The Mediterranean Millionaire's Mistress. Maggie Cox
Читать онлайн книгу.
her. She’d heard all about the pitfalls of holiday romances even if she’d personally never experienced one, and a man as dynamically attractive and charismatic as him had probably had his share and regarded them as fleeting pleasures that he would quickly forget. For all Ianthe knew, he might even be married.
This new thought filled her with horror. As charming and compelling as he was, she would no more consider having an affair with a married man than she would walk down her conservative suburban high street naked! That was one opportunity that she would definitely not be taking!
‘What will you have to eat?’ he asked, breaking into her thoughts afresh with that sensual, provocative cadence of his voice.
Taking the menu he offered, and glancing only briefly down at its lacquered pages, Ianthe cast her gaze almost immediately back to his.
‘Please don’t think me presumptuous, but…’ How could she put an undeniably indelicate question delicately? His relaxed contemplation of her face did not waver at her words, but seemed to become more disturbingly concentrated. Little implosions of panic and awareness were like landmines dotted along her vertebrae. She swallowed. ‘You asked me if I had a husband or a boyfriend. Well…do you mind if I ask you the same quest—?’
‘My wife died.’
His voice was as bleak and foreboding as a deep, dark well—the kind that she would not dare to look down in case there was something menacing and dangerous lurking in there. He did not bother to hide his complete distaste for her nervously executed question. The hue of his disturbing eyes suddenly resembled impervious blue marble, and it appeared as if the Lysander that Ianthe had sensed herself succumbing to with such surprising vehemence had suddenly vanished—in his place was a cold, forbidding stranger. A horrible shiver licked slowly down her spine.
‘Now that that is clear, and you know that I am not trying to involve you in some kind of illicit love affair, perhaps you would care to think about what you would like to eat, Ianthe?’
Her throat dried so hard that she gazed longingly at the carafe of water on the table between them, almost willing it to levitate and come to her rescue.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, Lysander.’
A disconcerting dimple appeared at the side of his tanned cheek and confused her altogether. ‘Of course you did not. Now the matter is at an end. Forget about it and we can concentrate on enjoying our evening together.’
Ianthe wanted desperately to know what had happened to his wife. How had she died and how long ago? It was clear he must have loved her deeply, going by the jagged rip of pain she had momentarily glimpsed in his eyes before that distinctly frosty barrier had slammed into place to guard against unwelcome speculation.
It was clear, Ianthe thought, that those areas were taboo: topics that she didn’t dare raise again unless she wanted to incur his deep disapproval and maybe even wrath.
Forcing herself to scan the menu again, she was taken aback when he softly pronounced her name.
‘I did not mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset.’
Shaking off her uneasiness with a forced smile, Ianthe found herself unable to glance away as quickly as she’d intended, so that she wouldn’t expose her sudden unhappiness. It wouldn’t have worked in any case. Lysander’s reaction was like quicksilver.
‘Do not lie to me, Ianthe. You are the kind of girl who wears her heart in her eyes, and I am not blind.’
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN he’d seen his father’s favourite yacht, Evangeline, moored as regally as a queen in the picturesque harbour, amongst other well-known cruisers belonging to the wealthy Athenians who inhabited the tight-knit monied world of the Rosakis family, Lysander’s heart had truly sunk.
It could not be mere coincidence that his father had decided to visit the island at the same time that his only son was taking a break there. Therefore, Leonidas Rosakis had to want something of him. Last year he had almost lost his life when he’d contracted pneumonia, but mercifully he had rallied, and ever since that time he’d seemed to be on a mission to control his only son’s destiny even more. His main concern, of course, was the future of the shipping business that had made his family’s fortune, and his brush with death had heightened that concern to an almost obsessive degree.
Now, as Lysander boarded the wide steps leading to the main deck, a white-shirted member of the yacht’s crew dipping his head deferentially as he passed him, he found his thoughts racing ahead to Ianthe.
Last night after dinner, when he had walked her back to the small hotel where she was staying, he had but grazed her cheek with his lips as a kiss goodnight. But both he and she had registered the intensely electrical reaction that their contact had ignited, as though their bodies had been plugged into a generator. Ianthe had looked startled and wide-eyed as he’d drawn away, and Lysander had had to hold his burning desire in painful check all the way home, the memory of her warm skin beneath his lips arousing his senses into almost a crescendo of powerful need.
What did she possess that held him in such extraordinary sensual thrall? When he had first met his wife he had found her astonishing beauty alluring, but he could not honestly recall almost wanting to crawl out of his skin with the need to possess her…as he did with Ianthe.
She had agreed to meet him in about half an hour’s time at the harbour, where Lysander had arranged for one of the locals to take them to an outlying private cove to picnic and sunbathe. Nikos was discreet and would not repeat any conversation he might overhear to anyone else…Lysander would not have hired him otherwise.
Now, as he forced himself to think about why his father’s yacht should be here in the harbour, he made his way hurriedly past the formal dining room into the main salon, where he guessed he would find the man in question. Unable to deny his impatience to bring their coming encounter to an abrupt and swift end, all Lysander wanted to do was return to the waterside taverna where he had suggested Ianthe wait for him.
Leonidas Rosakis lived up to the leonine connotations of his name. There was no doubt about that. An inch over six feet tall, he was still a formidable-looking man, even though he had recently been cut down by illness. He was the proud owner of an enviable head of abundant silver hair, and had a presence that could easily impinge authority and awe on the very air around him. Yet at the same time he was not so much lion as pussycat with his two young grandchildren, the offspring of Lysander’s sister Evadne, and could be as tender as he liked when he chose.
Right now, as Lysander approached the huge oak desk that practically took up one complete wall of the stately salon, his father threw him a glance that was anything but tender. Old resentments deeply held surfaced, and he had to swallow hard to clear the tension already building inside his throat.
‘What are you doing here, Father? I only saw you in Athens a few days ago.’
‘Such a cold greeting from my only son!’ Leonidas intoned dramatically in his deep belljar of a voice. ‘What have I done to deserve such disdain?’
Releasing an impatient sigh, Lysander tunnelled his fingers restlessly through his hair, instinctively knowing that he had a royal battle on his hands when it came to controlling his temper around his father.
‘I do not demonstrate disdain so much as irritation that you should show up here, when you know only too well that I needed to get away from Athens and be by myself for a while…without any interference from the family!’
‘You call fatherly concern interference? Shame on you, Lysander! You should know me better than that.’
‘I know you only too well, Father…. That is why I do not entirely trust your motives for being here. What is it you want of me? Are you unwell again? Do you want me to speak with your doctors?’
‘First you break my heart with your caustic admission of distrust, then you enquire about my health!’ Shaking his great leonine head, Leonidas