The Greek Millionaire's Mistress. Catherine Spencer
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himself, could provide the answers! But this much she did know: one way or another, she’d find a way to corner the miserable old goat and force him to meet her demands. She hadn’t depleted her savings account and come all this way, just to go home empty-handed. There was too much at stake.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WATCHED her closely, veiling his scrutiny behind dark, reflective glasses as the sun conveniently inched above the horizon just enough to warrant his wearing them. “Don’t be shy, Gina,” he said. “Ask me anything. Anything at all.”
She took another sip of coffee and shuddered at its taste. “You mentioned he was a widower. Was he married just the one time?”
He couldn’t hold back his grin. His employer’s appetite for women was legendary. At the same time, it struck him as odd that she’d been sent on foreign assignment and not bothered to do her research beforehand. Five minutes on the Internet would reveal that Angelo had definitely been to the altar more than once. “Make that five times,” he told her. “His first wife, the mother of his son, died in her forties. He divorced the second and third within a year of marrying them, the fourth after six months and outlived the fifth who passed away eight years ago.”
“Is he likely to marry again, do you think?”
“It’s entirely possible. Angelo doesn’t like being alone, and he does very much like beautiful women.”
Gina’s laugh, brittle as ice cracking under pressure, struck a discordant note. “In other words, he uses them.”
“No,” he said flatly. “That is not what I said, and I caution you to exercise great accuracy when quoting me.”
Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. Clearly stung by his rebuke, she turned to study the fishermen tending their nets. “I apologize. Rest assured I shall treat my subject with all the respect he deserves,” she replied stiffly.
His jacket had slipped to reveal her long, graceful neck and sweetly rounded shoulders. She wore her hair in a chignon, but several strands had fallen free and curled loosely at her nape.
Finely carved against a background of pale morning sky, her profile could have served as the model for a cameo brooch of matchless delicacy and beauty. Pure Anglo-Saxon elegance—except for the lush, passionate mouth and huge, dark eyes. Those, he decided, curbing a visceral tug of arousal, she must have inherited from some long-ago ancestors of Mediterranean origin.
“I apologize also,” he told her, and meant it. “I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly.”
“Don’t be sorry. You were merely doing what you’re paid to do, and you already told me that Mr. Tyros has earned your undying loyalty. I should have remembered that before I made such a thoughtless remark. Are the fishermen’s nets usually that orange color?”
“That or a deeper terra cotta,” he said, recognizing her question for the deliberate shift of topic that it was, and finding it odd that she’d so easily abandon the subject she claimed had brought her to Greece. “But what has that to do with your assign—?”
Anticipating his question, she cut him off before he could complete it. “Local color,” she said shortly. “It adds credibility to the article. Do they stay out all night—the fishermen, I mean?”
“A good part of it, yes.”
She shook her head, apparently mystified. “Doesn’t anyone in this country sleep at night?”
“Not so much in the summer months, no. Instead we sleep several hours during the day. That way, we avoid the worst of the heat.”
“So it’s quite normal for a little café like this to be open at dawn?”
“Certainly. Any time now, the villagers will come down to buy fish. Once they’ve sold their catch and cleaned up their boats, the men will crowd in here to drink coffee and talk. But I say again, none of this has anything to do with Angelo Tyros. Why have you suddenly lost interest in him, Gina?”
“Oh, I haven’t lost interest in him,” she said, with unexpected fervor. “I’m quite, um, fascinated by everything about him.”
Something didn’t ring true in her reply. Her peculiar little pause wasn’t lost on him, nor the fact that she settled on “fascinated” as if it were the least offensive word she could come up with at short notice. “You almost sound as if you have reason to dislike Angelo,” he remarked, eyeing her intently, “but that hardly makes sense, does it, since you’ve never met him? Or am I wrong to assume that?”
Stooping, she picked up a puppy that had wandered out of the kafenion, and snuggled it on her lap. “Not wrong at all,” she said, without the slightest hesitation this time. “Perhaps what you hear in my voice is disappointment that I’ve not had the pleasure. But that does bring up an interesting point. If he’s so reclusive, why did he authorize such a very public birthday celebration?”
“‘Reclusive’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe him. As I mentioned before, he dislikes being alone and loves to be surrounded by friends. But like other very rich men, he’s made his share of enemies over the years. When he was younger, he took that in stride but, understandably at his age, he’s more cautious now and avoids strangers unless he’s assured they intend him no harm.”
“To the point that he’s afraid to speak to someone as innocuous as me?” Too ladylike to snort with derision at such an idea, she did the next closest thing and wrinkled her elegant little nose. “What does he think I might do, stab him with my pencil?”
“Anything’s possible,” he said, envying the puppy that was pawing at her breasts and trying to lick her neck. “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac to those who don’t have any, and that makes him a target of unscrupulous individuals wherever he goes.”
She put the dog down and picked up her cup again. “What kind of target?”
“Three attempts at extortion in the last month alone. Kidnapping. And, of course, he’s always being hounded by amateur entrepreneurs who come creeping out of the woodwork claiming to be long-lost relatives. If they were all to believed, he’d have sired at least five hundred sons and daughters in the last sixty-six years.”
She choked on her coffee.
“Sorry,” he said, when she managed to regain her breath. “I didn’t mean to make you laugh at the wrong time.”
Except, he belatedly realized, she wasn’t laughing at all. If anything, she was thoroughly rattled, enough that she knocked her bag off the table. It fell open and spilled most of its contents over the terrace. A fortuitous accident, he thought, bending to retrieve a runaway lipstick before the pup ran off with it. When she found her room key was missing, he’d know exactly how to explain it.
Apart from a facial tissue, which she used to mop up the tears pooling at the outer corners of her eyes, she rammed everything back in the bag, and favored him with a bloodshot glare. “Actually,” she wheezed, “I didn’t find it funny. In fact, nothing I’ve so far learned about Angelo Tyros strikes me as amusing. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t give you an answer.”
“Perhaps it’s simply that you’re on overload and exhausted. You might see him in quite a different light after you’ve caught up on your sleep.”
She smothered a yawn. “I am very tired, suddenly.”
“In that case, we’ll head back to the city. The car’s on the road, but it’s a bit of a climb to get up there. Do you want to put on your shoes before tackling it?”
She got up from her chair and made a face. “No, thanks! My feet are still in recovery and probably will be for the next week.”
Stuffing his socks in his trouser pocket, he shoved his feet into his own shoes and reclaimed his jacket. “I guess that leaves me with only one option then,” he said, and ignoring her squeaks of protest, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and made his