The Greek's Virgin Bride. Julia James
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conclusions he had jumped to when, just as Yiorgos had planned, he had first set eyes on the girl that afternoon, sublimely unaware that the plain-faced fiancée he had been led to expect was no such thing at all.
He glanced across at the girl and beckoned imperiously.
‘Come here,’ he commanded in English.
Andrea walked forward. Her heart was pounding again. She could feel it thrilling in every vein. The man with the steel-grey eyes was looking at her full on, and she was all but knocked senseless by the way he was looking at her—either that or jolted by a million volts of electricity scorching through her.
If she’d thought he’d looked a knock-out that afternoon, in his hand-made business suit, the way he looked now, in his tuxedo, simply took her breath away! She swallowed. This was ridiculous! No man should have such an effect on her! She’d seen good-looking blokes before, been eyed up by them—even kissed some in her time—but never, never had any man made her feel like this.
Breathless, terrified—enthralled. Excited!
Beside the man, her grandfather ceased to exist. She took in a vague impression of a stockily built figure, shoulders bowing with age, and that craggy, heavy-featured face she had registered as he’d sat at his desk that afternoon.
But right now she had no eyes for him.
She was simply drinking in the man at his side—she wanted to stare and stare and stare.
‘My granddaughter,’ said Yiorgos.
Nikos hardly heard him. The entire focus of his attention was on the woman in front of him. Theos, but she was fantastic! Was she really the Coustakis girl? It couldn’t be possible. Then, with a fraction of his brain that worked, he realised that the old man had set him up deliberately—leading him on to think that he was going to be shackled to a plain wife, when all along…
He smiled. Oh, what the hell—so the old man had set him up! He didn’t care! Hell, he could even share the joke! A sense of relief had flooded through him, he realised, and something more—exultation.
Yes! That woman, that fantastic flame-haired temptress, was not out of bounds after all. In fact—his smile deepened—she was very, very within bounds…
Andrea saw the smile, brilliant, wolfish, and felt her stomach lurch. Oh, good grief, but he was something all right! She felt the breath squeeze from her body.
Nikos reached and took the girl’s hand. He lifted it to his mouth. Andrea watched the dark head bend as if in slow motion. She still couldn’t breathe, her lungs frozen as she felt the long, strong fingers take hers.
Then even more sensation laced through her. He was brushing her fingers with his lips. Lightly, oh, so lightly! But oh, oh, so devastatingly. A million nerve endings fired within her, like the whoosh of a rocket cascading stars down upon her head.
As he raised his head he smiled down at her.
‘Nikos Vassilis,’ he said, and looked right into her eyes.
His voice was low—the tone intimate.
She stared up at him, lips parted. She could say, or do, nothing.
‘Andrea—’
The word breathed from her. She could hardly speak, she found.
‘Andrea…’ His voice echoed her name, deeper than her husky contralto. ‘It is good to meet you.’
He let his eyes linger on her one last, endless moment, then, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he turned to his host.
‘You’re an old devil, Yiorgos,’ he said with grating acknowledgement. ‘But in this instance the joke was worth it.’
Andrea’s eyes flew between them—the language was back to Greek. What was going on? Then, suddenly, Nikos turned back to her.
‘Come, let me take you through to dinner.’ His voice was warm, and the caress in it made her nerve-endings fire all over again. That and the over-powering closeness of him, her hand caught in his arm. She felt she ought to pull away from him—but for the life of her she could not.
As if in a dream she let herself be escorted from the room, across the vast entrance hall, and into a grandiose dining room.
With the utmost attentiveness this most devastating man, Nikos Vassilis—Who is he? she found herself wondering urgently—drew back her chair, waving away the manservant who came forward to perform the task, and settled her in her seat.
She wanted to glance up and smile her thanks politely, but she could not. Shyness suddenly overwhelmed her. This was like something out of a fairytale—she dressed like a princess, and he, oh, he like a dark prince!
Instead she mumbled a thank-you into her place-setting.
As he took his place opposite her—only one end of the long mahogany table was occupied, with Yiorgos taking the head and his granddaughter and her fiancé on either hand—Nikos felt a deep sense of well-being filling him.
He couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful bride! Old Man Coustakis was doing him proud. Oh, he would never have been unkind, even to a plain wife, but having that flame-haired beauty at his side, in his bed, was going to make married life a whole, whole lot sweeter for him!
He glanced across at her. She was still staring at her place-setting as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, but she was aware of him all right. Every male instinct told him that. But if she were behaving as a well-brought-up young girl should—showing a proper shyness in the face of the man she was to marry—well, who was he to complain?
A memory of the way she had boldly walked up to him on the terrace, her voice husky as she sought to introduce herself, intruded, conflicting with the image of the meekly downturned head opposite him. A frown flickered in his eyes. Then it cleared. She must have seen the look he had given her then and been angered by it—and rightfully so! No gently reared female would care to be taken for such a one as he had first thought her. Well, now that misunderstanding was out of the way it would not trouble them again.
Another frown flickered in his eyes. The girl was English, that was obvious—both by her colouring and her use of the language, quite unaccented.
As the manservant drew forward to start serving dinner Nikos glanced at his host.
‘You did not tell me that your granddaughter was half-English, Yiorgos,’ he opened. He spoke in Greek, and as he did he noticed Andrea’s head lift, her eyes focus intently on him, concentrating.
Yiorgos leant back in his chair.
‘A little surprise for you,’ he answered. His eyes gleamed.
Nikos let his mouth twist. ‘Another one,’ he acknowledged. Then he turned his attention to Andrea.
‘You live in England? With your English mother?’ he asked politely, in Greek. That must be the reason she had addressed him in English this afternoon.
Andrea looked at him. She made as if to open her mouth, but her grandfather forestalled her.
‘She does not speak Greek,’ he said bluntly. He spoke in English.
Nikos’s eyes snapped together. ‘How is this?’ he demanded, sticking with English.
‘Let us say her mother had her own ideas about her upbringing,’ said Yiorgos.
Andrea stared at her grandfather—just stared. Then, as if knowing exactly why she was staring, he caught her eye. Dark, intent. Warning.
His words echoed in her mind from the afternoon. You will be on the first plane back to London unless you do exactly, exactly, what I want you to do!
She felt her blood chill. Was going along with some fairy story he wanted to tell this guest of his about her upbringing part of that imprecation? What do I do? she thought wildly. Open my mouth and set the record straight right away?
And