One Night with a Gorgeous Greek: Doukakis's Apprentice / Not Just the Greek's Wife / After the Greek Affair. Sarah Morgan
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Supervision? She hadn’t been supervised since she was a toddler. Right from the moment she could walk, her father had expected her to sort her own problems out.
Find a way, Pol.
‘Unless you’re planning on lying down on the bed next to me, I don’t see how you can supervise me.’ As his eyes met hers, she wished she hadn’t used those words. It was uncomfortably easy to think about sex around this man and she wasn’t used to thinking about sex. ‘I’m going to be fine. I just need painkillers and sleep, that’s all. I don’t need company for that.’
But the comfort she felt at knowing he was going to be close by shook her. Why did it matter? She’d never been a dependent sort of person. Just because the man had broad shoulders, it didn’t mean she had to lean on him.
Seriously unnerved, Polly was relieved when the elevator doors finally slid open and she could put some space between them.
Like everyone, she’d heard whispers and speculation about the duplex apartment that graced the top of the building. Everyone had. When the Doukakis Tower had been under construction there had been hushed talk of the penthouse with its three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of London, roof garden and glass enclosed heated swimming pool. None of the rumours had prepared her for reality.
‘Oh—’ Stunned into silence, she stared at the sparkling cityscape that stretched in every direction. The architect had created a space to maximise the view and yet had managed to merge contemporary with homely by dividing that space into distinct living areas.
Polly had never seen so much glass in one place. ‘Well—no one is ever going to suffer from claustrophobia here,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s amazing. Seriously cool.’
‘I like the feeling of space. My villa in Greece is modern. I like light.’
It was the first personal thing he’d said to her and Polly stood awkwardly, realising just how useless she was at making small talk with men. ‘You have a villa in Greece? Lucky you.’ God, what a lame response. No wonder he thought she was a complete idiot. He was obviously regretting playing nursemaid instead of continuing his date with someone who was no doubt a master at sophisticated conversation.
Chewing her lip, she decided to pretend he was a client. She never felt tongue-tied or awkward talking to clients, did she?
Damon gestured to the end of the room where the space narrowed. ‘You can use the guest suite at the end of this floor. I’ll show you where.’
Polly took one look at the thick white rugs covering the polished wooden floor and automatically tugged off her boots. Padding after him, she felt like a stray dog that had wandered into someone’s home. ‘It really is incredible.’ Gazing longingly at the deep, luxurious sofas, she followed him through the apartment. Despite the glass and the space it was surprisingly cosy and she felt a stab of envy. This man didn’t lie awake at night worrying about how to keep his company afloat and protect people’s jobs. He was so phenomenally successful his only worry about money would be how to count it all.
She caught a glimpse of a futuristic-looking kitchen and he intercepted her look.
‘Are you hungry? I can ask my chef to make you something.’
‘Not unless he does pasta with painkiller sauce. Honestly, I couldn’t eat. But thanks for the thought.’ For the first time Polly noticed the spiral staircase rising from the centre of the room. Cleverly lit by tiny spotlights, it looked like something from a fairy tale. She’d never considered herself remotely romantic, but suddenly she was wondering if he’d ever carried a woman up that transparent staircase the way he’d carried her to the car …
‘Polly?’ His rough tone cut through her daydream. Scarlet-faced, she followed him through to a large guest suite and caught her breath. Flames flickered in a sleek, contemporary fireplace and the bed was positioned to take advantage of the spectacular view. It was as if someone had twisted a million fairy lights around every building in London.
Any guest staying here would never want to leave, she thought wistfully.
‘The bathroom is through that door. You have blood in your hair—’ He lifted a hand and then lowered it again as if he was unsure whether to touch her or not.
The relentless pull of sexual awareness was like an invisible rope dragging them together.
With a faint frown he took a step backwards and they both started to talk at the same time.
‘I don’t expect—’
‘Do you want help?’
No one had ever asked her if she wanted help before and it threw her—but nowhere near as much as the sudden urge to say yes. It was only the thought of stripping off in front of him that kept her from accepting his offer. ‘I’ll be fine now. I appreciate you bothering.’ Part of her wished he hadn’t. By helping her he’d tipped the balance of emotion. To feel angry with him was ungrateful, but to feel grateful was uncomfortable. It felt strange, she realised, to know that someone was looking out for her, even if only because of a sense of duty. It turned out that his advice not to leave the building had been sound and when he’d heard she’d got herself in trouble he’d come straight to help her.
Maybe he was ruthless, but he was also decent.
And horribly, terrifyingly attractive.
Damon reached forward and pressed a button by the bed. The cuff of his shirt shifted, the movement revealing a strong wrist dusted with dark hairs. A television screen appeared in the wall but Polly didn’t notice. She was transfixed by the contrast between white silk and bronzed male skin.
She swallowed hard. This was worse than she’d thought.
She was in a seriously bad way if she found a man’s wrist sexy.
‘I’m expecting news of your accident to hit the headlines within the hour. If your father is watching, then he’s going to get in touch. If he tries to contact you I want you to dial two on the phone by the bed. It goes through to the master suite.’
Her mind was so busy creating an image of what he would look like naked that it took Polly a moment to process what he was saying. News of her accident? ‘There weren’t any TV cameras there. They were just photographers and a couple of reporters. It’s not going to be on the news.’
‘Yes, it is.’
His words sank slowly through her bruised skull. ‘But—you told them?’ Images of him naked vanished in an instant. It was as if someone had pulled the power cord on her brain. Sickness rose inside her and her cheeks flamed as she acknowledged her own gullibility. ‘Oh, my God—you used my accident as a publicity stunt.’
‘I was not responsible for your accident. You made the decision to leave the building and take on a pack of gossip-hungry journalists.’ His cool response was the final straw.
Reeling from the discovery that his help had been driven by a desire to flush her father out of hiding, Polly grabbed the door to the bathroom to steady herself. ‘And to think that just for a moment there I thought you were a nice guy who didn’t want me found dead on my own in the house.’ Her light tone painted a thin veneer over the hurt. ‘You should have talked to me before you went to all that trouble. I could have told you that it won’t make any difference to my father. I could be in Intensive Care and he still wouldn’t come.’
His dark brows were already locked in a deep frown as he digested her emotional confession. ‘You’re saying that your father would see the news that you’re in hospital and still not get in touch?’
His appalled response drove her mood lower still. If there was one thing worse than having a parent who didn’t care, it was the world knowing about it.
Why on earth had she told him that much?
It was the headache, she thought miserably. ‘Look, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime. I hope your conscience doesn’t