Книга - The Greek Tycoon’s Virgin Wife

The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife
HELEN BIANCHIN


Reluctant mistress, convenient wife Xandro Caramanis wants a wife.She must be well-bred, willing to give him an heir and accept a loveless arrangement. Ilana Girard is a society beauty with a head for business who understands emotions are not part of the deal… Ilana accepts Xandro's proposal because she needs his protection.He doesn't realize she's never slept with a man before, and it's reluctantly that she takes her place in his bed…









The Greek Tycoon’s Virgin Wife

Helen Bianchin











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


XANDRO EASED THE Bentley GT into the centre lane as traffic crawled through one intersection after another in a general exodus of Sydney’s inner city.

Streetlights vied with neon signs as the sun sank low on the horizon, streaking the western sky a brilliant red that subtly altered in hue as dusk descended and changed day into night.

It had been a tough day, with two high-powered meetings, a conference call, and numerous demands on his time.

He could do with a massage to ease the tension…except there wasn’t time. In less than an hour he was due to attend a prestigious charity dinner.

Alone.

He was acquainted with several women, any one of whom would drop everything to share the evening with him, willingly providing scintillating conversation laced with coquetry and an invitation to share a bed.

But he hadn’t risen through the business ranks to head a financial empire by indulging in endless pleasure.

An enviable quality inherited from his father?

If so, it had to be one of a very few. A wry smile tugged his mouth. Yannis Caramanis had been best-known as a hard-nosed son-of-a-bitch, ruthless to the point of mercilessness, and rich as Croesus. Husband to no less than four wives, the first of whom had borne him a child…Alexandro Cristoforo Caramanis.

A son destined to be an only child, for Yannis refused to consider an heir and a spare, thus creating rivalry, jealousy, dissent and the rupture of an empire he’d striven so hard to build.

Subsequent wives had coveted his father’s wealth and what it could do to gild a life of endless pleasure and social status. Until the gilt wore off and they were discarded for the next beautiful young thing. Arm candy. Very serious arm candy whom Yannis ensured were each gifted no more than their due via water-tight pre-nuptial agreements.

Xandro rolled his shoulders, eased the Bentley forward through a set of traffic lights and took the New South Head road to suburban Vaucluse.

The soft, intrusive burr of his BlackBerry brought a muttered imprecation, and he extracted the unit, checked caller ID, let it go to messagebank and switched the unit to mute.

Success brought responsibilities…too many, he mused, for modern technology ensured he was constantly available, twenty-four by seven.

And while he relished the cut and thrust of high-powered business…excelled in it, he allowed wryly…there were other challenges in life he needed to explore.

One in particular.

Marriage.

Family.

One woman who was honest and without artifice, who’d occupy his bed, make his house a home, be a charming hostess, and provide him with children.

Someone who had little illusion about love, and was prepared to view marriage as a business proposition without the complication of emotion.

Affection, the exultation of the sexual act…but love? What was it?

He’d loved his mother with a child’s love, only to have it taken away from him. As to his stepmothers…each of them had had only one goal in mind. Yannis’ money, the gifts and the lifestyle. A child was a nuisance and better served to be tucked away in an expensive-boarding school with term breaks spent at various exclusive holiday camps overseas.

He learnt very early to succeed in order to gain his father’s attention. Consequently he excelled at everything.

And when Yannis had settled him into a lowly position within the Caramanis empire, he fought hard to prove his worth. So hard, there was no time for social frivolities.

The effort had earned him Yannis’pride, a stake in his father’s empire, multimillionaire status…and the attention of women.

Some more clever than most, and one in particular who had almost convinced him to put his ring on her finger.

Almost.

Except a precautionary investigation had revealed details that ordinarily wouldn’t have come to light.

A practice he continued to employ whenever he decided to become close to a woman. Calculated, perhaps…but it eliminated any nasty surprises.

Xandro managed a wry smile as he eased the Bentley into a street lined with exclusive real estate.

His home was a mansion situated high on a hill and bearing splendid views over the harbour. Purchased five years ago, he’d had it remodelled and refurbished, installed a live-in couple to manage the house and grounds…a luxury residence where he slept, worked and entertained.

Xandro Caramanis.

The man who had everything.

A worthy successor to his father.

Hard, ruthless…coveted by women, but attached to none.

Isn’t that how the tabloids depicted him?

A little over half an hour later, showered, shaved and attired in an evening suit, Xandro slid into the Bentley and headed towards the city.

Traffic had eased somewhat, making for a relatively smooth run to the inner-city hotel where tonight’s fundraising event was being held.

Valet parking, deferential recognition as he bypassed the lift and took the sweeping staircase to the mezzanine floor where fellow guests mingled and sipped champagne.

Pre-dinner drinks provided an excellent opportunity for committee members to work the room, ensuring guests were informed of the next upcoming event on the social calendar.

