Modern Romance July 2015 Books 1-4. Maisey Yates
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being told what to do by someone for whom ambition had been everything. He had confronted Loukas. Told him he had taken advantage of his daughter, and had threatened to go to his boss. And what had Loukas done? She bit her lip, because even now it hurt to remember him squaring up his shoulders, as if he’d been just about to step into the fray. In a gruff and unfamiliar voice he had offered to marry her.
And her response? She had said no, because what else could she have said? She’d known he had only been asking her because he’d felt it was the right thing to do and she couldn’t bear to trap this proud man in a relationship he’d never intended. Had she been able to see the two of them together—even ten years down the line? No, she hadn’t. And if she was being honest, her career had been too important for her to want to risk it on the random throw of an emotional dice. She’d been working towards being a champion since she’d been four years old. Had she really been prepared to throw all that away because Loukas had been offering something out of a misplaced sense of duty?
But her heart had been breaking as she’d ended their affair, even though she’d known it was the right thing to do. She remembered the way he had looked at her, an expression of slowly dawning comprehension hardening his black eyes, before he had laughed. A low, bitter laugh—as if she had just confirmed something he’d already known.
She remembered the way she’d felt as he had turned his back on her and walked away—a clear bright pain which had seemed to consume her. That was the last time she’d seen him, until the moment she’d walked into the penthouse office at Lulu’s—a bodyguard no longer but an international tycoon. Jessica shook her head in slight disbelief. How on earth had he managed that?
The slowing pace of the traffic made her realise that they’d hit central London and that the limousine was drawing up outside the Vinoly Hotel, a place she’d never stayed in before. The company usually put her up in the infinitely larger Granchester whenever she was in London and she wondered why they’d sent her here.
The driver opened the door. ‘Mr Sarantos says to inform you that a suite has been booked in your name and that you are to order anything you need.’
Jessica nodded and walked into the interior of the plush hotel, whose foyer was dominated by a red velvet sofa in the shape of a giant pair of lips. A Perspex chair on a gilt chain was suspended from the ceiling and impossibly cool-looking young people in jeans and expensive jackets were sprawled around, drinking coffee and tapping away furiously on their laptops.
The receptionist smiled as she handed her a key card and an envelope. ‘This was delivered for you earlier,’ she said. ‘We hope you have a pleasant stay with us, Miss Cartwright. The valet will show you to your suite.’
Jessica didn’t have to look at the envelope to know who it was from. Her heart was racing as she recognised Loukas’s handwriting—bold and flowing and unlike any other she’d ever seen. She knew his education had been patchy. He’d taught himself to read and write, but had ended up at the age of seventeen without a single qualification, other than a driving licence. But that was pretty much all she knew because he had been notoriously tight-lipped about his childhood. A sombre look used to darken his face whenever she dared ask, so that in the end she gave up trying—because wasn’t it easier to grab at rainbows rather than chase after storms?
She waited until she was in her suite before opening the envelope, so intent on reading it that she barely noticed the stark decor of the room. Loukas’s message was fairly stark, too.
I trust you had a good journey. Meet me in the dining room downstairs at eight. In the wardrobe you will find a black dress. Wear it.
Jessica’s mouth dried. It was an explicit request which sounded almost sexual. Had that been his intention? Did he plan to make her skin prickle with excitement the moment she read it, or to make her feel the molten pull of desire? Walking over to the line of wardrobe doors, she pulled open the first to find a dress hanging there—noting without any sense of surprise that it was made by a renowned designer. It was deceptively simple—a masterpiece fashioned from heavy silk and Jessica could instantly see how exquisitely it was cut. She thought how beautifully it would hang, and wasn’t there a tiny part of her which longed to wear it? Because it was a sexy dress. A woman’s dress. The kind of garment which would be worn in the knowledge that later a man would remove it.
Heart pounding, she turned away from the temptation it presented and everything else it symbolised and stared defiantly at her own belongings. She resented his peremptory tone and much else besides. He had no right to order her what to wear. The job hadn’t even started and already he was acting as if he owned her. Being summoned here within the space of a few hours was one thing, but no way was Loukas going to decide on her wardrobe.
By eight she had showered and changed and was heading down towards the restaurant. Outwardly composed, she announced her arrival to the maître d’ but her fingers were trembling as she was shown across the candlelit room to where Loukas was already seated.
This time she was prepared for his impact, but it made little difference to her reaction. Illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, he was occupying the best table in the room and looking completely at home—as if he owned the space and all that surrounded him. She saw the unmistakable darkening of his eyes as she approached, but the flicker of a nerve at his temple indicated a flash of anger, rather than lust.
And suddenly she began to regret the determination with which she had pulled on a cream-coloured dress which fell demurely to just below the knee. She knew she must appear faintly colourless among the exotically clothed women in the room, but surely maintaining her independence was more important than blending in with the slick, city crowd. More importantly, it would send out a subliminal message to her former lover, telling him that she was still very much her own woman, no matter how much she needed the job.
He said nothing until she had been seated and presented with a menu, but he waved the waiter away with an impatient hand, and when he spoke his voice felt like the brushing of dark velvet all the way down her spine.
‘I thought I told you to wear the black dress?’
She met his gaze with the imperturbable stare which had once served her so well on the tennis court. ‘No woman likes to be told what dress to put on, Loukas.’
‘I beg to differ.’ His voice was soft. Dangerously soft. ‘Why would you object to wearing a costly gown which would make you look amazing?’
‘Because I don’t want or need your costly gowns.’
‘I see.’ Reflectively, his finger moved across his lips. ‘And presumably you chose that bland-looking outfit to ensure I wouldn’t be attracted to you?’
Jessica felt her cheeks grow hot. She might not have dressed to impress but she knew she looked neat and smart, and it hurt to hear him say something unnecessarily cruel like that. Was that the reason she started defending herself—why she was foolish enough to try? ‘You didn’t used to complain about the colour of my clothes.’
‘That’s because I was young and I didn’t care what you wore. Actually, I was more concerned about getting you naked.’ He paused to slant her a flinty smile. ‘Something which was never a problem after your initial reluctance.’
‘Well, at least that side of things need no longer concern you.’
‘“That side of things”?’ he mimicked in amusement. ‘Don’t be coy, Jess. If you’re talking about sex, why not just come out and say it?’
‘Okay, I will.’ Jessica waved her menu in front of him, pleased that the candlelight camouflaged her sudden blush. ‘And sex isn’t on the menu, I’m afraid.’
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Your defiance excites me,’ he said. ‘Mainly because I wasn’t expecting it.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you might be happy to put on a dress which your average female would lust after.’
‘Maybe I’m not your average