave him a patronising smile, trying to kid them both it had been just a kiss—except it had been so much more. ‘I’d better go in. Thank you for your help today.’

‘So, I’m dismissed now, I take it?’

‘Xante.’ She let out an irritated sigh in an attempt to assert control. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Thank you
for escorting me to the match and for letting me use the rose today.’

‘Next time—’ Xante started, but Karin interrupted.

‘There won’t
be
a next time.’ Karin spelt it out because she had to, because for ten months more she had promised never to reveal her family’s secret. But with Xante sitting so close never had she been closer to doing just that. It was imperative she end this with him right now.

‘Next time you’d better make sure you’ve got a replica rose.’ Xante finished his sentence without interruption this time. ‘A
passable
fake, one that stands up a little better than its owner to close scrutiny.’

‘As I said, thank you for escorting me.’ Karin climbed out of the car, his words stinging, desperate to get away from this man who could see through her. But as she finally made to go he caught her wrist.

‘You know, when I first met you I
thought
you were a stuck-up ice queen. But now—’ he let go of her wrist then ‘—I
know
that you are.’

S
HE
couldn’t go in.

As his car screeched down the drive she leant her head on the heavy front door and couldn’t actually force herself to go in to face the chaos that was her life.

She wanted Xante.

All day she had wanted him—only how could she have him?

How could she expose him to the filth that was her home; how could she reveal that the grand surrounds were a sham? How could she expose herself to him?

She wanted to speak with her grandfather too.

Wanted someone to tell her what to do, to hold her up high from the squalor so that she could see the right path to take.

It was easier to get into her car than face it, and as if on autopilot her drive led her back to the place she’d just been. The streets were dark now and Karin put on her lights, her car leading her on the familiar route her grandfather had taken on so many wonderful times in the past, turning onto Twickenham Road and without pause indicating right for Mogden Lane. She had no idea what she would do when she got there, but there
was a comfort to be had as she headed along Rugby Road and into Buttercup Lane.

It was almost as if her grandfather was walking beside her as she walked through the near-deserted car park and spoke to one of the night cleaners who thankfully recognised her and let her in. There she sat quietly in the freezing, empty stands, trying to fathom what she should do.

The stands were lit; an army of cleaners moved between the seats, picking up the rubbish, returning the ground to its pristine condition.

Never had she wanted to walk away from her life more, to just give in, because it was hopeless.

‘As soon as you believe it’s hopeless, it is,’ her Grandfather had once told her. She had been a little girl, just four or five years old, but her grandfather had told her the story so many times she truly didn’t know if she remembered the day or just her grandfather’s recollection of it.

England had been behind. They had lost fifteen out of twenty-three games and had gone into the second half against Ireland 0-3 down. Then the crowd had started singing, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, urging their team on and the dam had burst. England had become unstoppable with the roar of the crowd behind them, storming home to win 35-3.

Only there was no one cheering her on any more, just the weight of it all dragging her down.

Tell Xante
.

She could hear her grandfather’s voice, and even managed a wry smile at his approval of such an exotic name.

She couldn’t
. No matter how many times she rehearsed
the conversation, she could just imagine those black eyes, narrowing, judging …

‘I have a scar … from a car accident.’

And then what?

‘I was arrested for drink-driving, but the charges were dropped.’

‘Oh, and why was that, Karin?’

There was no bit she could tell without revealing the other—like cancerous seeds, it just spread to every part of her past, to others’ pasts, and at what point did you tell? At what point did you trust?

No point.

She clawed at her head.

To tell him some meant she had to tell him all, and she’d tried that once already.

She cringed at the memories, doubled up in her seat and buried her head in her hands. She almost gagged to recall the attempts at love-making with David. David, who had demanded the truth and had reacted furiously when she’d told him her tale. David, who had tried not to wince when she’d shown him her scars and had promised her it would change nothing between them. He had sworn nothing would change how he felt about her, and had sounded so credible—but his body had humiliatingly failed.

Over and over it had failed to respond.

‘It’s not you,’ he’d assured her. Oh, but Karin had known that it was.

‘We’re locking up, love.’

Karin offered her thanks and headed for her car, turned on the engine and let it sit idling for a moment,
trying to think of the bright side—because there was always a bright side, apparently.