Muted music filtered through strategically placed speakers, providing a non-intrusive background for easy conversation.

The evening held the promise of yet another successful fundraising event, from which in this instance disadvantaged children would benefit.

Xandro let his gaze idly skim the room, observing his fellow guests in an unobtrusive manner, greeted and acknowledged several within his immediate vicinity…came full circle, then returned to linger on one young woman’s features.

Fine facial bone structure, a pretty mouth…He liked the way she held her head, the expressive movement of her hands. Ash-blonde hair swept high on her head in a style that made his fingers itch to release the pins holding its length in place.

Refined elegance from the top of her head to the tips of her delicate feet.

And slightly nervous, he detected idly, beneath the practised smile…and wondered why, when she was so well versed with the social scene.

Ilana…daughter of society maven Liliana and the late Henri Girard.

Attractive, slender and petite, in her late twenties, she possessed an aloof persona in the company of men…a quality that had earned her an ice maiden tag. With reason, or so rumour abounded…although the only known fact was her hastily cancelled nuptials to Grant Baxter on the eve of their wedding.

Two years on, she mixed and mingled with the city’s social glitterati in the company of her widowed mother.

Many men had attempted to date her, but to Xandro’s knowledge none had succeeded.

Impeccable background, charming manners and well versed in the social graces, Ilana Girard would, he’d decided, make an eminently suitable wife.



All that remained was to implement a starting point, begin the courtship…and put forward his proposal.

Xandro’s eyes narrowed slightly as Liliana Girard separated from her daughter’s side and began moving towards him.

‘Xandro. How lovely to see you here.’

‘Liliana.’ He took her outstretched hands in his, then lowered his head and lightly brushed his lips to her cheek.

‘If you’re alone this evening, perhaps you would care to join Ilana and me?’

Xandro inclined his head in silent acquiescence.

‘Thank you.’

He allowed Liliana to precede him, his gaze becoming deliberately enigmatic as he saw the moment Ilana sensed his approach. The imperceptible stillness in her stance, the slight lift of her head, like a fragile gazelle scenting danger.

Then the moment was gone, replaced by a practised smile as he drew close.

People-watching was an art-form, body language an acquired skill…both at which he was incredibly adept. ‘Xandro,’ Ilana managed with cool politeness, and silently damned the way her pulse kicked in to a faster beat.

There was something about him, an indefinable quality that raised the hairs at the back of her neck in silent warning…of what?

Tall, for even in four-inch stilettos she had to lift her head to look at him.

Attractive, Ilana accorded silently, in a leonine way, for the lighting accentuated his broad sculptured facial features, strong jaw-line and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes.

His tailoring was impeccable and individually crafted, downplaying rather than emphasising his impressive breadth of shoulder.

Intensely masculine, he bore an aura of power that was uncontrived, yet only a fool would fail to detect the ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface.

‘Ilana.’

He made no attempt to touch her…so why did she harbour the instinctive feeling he was merely biding his time? It didn’t make sense.

‘I believe you’re sharing our table this evening.’ She was well versed in the art of social conversation and could converse in fluent Italian and French, thanks to a year spent in each country studying couture.

Yet in this man’s presence she had to consciously strive to present a certain façade. Aware, in some deep recess of her mind, that he saw straight through it.

His gaze remained steady. ‘Is that a problem?’

What would he do if she said…yes?

A polite smile curved her mouth. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to have you join us.’ And knew she lied.

‘One of the committee members has just signalled me,’ Liliana posed. ‘I won’t be long.’

For a moment Ilana felt bereft, and incredibly vulnerable. She could escape with good reason…excuse herself and drift towards another group of guests. Except it would be a copout, and a fruitless one, for she doubted such a move would fool Xandro in the slightest.

It was inevitable they’d cross paths. The Caramanis empire was a known benefactor of several charities, and gala events such as this evening’s fundraiser ensured Xandro’s presence, usually with a stunning female in tow.

Yet this was the third time in recent weeks he’d attended an evening function without a partner.

So who’s counting? a silent imp taunted…and she stilled the soft oath that rose and died in her throat.

The thought he might deliberately seek her out was laughable. She was his polar opposite, and besides, she was done with men. Had been for more than two years, and once bitten…

A faint shiver slithered down the length of her spine as memory provided a vivid replay of that fateful night when her hopes and dreams had been so cruelly shattered.

She’d survived and moved on, losing herself in her career to the extent it consumed her life. There was little she wanted or needed. No unfulfilled dreams.

‘Darling.’ The soft feminine voice was pure feline, and matched the tall, willowy blonde who drifted close to Xandro’s side. ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’

‘Danika,’ Xandro acknowledged with a polite smile that failed to reach his eyes.

