After the Greek Affair. Chantelle Shaw
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and the shirt’s vee-shaped neckline revealed an expanse of bronzed skin and wiry black chest hair.
Dear heaven, he was something else! Belle swallowed. Never in her life had she felt so overwhelmingly aware of a man. Her heart was racing and her palms felt damp. She wanted to speak, make some banal remark about the weather and break the tension that gripped her, but her mouth felt dry and her brain seemed to have stopped functioning. She wished he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Perhaps if she could see his eyes he would seem less imposing, although somehow she doubted it.
Professionalism finally came to her rescue and she held out her hand to him, thankful that her voice sounded normal as she murmured, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Christakis. Larissa spoke of you when she visited my studio in London.’
Was it her imagination, or was there was an infinitesimal pause before he grasped her fingers in a brief handshake? His grip was firm, and once again she was conscious of his power and strength. He towered over her, his big body silhouetted against the bright sunlight, and unbidden she found herself wondering what it would be like to be crushed against his broad chest.
He released her hand, but to her surprise instead of stepping away from her he took hold of her arm. ‘I am delighted to meet you too, Ms Andersen.’ The greeting was perfunctory, and Belle detected a faint edge of impatience in his tone. ‘I need to speak to you. Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’
Without waiting for her to reply he picked up the larger of her suitcases, slid his hand beneath her elbow and steered her across the road to a bar, where tables were set beneath a striped awning. Belle struggled to keep up with his long stride in her three-inch heels. She felt like a recalcitrant child being dragged along by an impatient parent and she glared at him indignantly, but before she could say a word he pulled out a chair and she found herself guided firmly down onto it.
No doubt tourists found it a charming place to spend an idle hour watching the boats in the harbour, she thought with a frown when Loukas rounded the table and lowered himself into the seat opposite her. But she had come to Greece to work and she was eager make a start.
‘Mr Christakis—’
‘Would you like a drink?’ A waiter materialised at their table, and without waiting for her response Loukas spoke to the youth in rapid Greek. The only word Belle understood was retsina, which she knew was a Greek wine.
‘Make that a fruit juice for me, thank you,’ she said quickly.
The waiter glanced at Loukas—almost as if seeking permission to bring her the drink she had ordered, Belle thought irritably. She checked her watch and saw that it was eight hours since she had left home that morning. She felt hot, dishevelled, and in no mood to pander to a man with an oversized ego. ‘Mr Christakis, I don’t actually want a drink,’ she said crisply. ‘What I would like is to go straight to Aura. Your sister has commissioned me to design her wedding dress, and with a deadline of just over a month it is imperative that I start work immediately.’
‘Yes…’ Loukas lifted his hand to remove his sunglasses and subjected Belle to a cool appraisal. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
His eyes were the colour of flint, hard and uncompromising. Disappointment swooped inside Belle when she noted the distinct lack of welcome in his expression. What on earth had made her think that her intense awareness of him was reciprocated? she asked herself impatiently. Even more ridiculous was the notion that she wished it was. She frantically blanked out the thought and forced herself to meet his gaze, conscious of the uneven thud of her heart as she studied his heavy black brows, his strong nose and full-lipped mouth. The shadow of dark stubble on his jaw only added to his blatant sex appeal.
What would it feel like to have that sensual mouth move over hers, at first in a leisurely tasting, and then crushing her lips beneath his in hungry passion? She was shocked as much by the clarity of the image in her head as by her wayward thoughts, and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
Loukas’s eyes narrowed and his gaze became speculative. Had he guessed what she had been thinking? Mortified, she felt her blush deepen. Everything about him—from the proud angle of his head to his relaxed, almost insolent air as he trailed his eyes over her—exuded arrogance. No doubt he was used to the effect he had on women, Belle thought dismally, wishing the ground would swallow her up.
Life seemed to be doing its damnedest at the moment to be difficult, Loukas brooded irritably as he stared at the woman opposite him, watching the flush of soft colour stain her cheeks. It should have been a simple matter to inform Belle Andersen that there had been a change of plan and she was no longer required to design his sister’s wedding dress, hand her a hefty cheque to cover her expenses, and then see her onto the next ferry back to Athens. Instead he found himself transfixed by a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, fringed by long hazel lashes and shadowed by an air of vulnerability that he found intriguing.
He had not expected her to be so beautiful. Even more surprising was his reaction to her, Loukas acknowledged. He spent his life surrounded by beautiful women. He was a connoisseur who dated top models and glamorous socialites, and he preferred tall, willowy, sophisticated types. Belle was a tiny, doll-like creature, but from the moment he had seen her standing on the quay his attention had been riveted—and now he could not tear his eyes from her exquisite face.
Her features were perfect: those startling blue eyes, a neat little nose, high cheekbones, and a soft pink mouth that was undeniably tempting. Her hair was hidden from view beneath her wide-brimmed hat, but he would lay a bet that with her pale, almost Nordic skin tone she was a blonde. The cream hat with black trim was the perfect accessory for her expertly tailored skirt and jacket. Black patent stiletto heels and handbag completed her outfit.
He wondered if her elegant 1950s-inspired suit was one of her own creations. If so, then perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily about her suitability to design Larissa’s wedding dress? He entertained the thought briefly and then dismissed it. Belle Andersen was an unknown quantity. The company search he had made on the internet the previous night, after Larissa had sprung the news that she had chosen a new designer to make her wedding dress, had revealed that the bridalwear company Wedding Belle had barely made a profit in the previous financial year and had little capital. In other words Belle’s company was struggling financially—just as Demakis Designs, whom Larissa had first commissioned to make her dress, had been.
Loukas blamed himself for the fact that his sister did not have a wedding dress five weeks before her wedding. If only he had checked out Toula Demakis he would have discovered that the Greek designer had serious financial problems and that her business was on the verge of bankruptcy. But he had been abroad when Larissa had appointed Toula, and had been unaware that his trusting sister had paid the wretched woman the entire cost of her dress in advance.
That had been six months ago, and as the date of the wedding had drawn nearer Toula Demakis had made increasingly wild excuses to explain the delay in completing the dress—excuses which unfortunately Larissa had not relayed to him until the unscrupulous designer had disappeared with the money.
Perhaps he was to blame that his sister was so unworldly? Loukas thought heavily. But she meant the world to him. He had acted as a surrogate father to her for most of her life, and maybe he was a little over-protective of her. With the wedding looming, he had decided to take charge of the situation and had asked his friend, internationally acclaimed fashion designer Jacqueline Jameson, to make Larissa’s dress—unaware until last night that Larissa had already appointed a new designer.
Perhaps it was unfair to be suspicious of Ms Andersen just because Toula Demakis had turned out to be a dishonest crook, Loukas conceded. But unlike his sister he never trusted anyone—a lesson he had learned the hard way, and which had proved invaluable in both his business and private life. Maybe the English designer was totally reliable, but the wedding was fast approaching and he was not prepared to risk Larissa being let down again.
He leaned back in his seat and studied Belle’s delicate features. She was exceptionally attractive, he acknowledged. But he did not need to remind himself that his sister was his only consideration. His unexpected attraction to Belle Andersen was inconsequential,