At least David hadn’t gone to the press. Nothing like a dash of impotence to ensure a man never sold his tale!

She managed a wry smile as she passed the pubs her grandfather had taken her to for many a Sunday lunch, knowing he was watching over her.

Xante wasn’t having a good night either.

Okay, he wasn’t freezing in the empty stands at Twickenham. But his packed hotel-bar, with the England team enquiring about Karin’s whereabouts and asking him to join them offered no comfort. He was restless, angry and frustrated and he headed up to his lavish suite, pacing the floor and wondering what distraction would best suit his volatile mood.

Oh, there were numerous women he could ring. Mandy had left four messages on his voicemail, and there were plenty of others on tap. Even Athena had called, the sound of his ex-fiancé’s voice had been a stark reminder, if ever Xante had needed it, that it was right to be suspicious of Karin.

‘I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, Xante,’ Athena had purred into the phone. ‘To catching up. To remembering the good times we shared.’

‘What good times, Athena?’ Xante had mocked. ‘You were lying, remember?’

Even five years on it galled him.

He had dated sweet Athena one winter when they’d both been teenagers. He had expertly disposed of the virginity she had been desperate to lose, and they had
been a close item. But when spring had sprung Athena had become bored with Xante’s grand entrepreneurial plans that took up most of his attention, and had been scathing when he had told her of his dreams. Athena had been innocent enough to think that every future lover would be as skilled as the man who had taken her first, and had headed off on her travels to find a man who had already made it big.

Years later, on one of Xante’s trips home, she had
happened
to return too. Of course, Xante had chosen not to tell her of his imminent arrival to the ranks of the seriously wealthy; even his own family hadn’t really known just how successful this twenty-five-year-old was about to become. In fact, when they had made love that night on her parents’ living-room floor—when she had cried in his arms as to how much she had missed him, how in all the years that had gone by no one had ever come close to him—it had been easy to believe that he was finally in love.

How close she had come to fooling him!

Five years on, still Athena persisted.

The shame, the anger, the humiliation of a wedding that had been called off a week prior to its due date, seemed to dim, and in the past months she had been ringing him more and more. It was usually late at night; sometimes she’d be pleading for another chance, sometimes she’d be bitter and scorning and, at times like tonight, dancing on the edge of seductive.

So restless was Xante that he had even momentarily considered that cold solution, but sweet relief in his native tongue would create its own set of problems.

‘Athena, this has to stop …’ He’d heard the black silence on the other end of the line. ‘It has been a long day and I have to be up early tomorrow.’

‘A busy day out with your English rose?’ Venom had replaced her seductive tones then. ‘I read about you both in the newspaper recently and I watched the two of you together at the game on the television. She does not look much of a match for you, Xante.’

‘Still keeping track of me, Athena?’ Xante had given a mirthless laugh. ‘You would think you would have learnt your lesson by now.’

‘Don’t you think I have paid for my mistake? Please, Xante, tomorrow you will be home, tomorrow—’

He’d terminated the call.

Tomorrow they would all be watching and waiting for Xante to realise the error of his ways, return to the island and the people he belonged to and claim Athena as his—to restore her honour.

Well, it was no longer Xante’s place to do that. He had nothing to feel guilty about where Athena was concerned, and nor where Karin was concerned! He
had
conducted himself with honour; he had bought the rose fairly and had leant it to her for the day, only to be treated like a lackey.

So why the guilt?

Xante often gave away his acquisitions, even returning them sometimes to their rightful owners who had fallen on hard times—so what was different here?

Her
.

She had angered him, infuriated him, inflamed him,
and then had simply walked away. Karin Wallis was the one woman who had left him feeling used.

Well, no more.

Xante wasn’t a rescuer—her troubles, he did not need—yet he did want her. Already doors that previously had been closed to him were opening. He had been invited for lunch this week at an exclusive club, and an offer to join had been extended. His supposed liaison with Karin Wallis had exalted his already high status, and Xante wanted more of the same.

Picking up his phone despite the hour, he informed his PA as to his change of plans, then summoned his driver.

His phone bleeped as the car slid off into the night. ‘I need the name of your passenger for clearance.’

‘Karin Wallis,’ Xante said, snapping off his phone and replacing it in his jacket, feeling the heavy box on the inside pocket of his coat.