The Austrian-born model trod the international fashion catwalks and was much sought-after by designers, despite her behind-the-scene tantrums. A nightmare to work with, she possessed a magical ability to model clothes that put her among the élite.

‘You’ve met Ilana?’

Brilliant blue eyes spared her a perfunctory look. ‘Should I have?’

The deliberate put-down was softened with an ingenious tilt of that exquisitely painted mouth.

‘Ilana is a fashion designer.’

‘Really?’

Bored disinterest couldn’t have been better feigned. This was party time, and the glamorous model had only one goal in mind…Xandro Caramanis.

Who could blame her? The man was the catch of the decade!

‘I’m not familiar with your name. Ilana…who?’

‘Girard,’ Xandro informed silkily.

Ilana decided there was never going to be a better moment. ‘Arabelle label.’ She waited a beat. ‘You’re wearing one.’ So too was she, a gorgeous, figure-hugging halter-neck design in deep pink slipper-satin.

Danika’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘It was sold as an original.’

‘Gifted,’ Ilana corrected, and saw the model lift a dismissive hand.

‘My agent deals with the minor details.’

‘She follows your instructions.’ It was part of the deal, part of the play Danika employed. Designers adored her panache, and turned a blind eye to any contretemps. The gift of one of their original designs meant little in the big scheme of things.

It was all about marketing…recognition…sales.

Danika placed a lacquered nail to the lapel of Xandro’s evening suit and offered a seductive smile. ‘I’ll ensure we share the same table.’

With an unhurried movement he removed the model’s hand. ‘No.’

Just…no?

Succinct, and almost crushing…if one tended to be easily hurt.

Ilana caught a glimpse of ice in Danika’s startling blue eyes as the model’s lips formed a deliberate pout. ‘Poor darling, you’ll miss out on some fun. I’m available if you change your mind.’ Danika wriggled her fingers in a silent farewell before melting into the crowd.

It was as well the ballroom doors opened and guests were encouraged to take their seats.

Although seconds later Ilana wasn’t so sure as Xandro captured her elbow and led her into the vast room set with well over a hundred tables.

His fingers were warm on her bare skin, his touch electrifying as heat rose deep inside and threatened to affect her equilibrium.

It wasn’t a feeling she coveted, and she fought an instinctive need to withdraw from him. ‘There’s a reason for such seeming togetherness?’ she demanded quietly, and saw one eyebrow slant in musing humour.

‘I enjoy your company?’

She looked at him carefully. ‘It would help if you enlighten me as to what game you’re playing.’

‘Would you believe…none?’

‘Should I be flattered?’ she queried sweetly, and heard his faint husky chuckle.

‘You’re not?’

‘I’d hate to shatter your world,’ Ilana relayed in droll tones as a pretty young thing personally directed them towards a prestige table close to the stage.

Name cards designated seat placings, and it came as no surprise to find Xandro’s name card placed next to her own.

How difficult could it be to converse, smile and play the social game?

Pretend, a tiny voice prompted. You’re good at it.

‘What would you like to drink?’

There was bottled wine on the table, but lunch had been a non-event, and alcohol in any form would go straight to her head.

‘Just water, thanks.’

Xandro poured iced water into her goblet, then filled his own. ‘To good fortune.’ He touched the rim of his goblet to hers in a mocking salute.

The table filled, Liliana joined them and, introductions completed, the evening began with the usual opening speech by the nominated-charity president.

The lights dimmed, and waiters began serving food to the guests as the guest speaker took the podium.

She was supremely conscious of the man at her side…the exclusive tones of his cologne, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothing mingling with the barely detectable essence of male.

There was something dangerous about him that threatened the carefully built armour she’d painstakingly erected in her need for self-preservation.

It made her wary, almost as if she had to gather all her wits together and be on constant alert in his presence.

For heaven’s sake, an inner voice silently expostulated. Xandro Caramanis is nothing to you.

What’s more, you don’t want him to be.

So get over it!

Yet the feeling persisted, making it difficult for her to relax.

Ilana ate mechanically, forking morsels of delectable food into her mouth without really tasting a thing.

It didn’t help to be aware her apparent coupling with Xandro garnered interested speculation. Or that Xandro was the focus of Danika’s attention.

Was he bent on publicly denouncing whatever relationship he’d enjoyed with the glamorous model?

‘No.’

His quietly spoken negation momentarily startled her, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand as she met his inscrutable gaze.

‘Really?’ She arched an expressive eyebrow.

‘No.’

The reiteration held an inflexibility she couldn’t ignore, and she hated the tense knot tightening in her stomach.

She wanted to demand what are you doing? Except the words remained unuttered as she deliberately turned her attention to a neighbouring dining companion and engaged him in meaningless social niceties.

