Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess. Trish Morey
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which was why she’d chosen the Titan Palace as an appropriate rendezvous. As one of the capital’s newest hotels, it was large, impersonal and catering for an upmarket business clientele. A place where deals were done.
Also, afternoon tea sounded very correct and English. Fairly aloof, too, so he couldn’t possibly infer that he was being asked out on some kind of date.
Although there was still no guarantee, of course, that he’d turn up, no matter how she phrased the invitation.
But Saturday arrived with no cancellation, so it seemed they were destined for another confrontation after all.
Harriet went through the predominantly black contents of her wardrobe several times before deciding on a pair of taupe linen trousers, with a matching thigh-length jacket worn over a stone coloured tee shirt. Neutral but neat.
Besides, one odious comparison with a bat was quite sufficient in anybody’s lifetime, she thought, her mouth tightening.
For a moment, she contemplated leaving her hair loose, then decided it was probably wiser to wear it in her usual style, severely drawn back from her face. And definitely no cosmetics.
She got to the appointment early, and took a seat in the hotel’s vast lounge, where she could keep a beady eye on the main entrance into the hotel foyer.
It was an impressive place, she thought, glancing round her, and busy too. Afternoon teas were clearly doing a roaring trade, and the soft sounds of a pianist playing gentle jazz were only just audible above the hum of conversation. But a crowd she could blend into was exactly what she wanted.
Although it was never her intention to become invisible, she thought with faint irritation, as she made another of several vain attempts to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter.
And as she settled back into her chair with a sigh, she suddenly realised that Roan was there, walking towards her. Was aware too of an odd stillness at his approach, with people leaning towards each other at neighbouring tables, and murmuring.
But maybe they were simply planning to have him thrown out for breaking some dress code, she thought with disfavour. The jeans he was wearing were elderly, but clean, fitting him like a second skin, and his white shirt had at least one too many buttons undone. The cuffs were casually turned back, revealing bronzed forearms, and his bare feet were thrust into espadrilles. He still needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Yet for all that …
Barring any such thought, she got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Hi.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘So you came after all.’
The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’
‘Yes, of course. Please sit down.’ She sounded as if she was conducting a job interview, but maybe that was the correct note to use, she thought as she resumed her own seat. ‘I’ve been trying to order tea, but—’
She broke off as he lifted a languid hand, and two waiters came running, as if all they’d been waiting for was his signal.
‘The lady would like tea. Coffee for me, please.’
Harriet, bewildered and pardonably annoyed, watched the deference with which his instructions were received.
‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.
‘It wasn’t difficult.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you wish to begin our discussion now, or shall we talk about the weather until we have been served?’
‘Now would be best, perhaps,’ she said stiffly. ‘You must be wondering why I asked for this meeting.’
His brows lifted sardonically. ‘I am breathless with curiosity.’
Harriet bit her lip—hard, then addressed herself to the prepared script. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour at our last meeting. I can only say that I’ve been under a great deal of pressure lately, and your sketch of me was …’
‘The last straw?’ he supplied helpfully as she hesitated.
‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. Although unforgivable was what I really had in mind. ‘I want you to know that I don’t usually lose my temper in such a way.’
‘Reassuring,’ he said. ‘But did you bring me all the way across London just to tell me that?’
‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed. ‘I really want to talk about your work. You see, I wasn’t pretending when I said it was good, and I—I’ve mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, who owns quite a well-known gallery—the Parsifal. You may have heard of it.’
‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.
Harriet ploughed on. ‘Anyway there’s a chance—if he also thinks you’re good—that he might stage an exhibition for you. Get you launched.’
At which point, the waiters returned. Plates of tiny finger sandwiches, scones, and cakes oozing cream were placed on the table, along with tea for Harriet, and a pot of coffee served black for her companion.
When they were finally alone again, she said, ‘You do realise what could be on offer here. Haven’t you—anything to say?’
‘I think I’m stunned,’ he returned slowly. ‘Also wary.’
‘It’s all perfectly genuine,’ she protested. ‘He’s a prominent figure in the art world. If he decides to feature you at his gallery, it would be a terrific break for your career.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘But what I need to know is why you, of all people, should have recommended me to this person. I find it puzzling.’
‘I feel you have talent which should be recognised. I’d like to play my part in that—recognition.’
She didn’t sound particularly convincing, she thought, vexed, but then the conversation was not going exactly as planned either. How can I ever thank you? was actually the response she’d been hoping for, if not depending on.
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Is it really that simple?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. Because I have to tell you, Miss Flint, that you are not my idea of a philanthropist.’
She sat very still. She said, ‘Then you’re not interested in this offer?’
‘Interested, yes, but not overwhelmed. You must understand I need to find out what you expect in return.’ His smile seemed to skin her to the bone. ‘In case the price is more than I’m prepared to pay.’
So that was that. For a moment she felt completely numb, then she reached for her bag. ‘In that case, there’s nothing more to be said. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’
‘Now you’re being a fool,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to consider your terms, I suggest you stay where you are. Do what the British generally do at a crisis, and drink some tea.’
For a moment, she was tempted to storm out, having first emptied the teapot over his head, then she remembered what was at stake here and reluctantly subsided, giving him a muted glare.
‘Has anyone told you that you’re insolent?’ she enquired coldly.
He shrugged. ‘And you, Miss Flint, are clearly both devious and determined,’ he retorted. ‘Let us accept that neither of us is perfect, and move on.’
She took a breath. ‘I have—a problem. I need a husband.’
He stared at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Then the answer is simple. Get married.’
‘But I don’t want to be married, not now, not ever.’ She spoke with quiet vehemence. ‘However, I don’t have a choice.’ She paused. ‘So, I need someone prepared to go through a marriage ceremony with me, then get out of my life.’
‘And I clearly need more coffee,’ he said. ‘Or even something stronger. Unless, of course, you can promise me that you have