The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN
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before she had time to think about it. The result of a little too much champagne, or clever manipulation?
Music filtered softly through the car’s speaker system, and she leaned back against the head-rest and closed her eyes as she reflected on the evening…the clothes, the models, the judging. Winning.
And Xandro’s kiss.
Wow…was the word that came readily to mind.
What would he be like as a lover?
Not that she intended to find out.
Hell, she dared not go there. Instinct warned she’d never survive with her emotions intact.
Besides, how could she ever forget Grant Baxter’s dire threat after she’d opted out of their wedding?
I’ll kill you if you date another man.
For two years she hadn’t wanted to get close to any male of the species.
She assured herself nothing had changed.
Except it had. And she didn’t know what to do about it.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.’
Ilana turned her head and looked at Xandro’s strong features beneath the lit bricked apron adjoining the entrance to her apartment building.
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
His teeth shone white as he smiled. ‘Pleasant thoughts?’
‘Thanks,’ she offered belatedly as she released the seat belt and reached for the door-clasp.
‘You’re welcome.’
She couldn’t move as he captured her face and leant in close for a brief evocative kiss.
Then he let her go, and she scrambled from the seat with undue haste. Otherwise she’d have been tempted to stay, wind her arms around his neck, and sink in against him as she returned the salutation.
And that would never do.
He waited until she passed security and entered the lift, then he fired the engine and eased the Bentley onto the street.
It had been a great night, Ilana determined as she entered her apartment. Terrific celebration. Winning took it off the Richter scale.
Tomorrow—today, she corrected as a last waking thought, was Sunday, and there was no need to set the alarm for some unearthly hour before dawn.
A caffeine hit followed by a hot shower helped a little, so too did something to eat, followed by a couple of painkillers and more hot strong coffee.
The apartment had been just a place to sleep for more than a week in the rundown to awards night, and Ilana gathered clothes, ran the washing machine and took care of a few essential household chores before changing into designer jeans and a loose top and heading for the workroom.
The sun’s rays fingered warmth as she trod the pavement, and she slid sunglasses into place from atop her head to shade the midday glare.
Cafés were filled with the Sunday-brunch crowd, and cars tracked the oceanfront road in search of parking.
A light breeze drifted in from the sea, feathering the fringes of numerous beach umbrellas dotted on the sandy foreshore.
For many the weekend invited relaxation, stretching out on the sand for the day to gain a tan, cooling off in the water, wandering across the road for sustenance in any one of several cafés.
Tantalising aromas teased the air, tempting her with the promise of a late lunch when she was done restoring order to the workroom.
Ilana unlocked the door, set down her bag, cellphone, and went to work clearing the detritus. There was a need to update her appointment book, check dates, asterisk possible openings and pencil in contact numbers.
Next came a close examination of garments that had graced the catwalk the previous evening. Some would require spot cleaning, others put aside for the dry-cleaner, and she needed to scrutinise hems for any minuscule damage.
In general, models were careful, but occasionally in the rush of a quick-change it was possible for a lacquered nail to catch in a seam, a hemline.
It took a while, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief that only two garments required minimum repairs, and she’d assembled those needing the dry-cleaner.
Ilana crossed to the refrigerator and filched bottled water, unscrewed the top and took several long swallows before capping it.
Almost done.
For a moment she indulged in a mental review of the previous evening, visualising each garment in each category…only to pause with a frown.
The red evening gown. It wasn’t among the collection of garments returned to the workroom.
A tight ball of tension curled inside her stomach.
She had to be wrong…but she knew with sickening certainty she wasn’t.
Danika. It had to be.
What she wanted to do was call the model and breathe fire and brimstone!
Damn. She needed the complication like a hole in the head!
Instead, she had little recourse but to contact Danika’s agency, explain, request return of the gown and offer another in its place.
At that moment her cellphone pealed, and she picked up, offered her usual greeting…and received silence.
She checked the battery level, saw it was fine, then heard the call disconnect.
Within minutes it rang again, with the same result, and when she activated the call-back feature it registered a private number, denying access.
Weird. Unless the caller was close to an out-of-range area and the cellphone was cracking up.
Ilana had the model agency she used on speed-dial, and an answering machine picked up.
It was Sunday…what did she expect? A further call to the manager’s cellphone went straight to message-bank.
A muttered oath spilled from her lips. Defeated and angry, she had little option but to lock up, go have lunch, then return to her apartment.
She chose a café, ordered, and picked up the leading city newspaper from a selection the café offered its clientele.
The waiter delivered a chai latte, and she barely had time to take more than a sip when her cellphone pealed.
‘Should I warn him you’re a frigid little bitch?’
The call disconnected before she had a chance to respond, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to control the surge of shocked anger rising from deep within.
Grant?
Emerging out of the woodwork after nearly two years?
An icy shiver shook her slender frame. Why? And why now?
Unless…
No, it wasn’t possible anything she’d done or said had stirred the dark beast that lurked beneath her ex-fiancé’s surface charm.
Her mind went into overdrive as she replayed his words.
Then it clicked.
The photographers at the Fashion Design Awards. Surely one of them hadn’t captured the moment Xandro touched her mouth with his own?
Ilana flipped pages until she reached the social section, and she quickly scanned the featured prints, honed in on one of them and felt the breath catch in her throat.
If the photo didn’t spell it out, the caption certainly did, followed by printed text speculating Xandro Caramanis and Ilana Girard were an item, given they’d been seen together several times over the past few weeks.
Hell.