Yet Xandro’s presence was inescapable, and it irked her unbearably that he had the power to unsettle her nervous system to the extent she became conscious of each movement, every breath she took.

Did he know?

Dear God, she fervently hoped not!

The dinner seemed to take forever, concluding with coffee and a worthy if wordy speech by the nominated-charity chairperson.

Muted music filtered through strategically placed speakers, providing a reason for guests to move freely among the tables, converse…and for many it signalled an end to a pleasant evening.

Any minute soon Liliana would rise to her feet, thank fellow table guests for their patronage, bid them good night…and Ilana would be free of Xandro’s disturbing presence.

Except her relief was short-lived, as Xandro expressed his intention to escort them to the lobby.

‘It isn’t necessary.’

‘On the contrary.’ He cupped her elbow, exerting slight pressure as she surreptitiously endeavoured to put some distance between them.

Don’t, she wanted to protest.

‘I’m considering setting up an auction to benefit the Leukaemia Foundation, and I’d appreciate Liliana’s advice.’

Her mother showed genuine delight. ‘How generous of you. Of course I’ll be only too pleased to help in any way I can.’

‘Good,’ Xandro concurred smoothly. ‘With that in mind, perhaps you’ll both accept an invitation to dine with me in order to discuss details? Shall we say Thursday of next week?’

‘Thank you.’

Liliana would, Ilana knew, rearrange her social schedule in the blink of an eye to accommodate Xandro Caramanis.

They reached the lobby, and Xandro signalled the concierge to have his car and her own brought up from valet parking.

Within minutes a silver Bentley GT slid to a halt outside the main entrance.

‘Seven o’clock,’ Xandro indicated, withdrawing a card from his billfold and penning a few lines on the reverse side. ‘My home.’

With an economy of movement he passed a tip to the bellboy, then he slid in behind the wheel and eased the sleek car out into the flow of traffic.

Seconds later Ilana’s dark blue BMW slid to a halt, and Liliana waited only until Ilana cleared the hotel vicinity before voicing,

‘What a lovely invitation, darling. And quite a coup to have Xandro request my help.’

What could she say, other than…‘So it would seem’?

‘You have reservations?’

Several. Although she refused to settle on any one.

‘You must go, of course.’

‘We, darling. As in both of us.’

Ilana brought the car to a halt at an intersection. ‘Maman, no,’ she said gently.

Liliana offered a pensive look. ‘You won’t change your mind?’

Not any time this century, she silently vowed. The less she came into contact with Xandro Caramanis the better!




CHAPTER TWO


PREPARATIONS FOR THE current Fashion Design Awards ensured Ilana spent most of the weekend in the workroom as she checked and re-checked the selection of garments both she and her partner, Micki, had chosen to enter in the various sections.

The judging process comprised examination of the fabric, stitching and finishing by a panel of experts who provided a grading in advance of the final catwalk judging.

Which meant ensuring every detail was perfect…or as near to perfect as it was possible to get.

Winning in any category added to a designer’s status, lifting interest and sales. Although for Ilana, the focus was on fashioning quality fabric into faultlessly assembled stylish garments.

As a child she’d adored dressing her dolls, and with Liliana’s help she had made patterns and cut and fashioned her own range of dolls’ clothes, progressing to designing and making her own outfits.

A degree in fashion design followed by an apprenticeship with one of Australia’s top designers had eventually provided the opportunity to work overseas for a few years…Paris, Milan and London, before she returned to Sydney, where she’d set up her own workroom.

Diligence and hard work had seen her acquire recognition among her peers, with the Arabelle label rated highly among the social set.

While Ilana possessed the talent and expertise with design, needle and thread, it was her childhood friend, Micki Taylor, whose business nous completed their successful partnership.

Micki’s flair for selecting the right accessories was faultless, for she had the ability to put together a successful fashion showing that lifted it above the rest.

Ilana loved the creative aspect of transforming a vision into reality. To be able to look at a fabric and visualise the finished garment was a gift…one she didn’t regard lightly. Colour, fabric, style. She lived to make it work and come alive. Infinitely special to the woman who bought it. Any accolades and awards were a bonus.

The week leading up to the design-awards night involved long hours double-checking everything was covered, including back-up plans should a contracted model call in sick…or any one of several things that could go wrong.

Days when she seemed to only take time out to eat and sleep, she reflected wearily as she entered her apartment early Tuesday evening after a fraught day.

The thought of a long soak in a bubble bath and a decent meal was tempting, except it wasn’t going to happen.

Instead she only had time for a quick shower, a change into a cocktail dress in café-au-lait lace, the application of make-up and fixing her hair into a simple knot before driving to Double Bay to attend the evening’s gallery showing with Liliana.

A prestigious affair, invitation-only, it heralded the grand opening of new premises in three adjoining villas whose interiors had been gutted and converted into a spacious gallery owned by an established family known in the art world for discovering and fostering artists.

