Ruthless Milllionaire, Indecent Proposal. Emma Darcy
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table in the SkyView Bar. But did Felicity sit down and enjoy the view? No, the situation wasn’t perfect for her.
‘Ari, I don’t like this table,’ she whispered, grasping his arm to stop him from sitting down.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked tersely, barely containing his exasperation with her constant self-centred demands.
She nodded and rolled her eyes, indicating the next table along. ‘I don’t want to be next to a child. He’ll probably play up and spoil our time here.’
Ari looked at the small family group that Felicity didn’t like. A young boy—five or six years old—stood at the window, staring down at the wave-shaped Jumeirah Beach Hotel. Seated beside the child on one side was a very handsome woman—marvellous facial bones like Sophia Loren’s—dark wavy hair unashamedly going grey, probably the boy’s grandmother. On the other side with her back turned to him was another woman, black hair cropped short in a modern style, undoubtedly younger, a slimmer figure, and almost certainly the boy’s mother.
‘He won’t spoil the food or the tea, Felicity, and if you haven’t noticed, all the other tables are taken.’
They’d been late arriving, even later because of feeding her camera in the lobby. Having to wait for Felicity to be satisfied with whatever she wanted was testing his temper to an almost intolerable level.
She placed a pleading hand on his arm, her big blue eyes promising a reward if he indulged her. ‘But I’m sure if you ask, something better could be arranged.’
‘I won’t put other people out,’ he said, giving her a hard, quelling look. ‘Just sit down, Felicity. Enjoy being here.’
She pouted, sighed, flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder in annoyance, and finally sat.
The waiter poured them champagne, handed them menus, chatted briefly about what was on offer, then quickly left them before Felicity could kick up another fuss which would put him in a difficult position.
‘Why do they have all those chairs on the beach set out in rows, Yiayia?’
The boy’s voice was high and clear and carried, bringing an instant grimace to Felicity’s pouty mouth. Ari recognised the accent as Australian, yet the boy had used the Greek word for grandmother, arousing his curiosity.
‘The beach belongs to the hotel, Theo, and the chairs are set out for the guests so they will be comfortable,’ the older woman answered, her English thick with a Greek accent.
‘They don’t do that at Bondi,’ the boy remarked.
‘No. That’s because Bondi is a public beach for anyone to use and set up however they like on the sand.’
The boy turned to her, frowning at the explanation. ‘Do you mean I couldn’t go to that beach down there, Yiayia?’
He was a fine-looking boy, very pleasing features and fairish hair. Oddly enough he reminded Ari of himself as a child.
‘Not unless you were staying in the hotel, Theo,’ his grandmother replied.
‘Then I think Bondi is better,’ the boy said conclusively, turning back to the view.
An egalitarian Australian even at this tender age, Ari thought, remembering his own experiences of the people’s attitudes in that country.
Felicity huffed and whined, ‘We’re going to have to listen to his prattle all afternoon. I don’t know why people bring children to places like this. They should be left with nannies.’
‘Don’t you like children, Felicity?’ Ari enquired, hoping she would say no, which would comprehensively wipe out any argument his father might give him over his rejection of this marital candidate.
‘In their place,’ she snapped back at him.
Out of sight, out of mind, was what she meant.
‘I think family is important,’ he drawled. ‘And I have no objection to any family spending time together, anywhere.’
Which shut her up, temporarily.
This was going to be a long afternoon.
Tina felt the nape of her neck prickling at the sound of the man’s voice coming from the table next to theirs. The deep mellifluous tone was an electric reminder of another voice that had seduced her into believing all the sweet things it had said to her, believing they had meant she was more special than any other woman in the world.
It couldn’t be Ari, could it?
She was torn by the temptation to look.
Which was utterly, utterly stupid, letting thoughts of him take over her mind when she should be enjoying this wonderfully decadent afternoon tea.
Ari Zavros was out of her life. Well and truly out of it. Six years ago he’d made the parting from her absolutely decisive, no coming back to Australia, no interest in some future contact. She had been relegated to a fond memory, and she certainly didn’t want the fond memory revived here and now, if by some rotten coincidence it was Ari sitting behind her.
It wouldn’t be him, anyway.
The odds against it were astronomical.
All the same, it was better not to look, better to keep her back turned to the man behind her. If it was Ari, if he caught her looking and recognised her … it was a stomach-curdling thought. No way was she prepared for a face-to-face meeting with him, especially not with her mother and Theo looking on, becoming involved.
This couldn’t happen.
It wouldn’t happen.
Her imagination was making mountains out of no more than a tone of voice. Ridiculous! The man was with a woman. She’d heard the plummy English voice complaining about Theo’s presence—a really petty complaint because Theo was always well-behaved. She shouldn’t waste any attention on them. Her mind fiercely dictated ignoring the couple and concentrating on the pleasure of being here.
She leaned forward, picked up her cup and sipped the wonderfully fragrant Jasmin Pearls. They had already eaten a marvellous slice of Beef Wellington served warm with a beetroot puree. On their table now was a stand shaped like the Burj, its four tiers presenting a yummy selection of food on colourful glass plates.
At the top were small sandwiches made with different types of bread—egg, smoked salmon, cream cheese with sun-dried tomatoes, cucumber and cream cheese. Other tiers offered seafood vol-au-vents with prawns, choux pastry chicken with seeded mustard, a beef sandwich, and basil, tomato and bocconcini cheese on squid ink bread. It was impossible to eat everything. Predictably, Theo zeroed in on the chicken, her mother anything with cheese, and the seafood she loved was all hers.
A waiter came around with a tray offering replenishments but they shook their heads, knowing there was so much more to taste—fruit cake, scones with and without raisins and an assortment of spreads; strawberry and rose petal jam, clotted cream, a strawberry mousse and tangy passionfruit.
Tina refused to let the reminder of Ari Zavros ruin her appetite. There wasn’t much conversation going on at the table behind her anyway. Mostly it was the woman talking, carrying on in a snobby way, comparing this afternoon tea to others she’d had in famous hotels. Only the occasional murmur of reply came from the man.
‘I’m so glad we stopped in Dubai,’ her mother remarked, gazing at the view. ‘There’s so much amazing, creative architecture in this city. That hotel shaped like a wave just below us, the stunning buildings we passed on the way here. And to think it’s all happened in the space of what … thirty years?’
‘Something like that,’ Tina murmured.
‘It shows what can be done in these modern times.’
‘With the money to do it,’ Tina dryly reminded her.
‘Well, at least they have the money. They’re not bankrupting the