There was no doubt in his mind that she’d come. After all, he had something she desperately wanted …

And Karin had something he wanted too.

Exhausted by the time she arrived home, this time Karin made herself go inside.

The house was heaving with the usual occupants, the smell of debauchery in the air, and Karin headed straight for the library, too tired to build a fire but too frozen not to.

Oh, how she wanted Xante.

Bittersweet tears slid down her cheeks, prickles of shame flaring every now and then as to what he must surely think of her. She had treated him appallingly,
had been every bit the spoilt ice-queen he had accused her of being—but better that than let him get close.

Wandering around, Karin saw the crystal decanter on the occasional table and, lifting the lid, smelt the whisky and remembered the delicious taste of Xante. For a few moments her body had come alive; for the first time since she had been seventeen she had felt beautiful again, and she
had
been able to forget.

The fire was still too weak for any warmth, the flames just licking the logs, and she stood there shivering, only the memory of his kiss warming her.

And she wanted to taste him again.

Pouring herself a glass of whisky, Karin took a sip, screwing her face as if she were taking medicine. But it was worth it just to remember the taste of him and the reckless, wondrous feel of his mouth on hers. Just as the whisky burnt and warmed her, so too did the memory of his heat pressing into her.

‘Karin!’ Her brother pounding on the door annoyed her; he had the whole house to mess up, why the hell couldn’t they leave her alone?

‘What?’ Angry, she unlocked the door and opened it.

‘Joining the party?’ Matthew raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar sight of his sister with a drink in her hand. ‘You have a visitor.’

His head motioned down the hall, and as her gaze followed Karin felt her heart stop. There, standing amidst the debauchery, looking fresh and clean and scathing, was Xante. The contempt in his eyes was palpable as he took in the scene, his black eyes finally coming to rest on her.

‘Xante!’ Her voice was a croak. ‘I wasn’t expecting—’

‘Clearly.’

She disgusted him.

She stood surrounded by filth, her smart suit crumpled and her face streaked with old make-up, with a glass of whisky in hand, and any trace of guilt he might have felt towards her soon vanished. Feelings of any kind were entirely wasted on her.

She didn’t deserve his emotions!

She led him to the library. At least you could see the carpet in here and the air didn’t stink of smoke.

He saw her eyes blink rapidly when she saw the box he held in his hand. Blinking to clear the pound signs, Xante thought darkly. She couldn’t give a damn about her grandfather. It was all just a game to her, a means to an end, an endless conveyer belt of cash that was slowly winding down.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ It was the most stupid thing to say, and even as the nervous words came out Karin knew what his response would be.

‘Not for me, thank you—but you carry on, though.’ Her face was crumpling, and it just enraged him further. He was sick of her tears, sick of her lies and sick of her games.

‘I just wanted to taste you again.’

‘Komotakia.’
He grabbed her wrist, disappointment lashing him as his tongue lashed her. ‘You lying, filthy lush!’

‘It’s just a party …’ Tears stung her eyes as, despite the irrefutable evidence, she continued to try to hold on to the great Wallis name. Still trying, as she had as a child, to pretend this was normal.

He stared down at her pretty face and wanted to slap it, wanted to kiss it. He could smell the whisky on her breath and was deranged with disappointment at her lies, abhorring her for not being all that she could be, and loathing himself that he could actually still want her.

Yes
; he wanted her.

Wanted her away from this squalor, to see the cool beauty that had breezed into his life return. Oh, he knew he should walk away, just give her the rose and wash his hands of her. Except he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

He would instead have that sleek beauty on his arm who opened and closed doors, and he would be the toast of London—even if he had to groom her himself—Xante decided.

And he would have her—all of her.

She wanted the rose so badly? Well she could damn well earn it. It was high time to end Athena’s and the island’s obsession that one day he might return to her. Now, finally, he could put paid to that by attending the family christening with his sweet English rose. A black smile twisted his mouth at the reward that would be his.

‘Come,’ he ordered. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘With you?’

‘You are coming with me to Greece, this minute.’

‘Oh, you want the lush to meet your family now?’

‘You
will
be a lady, to them.’ Xante’s expression was as hard and cold as granite. ‘If I have to put you in the bath and wash you myself, or throw coffee down your throat to sober you up. You will be the lady you pretend to be by day, and the woman we both know that you are at night.’