Cars lined the wide, tree-lined street in suburban Double Bay, and Ilana circled the block twice before finding a space.

Two security guards flanked the gallery entrance, one of whom checked her name off the invitation list whilst the other indicated the foyer.

‘Darling.’ The family’s eldest son took her hand and leaned in close to brush his cheek against her own. ‘Welcome.’

‘Jean-Paul.’

Jean preceded each male name in the family…Jean-Marc, the patriarch, his two sons, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre.

People mingled in groups sipping champagne and accepting proffered canapés from uniformed staff. Muted music emitted from concealed speakers, a suitable background to the guests’ conversation.

A waitress offered a tray laden with flutes of champagne and orange juice. As much as she needed the lift of champagne, she selected the latter. There were trays of canapes making the rounds and she accepted a napkin, added a few bite-size morsels and sampled each of them in relatively quick succession.

‘There you are, darling.’ Liliana appeared at her side, and Ilana leant forward as they pressed cheeks.

‘The architect and interior decorators have done well,’ she offered quietly, and caught her mother’s warm smile.

‘I agree.’ Liliana indicated the wide glass-panelled walls, the planned lay-out. ‘It’s quite something.’

Ilana cast a quick glance at the mingling guests. ‘A good crowd.’

‘Who would refuse Jean-Marc’s invitation?’

The effusive family patriarch was something of a legend in the art field, possessed of a shrewd mind and an almost unfailing instinct for the success of an artist’s work.

Many of his patrons had made a small fortune from his advice, and the opening of new premises was a cause célèbre.

‘Come take a look,’ Liliana bade as she drew Ilana forward.

‘You’ve seen something you like.’

Her mother chuckled. ‘How can you tell?’

She offered an answering laugh. ‘The gleam in your eyes.’

‘I’ll aim for solemn interest in the hope Jean-Marc will negotiate the price.’

Together they moved slowly, pausing to speak to a friend, smile at an acquaintance, until Liliana stopped in front of an exquisite landscape, all trees and sky and almost alive. A lifelike vision in oils, each detail seemingly applied with a master’s stroke.

‘You’re going to buy it.’ A statement, rather than a query, and Ilana could picture the perfect location in her mother’s home.

‘Yes,’ Liliana conceded with a faint smile. ‘The formal dining room.’

The colours would blend beautifully, and she said so.

‘My thoughts, exactly.’ Liliana glanced up as Jean-Paul appeared at her side.

‘Is that a yes, Liliana?’

‘Definitely.’ Her mother waited a bit. ‘With a little negotiation.’

‘I’m sure my father will be amenable.’

A promised five-per-cent discount was offered on the invitation for each purchase…whether Liliana could bargain further was debatable.

A discreet reserved sticker was attached…to be replaced with sold when the purchase became a done deal.

There were other paintings, beautifully showcased, featuring many categories…some impossibly bold, extrovert in the extreme with great slashes of colour and without any definition.

Traditional, a young child’s face with huge sad eyes and a single tear. An incredible seascape, with wild, turbulent, white-tipped angry waves depicted in such detail one could almost sense the salt-spray stinging the skin.

A modern piece depicting the agony of war in a riveting portrayal too close to home.

Emotion, sadness, joy. They were all exigent, portrayed on canvas.

Ilana exchanged an empty flute for one filled with champagne, and filched another three canapés from a proffered tray.

‘I should go talk with Jean-Marc.’

‘Sure. Catch you soon.’ She’d wander a little, savour the light, fizzing bubbles, and maybe something would catch her eye.

It did, but not in the way she wanted it to. The painting held a haunting quality, dark and far too stark for anyone’s peace of mind.

‘Interesting,’ a deep, familiar male voice offered, and she stood still, wondering why her self-defence mechanism had failed to alert Xandro Caramanis’ presence.

Then it kicked in with a vengeance, and sensation scudded down her spine, sending little licks of flame from somewhere deep inside. They touched her central nervous system and sped rapidly through her body, warming her skin.

‘Tell me,’ Xandro drawled, ‘what you see.’

He was standing close, within touching distance, and she had the feeling if she leaned back fractionally her shoulders would bump against his chest.

It would be so easy to take a slight step forward…but then he’d know, and she couldn’t bear him to guess the effect he had on her.

‘Too much.’

Why hadn’t she expected him to be here tonight? Xandro Caramanis represented serious money…very serious money.

Naturally he would have received a coveted invitation.

He moved to her side. ‘A painful memory, do you think? Or a warning?’

‘Perhaps both?’

‘Not exactly comfortable viewing.’

‘No.’

His height and breadth of shoulder made her think of a warrior…and wondered if the male body beneath the fine tailoring hid powerful musculature.

Somehow artificial enhancement and Xandro Caramanis just didn’t mesh.

