His Love-Child: The Greek Tycoon's Love-Child / The Spaniard's Love-Child / The Millionaire's Love-Child. JACQUELINE BAIRD
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her worst nightmare! ‘I am rather tired, actually.’
In the close confines of the lift she was intensely aware of him. He was leaning against the wall, his posture relaxed, and the heady scent of his cologne or just the essence of the man teased her nostrils. The effect of his body brushing lightly against her side was having a chaotic effect on her pulse rate. Common sense told her not to antagonise him; the sooner she could escape from his powerful presence, the safer she would feel. ‘Perhaps we could have a drink another time.’
‘Surely, as an author who plots hair-raising murders of the goriest kind, you cannot be afraid of joining me for a nightcap in my suite?’ Theo prompted with the sardonic lift of one dark brow.
‘No, of course not,’ she denied, and hoped he did not realise she was lying. ‘But it is getting late and I really am very tired,’ she reiterated.
With a quick glance at the slim platinum watch on his wrist, Theo looked down into her guarded blue eyes. ‘Two minutes to twelve. What a coincidence—exactly the same time as when we first met. I don’t recall you complaining of tiredness then, Willow. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
All arrogant male sophistication, a sensual smile curved his firmly chiselled lips, inviting her to share the memory. But Willow was not fooled for a minute. She was no longer a silly teenager easily blinded by the sheer animal magnetism of the man, and she responded accordingly.
‘Don’t remind me.’ She tried for a sophisticated smile of her own. ‘I try never to dwell on the past but prefer to look to the future.’
He paused as the lift doors opened, splaying his hand on the small of her back and urging her out. ‘Then I suppose the possibility of recreating our first meeting, minute by minute, is a no-no,’ he said drolly.
‘It certainly is,’ she snapped, jerking her head back to look up into his darkly handsome face. She saw his teasing expression, and caught the wicked glint of amusement in his dark eyes. For a brief moment he looked years younger, and she was transported back to the night they had met. Remembering his easy humour as he danced with her, talked and joked with her, she could not prevent her lips twitching in a reciprocal smile. She had to give him full marks for nerve and, shaking her head, she shot back with, ‘In your dreams, Theo.’
He took out a key and opened the door to his suite, glancing down at her. ‘Good, I was beginning to think you had forgotten how to genuinely smile. And don’t worry, Willow, I am not going to jump on you. I’m perfectly respectable, almost staid, in my old age. Honest!’ He grinned and walked across the room to where an ice bucket stood on a small table. ‘Take a seat and let’s toast your success, as two old friends should.’
Sinking down onto an over-stuffed sofa, Willow tried to relax. She was a woman with a successful career and perfectly capable of looking after herself, nothing like the impressionable teenager she had once been. She was worrying about nothing; it was just as Theo said—a drink between old friends. Well, not exactly friends, she corrected. They were two people who had spent one explosive night together nine years ago. It still puzzled her why Theo had bothered following her to the airport that day; maybe he had thought it was the polite thing to do, even for someone of his low morals.
She studied him stealthily through the thick veil of her lashes. Light glinted on the silver wings of his thick black hair, highlighting his autocratic profile, a straight blade of a nose, with a square chin and firmly chiselled lips. The intervening years since their first meeting had been good to him. The laughter lines around his gorgeous eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth simply added character to an almost too beautiful face. He had shed his jacket and she noticed how his silk shirt fitted immaculately over his broad shoulders and muscular chest. Narrow-hipped and long-legged, he had the perfect male triangular torso.
He also had the kind of presence and dangerous good looks that made him stand out in any crowd. Add immense wealth and an air of virile masculinity and he was irresistible to the opposite sex… and he knew it. This was why he felt confident enough to joke about his age. Theo would be a handsome devil till the day he died, and the thought of him did nothing for Willow’s body temperature.
She watched his brows draw together in concentration as he expertly opened the champagne, and for a second the breath caught in her throat. She had seen the exact same expression on Stephen’s face, and suddenly Willow’s eyes turned to blue ice. She had been in danger of forgetting just how much of a threat Theo Kadros was to her life. Straightening up in the seat, she held out her hand to take the flute of champagne he offered with a cool smile on her face. ‘Thank you.’
The sofa depressed as he lowered his long length down beside her, and, turning slightly, fixed her with his gleaming black eyes. ‘To The Mole who turned into a swan.’ Willow’s blue eyes widened in surprise, and he grimaced slightly. ‘My English is not perfect. I think I probably got the phrase wrong. But you know what I mean. Congratulations, Willow.’
Their glasses clinked and she hastily took a sip of the sparkling liquid, forcing herself to keep smiling. There was nothing wrong with his English, and he was perfectly well aware of the fact. So why the pretence? The use of her schoolgirl nickname ‘Mole’ worried her too. She certainly had not told him about that and it made her wonder just how much Theo actually knew about her.
‘So tell me, what made you start writing?’
‘Well, as you are obviously aware, my nickname at school was Mole, which I might add I hate. I’m surprised that a man of your intelligence needs to ask any more,’ she said dryly.
‘Humour me,’ he prompted, discreetly refilling their glasses.
Why not? Talking about her work was a much safer subject than reminiscing about their brief past, Willow thought. She told him how she got her first book published, and deftly fielded his questions about where she lived now. She returned the query and asked where he lived. Theo confirmed what she already knew, that he spent most of his time jetting around the world, but that his actual home was in Greece.
‘You have a very busy life,’ Willow murmured, her blue eyes lifting to his. ‘But you seem to thrive on the pressure.’
Theo gave a nonchalant shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I work hard and play hard.’ Moving towards her, he casually slid his arm along the back of the sofa behind her, much too close for Willow’s comfort.
‘Well, your lifestyle would not suit me,’ she blurted. The friendly atmosphere between them seemed suddenly fraught with tension. ‘I like a quiet life spending time in one place. I don’t like travelling.’ She knew she was babbling but could not seem to stop. ‘I don’t like change.’ His broad shoulders were angled towards her, and she was starkly aware of the aggressively male body beneath the immaculately tailored silk shirt, and the length of his muscular thigh lightly pressing against her leg.
‘I can respect that,’ Theo murmured, ‘in some in-stances—for example, your hair.’ Willow could not prevent the involuntary jerk of her head as his hand stroked casually over the back of it. ‘I am glad you were never tempted to have it cut.’
‘Yes, well, my grandmother was very traditional. My mother’s job took her all over the world so Grandma virtually brought me up, and she would never dream of cutting my hair. When she was a child her parents were quite strict. They never worked on Sunday, certainly had no television, and the females of the family were not allowed to have their hair cut.’
She stopped and, picking up her glass from the table, she gulped down the rest of the champagne. A foolish thing to do, she realised, because Theo had been quietly topping her glass up. Her brain went into idiot mode when he was around, and nervous tension was making her tell him much more than he needed to know. She glanced up at his handsome face with wary, suspicious eyes. She had to stop rambling on, and get out of here quick before she really let something slip.
‘My thanks go to your grandmother. It would be sacrilege to cut such beautiful hair,’ Theo murmured and raised a dark sardonic eyebrow. ‘But surely, Willow, you aren’t trying to tell me that a woman of your age and beauty could be content with all the restrictions your grandmother adhered