The thought did nothing for her peace of mind.

She should excuse herself and move away. To remain attempting idle conversation didn’t appeal. Besides, she didn’t need the added tension.



Ilana turned slightly towards him, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

His facial features were compelling, with arresting bone sculpture, an intensely sexual mouth and dark eyes that saw too much.

‘You look tired.’

‘How kind of you to care,’ she managed with intended facetiousness.

‘Does it bother you that I might?’

‘Not in the least.’

His soft laughter was barely audible. ‘Have dinner with me.’

She thought of the banana she’d hastily peeled and eaten as she rode the lift down to the basement car park, and the few gulps of bottled water, followed by orange juice, champagne and exotic canapés. Hardly an adequate meal.

Where was the harm in light, careless banter in a room filled with guests? ‘Will it damage your ego if I refuse?’

His mouth curved into a musing smile. ‘I’ll accept a raincheck.’

‘I wasn’t aware I’d requested one.’

‘Next week,’ Xandro continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘When you’ve checked your social diary?’

He regarded her steadily. ‘Name an evening.’

Instinct warned she was treading dangerous territory. He possessed a waiting, watching quality that made him impossible to read. ‘And you’ll set aside any previous obligations?’

‘Yes.’

Her stomach executed a backward flip, trembled a little, then didn’t rest easy.

He didn’t move, didn’t touch her…but she felt as if he did. Everything faded from her vision, and the noise, the filtered music grew silent.

The air between them seemed electric, and for a moment she could have sworn time stood still.

How long did they remain there in silence? Seconds, a minute? Two?

Then she saw his features relax, his mouth curved a little at the edges, and she became aware his attention had shifted slightly.

‘Liliana.’

The sound of his voice brought the large room and its milling occupants into focus, and she felt the tension begin to ebb from her body as she slowly turned towards her mother.

What just happened here?

Nothing.

Something. She sensed it…felt it.

‘Xandro.’ Liliana’s smile was genuine. ‘Have you seen anything you like?’

You’re wrong.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get over it. He’s playing a game…and you’re it.

The challenge.

Like he has so few in his life, he needs to hunt the unattainable?

‘Yes. Something I intend to reserve for myself.’

He was talking about a painting…wasn’t he?

Or had the flute of champagne addled her brain and she was the only one who imagined a hidden meaning?

Coffee, hot, strong and sweet. Preferably black. It might clear her head…and keep her awake. Which she didn’t want, when she desperately needed a reasonable night’s sleep.

She could excuse herself and leave. Liliana knew how hectic the past few weeks had been, and how many more long hours she still needed to put in before awards night.

Yet stubborn pride stiffened her spine, and she indicated the far end of the spacious gallery. ‘There’s something I want to have another look at.’

Ilana had the instinctive feeling she didn’t fool him in the slightest as she offered a dismissive smile before turning to thread her way through the guests.

She ensured she maintained a leisurely pace, and pretended a genuine interest. She smiled, pausing every now and then to exchange pleasantries with an acquaintance.

Talking the talk, she reflected a trifle wryly. Working the room. Accepting good wishes for the upcoming design awards.

How long had she been here? Two hours…a little more?

It was almost ten when she caught Liliana’s attention and indicated her intention to leave.

One of the bouncers stepped forward as she exited the main entrance. ‘Is your car parked close by, miss?’

‘Not far from my own.’ The male voice was far too familiar. ‘We’ll walk together.’

She didn’t want his company, didn’t need to suffer his disturbing presence. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Touch me and I’ll hit you, Ilana vowed silently as she stepped out briskly. If he’d deliberately timed his exit to coincide with her own…

She made no attempt at conversation, and it irked unbearably he chose silence, when she so badly wanted the opportunity to snub him.

How long did it take to reach her car? Minutes…five at the most, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief as she deactivated the alarm and reached for the door, only to have her hand collide with his own.

Warm, hard, strong beneath her fingers, and she snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned by a flame.

‘Thank you.’ Two polite, succinct, stilted words as he pulled open the door for her to slide in behind the wheel.

Xandro leant forward and placed a business card on the dashboard. ‘My private cellphone number.’

An invitation to call him?

Offer her business card in exchange for his?

As if!

Ilana slid a key into the ignition and fired the engine as he closed the door, aware as she drove away the mild headache she’d harboured for the past half-hour had turned into a full-blown migraine.

Great. That was all she needed.

Too little sleep, too much tension…

It was a relief to reach her apartment, undress, remove her make-up and pop a couple of painkillers.

Tomorrow, she reflected as she hit the pillow, was another day.




CHAPTER THREE


ORDERED CHAOS REIGNED in the workroom.

Fingers flew, soft and not-so-soft curses registered beneath the music flowing from one of the city’s popular radio stations, the steam iron hissed in harmony with the rain hitting the tin roof.

Ilana checked schedules, confirmed the agency supplying the models, and ensured the van-hire firm had the pick-up time right.

It would all come together on the night…it always did, she allowed wryly. But today…well, the day before awards night meant blood, sweat and a few tears.

‘Delivery boy out front.’

A frown creased Ilana’s forehead. Delivery? All the deliveries were in for the day.

Micki’s assistant went out the front and returned with a generous bouquet of pink and cream tightly budded roses.

Liliana?

Ilana detached the card from the Cellophane.

Xandro. There was no mistaking the name written by a male hand…following a personalised message: Good luck.

‘Wow. Nice. Who?’ demanded Micki.

Thinking quickly on her feet, she pocketed the card and managed a smile. ‘Good-luck wishes for tomorrow night.’ She moved to the tiny alcove that served as a minuscule kitchen and withdrew a vase from the storage cupboard.

It was a kind gesture…if only simple kindness were his motivation. Somehow she doubted anything about Xandro Caramanis could be simple.

There was little time to even think as Saturday dawned and team Arabelle went into action with preparations for the evening’s awards.

Practice didn’t make perfect, for it failed to factor in the many variables that could cause a hitch or three, or more.

An hour before the first model was due to hit the catwalk saw the backstage dressing room filled to capacity with racks of clothes, anxious designers, a fraught seamstress or two, hair and make-up assistants lobbying for room in front of inadequate mirrors. Not to mention cellphones pealing and chirping every few minutes.

Bedlam didn’t begin to cover it.

And it would get worse.

There was hardly room to move, and too many bodies in too small a space made for short tempers…successfully muted by background music piped into the large hotel ballroom seating over a thousand guests.

Organisation and co-ordination were the order of the night. Each designer had a list detailing each category and order of appearance.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

Ilana heard the voice, vaguely recognised it, turned…and felt her heart sink.

Danika was the replacement model?

Oh, my.

OK, so they’d handle it.

But not too well, Ilana determined as she sought to batten down a sense of frustration at Danika’s continuing contretemps.

‘These shoes aren’t right.’

‘That belt…are you out of your mind?’

Swept-up hairstyle, when Danika insisted on wearing it loose.

‘Definitely not that faux jewellery…get me something else.’

Muted grumbles from various designers were enhanced by eye-rolling and unladylike muttered oaths.

Out the front, everything was fine.

Backstage, it was something else.

‘If she makes one more complaint,’ Micki threatened as Danika took the catwalk, ‘Just one more, I’ll have her for breakfast.’

‘On cinnamon toast, or dipped in eggs Benedict?’ Ilana queried with wry cynicism.

‘Preferably drowned in my coffee.’

‘Espresso or chai latte?’

Micki rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a riot.’

‘An hour, and it’ll all be over,’ she reminded.

Minutes later Micki handed the model bangles and earrings, which received an expressive sigh in resignation.

‘Not until the fat lady sings,’ Micki assured as Danika disappeared out onto the stage.

Applause could be heard above the music.

One by one the models returned, effected a quick change and readied themselves for the next category.

Cocktail wear, then evening wear.

Ilana had created a stunning gown in red, with a finely pleated bodice, a draped full-length skirt with a side-split reaching almost to the hip.

To give due credit, Danika showcased it with incredible panache.

‘I’ll take this instead of my fee.’

‘It’s an original and part of a collection.’ And not intended as barter.

‘Precisely why I’ll have it.’

‘Impossible.’ Micki stepped forward and slid down the hidden zip fastening. ‘The gown is to feature in next season’s showing.’

Danika offered a supercilious glare. ‘Make another.’

Deep breaths…one, two…‘Then it won’t be an original,’ Ilana said calmly.

‘Tough.’

Bridal-wear became the final category, and Arabelle opted for the traditional, with exquisite lace, a demure neckline, and tiny covered buttons from nape to tailbone. A soft, flowing full-length skirt overlayed with lace moved like a dream with every step the model took.

The finale awaited the final judging…emotion and tension ran high among the assembled designers as to which one of them would win in each given category.

Meanwhile the models hovered, ready to don the winning garment.

This was the moment everyone had been waiting for, and the organisers played up the drama, building the excitement as the judging numbers were handed in.

Then the winning categories were announced…from the beginning, and the model reappeared on stage with the designer to generous applause.

The suspense was killing, and Ilana clutched Micki’s hand as the evening-wear category was announced.

Arabelle won with the red gown.

And Arabelle took out the bridal category.

It was an incredible moment as Ilana and Micki went up on stage and stood together, wearing their signature black leggings and blousson tops and stiletto-heeled boots as Danika paraded the catwalk.

The presentation, the short speech. Elation, joy, nerves and relief.

Then it was time for the whole congratulatory thing as photographers’ cameras flashed in split-second unison.

‘Darling, I’m so very proud of you.’ Liliana hugged her tight. Others followed, until Ilana thought her head might spin.

‘Congratulations.’

The male voice was a familiar one, and she felt the thud of an increased pulse-beat as she turned slowly to meet Xandro’s steady gaze.

His presence was unexpected. Tonight’s event wasn’t something a heterosexual male would consider attending alone in normal circumstances.

Several questions raced through her brain. Could he be joining Danika later? Perhaps going on to a nightclub?

Or was he with someone else?

He didn’t lack for female partners, that was for sure!

Oh, for heaven’s sake…stop it! What if he is with someone else? As if you care!

So why this slight jolt of wishful longing? Almost as if some deeply hidden imp was bent on teasing her subconscious with what it might be like with this man.

‘Thanks.’

He emanated leashed strength and a degree of latent sensuality. It was a lethal combination, and much too much for any feminine peace of mind.

Beneath the sophisticated façade lay the heart and soul of a modern-day warrior. Ruthless, forceful and all-powerful. Only a fool would attempt to toy with him.

It was easy to see why women fell at his feet.

Fascination, the thrill of the chase…and the instinctive knowledge he knew precisely how to touch, with his hands, his mouth, to gift the ultimate pleasure. And take it for his own.

Flame and heat, searing, exultant at its zenith. But afterwards…what then?

‘Are you done?’ His barely audible voice held a faintly teasing quality, and she wondered with sudden shock just how long she’d stood there looking at him.

Please God, surely it was only seconds?

Soft warmth flooded her cheeks as she battled for composure, and she glimpsed his faint smile an instant before he lowered his head and brushed his mouth against her own.

His lips were warm, and she felt the teasing sweep of his tongue as it lightly caressed the shape of her mouth in a kiss that tore the breath from her throat. For it held the hint of more, so much more.

All she needed to do was tease the edge of his tongue with her own in silent invitation.

Except she didn’t. Couldn’t.

A faint tremor shook her body, and she prayed fervently he didn’t sense it.

Ilana was unprepared for the way his mouth hardened against her own as he cupped her face with his hands and went in deep, conveying evocative intimacy with practised ease.

It rocked her senses, and she was aware of a quickened pulse-beat, the seemingly loud thudding of her heart as she became lost in a sensual pool so intense there was only the man and the sensations he aroused.

Worse was her own unbidden response…something which surprised and devastated, given no man, not even her ex-fiancé, had managed to reach so deep into her emotions.

Almost as if he knew, he lightened his touch, withdrawing a little until he lifted his head.

For a moment she could only look at him, her eyes wide and impossibly dark as she caught something in his expression she was unable to define.

Then it was over as he released her, and she tried valiantly to assure herself it meant little.

Just a kiss, when celebratory hugs and kisses were being gifted in abundance.

And knew she lied.

His kiss struck a chord and stirred emotions in a place where she’d locked and thrown away the key.

A strangled sound escaped her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t tear her eyes from his.

Please, an inner voice decried. I don’t want this.

There was nothing she could read in his dark gaze, and she managed a faint smile as her attention was caught by another well-wisher.

Except his touch lingered, and she felt as if she was acting on autopilot long after he withdrew from sight. Why had he kissed her like that?

To impress her?

Or was he merely playing a game with her in order to make Danika jealous?

The latter thought brought a surge of anger and fostered a sense of deep resentment. There was no way she’d allow herself to be used as a pawn by any man…especially Xandro Caramanis!

What was more, she’d tell him so.

Arabelle’s win brought an invitation to participate in a charity fundraiser, requests to view her summer designs and firm bookings for months ahead.

‘I’ll go backstage and help the girls load our clothes into the van,’ Micki indicated quietly, and Ilana inclined her head.

‘I’ll come with you.’

The atmosphere was lighter, the models had changed into their own gear and most had left, together with the hair-stylists and make-up girls.

Camaraderie reigned, and, if there was disappointment from the designers who didn’t place, it didn’t show.

Ilana and Micki’s assistants had everything in hand. Shoes, accessories, faux jewellery were all individually boxed. Garments restored to their dress-bags, and it was only a matter of shifting them out to the van for transporting back to the workroom.

‘A word before I leave.’

Ilana summoned a smile as she turned to face Danika. ‘Thanks for filling in,’ she reiterated, and the model’s shoulders lifted in a dismissive gesture.

‘It’s what I do.’

And not the purpose of the conversation, if the model’s venomous glare was any indication.

‘Hands off Xandro.’

Her gaze was remarkably steady. ‘They were never on him.’ True. His hands had been on her.

If looks could kill, she’d drop dead on the floor.

With an elegant flounce Danika swivelled towards the exit and swiftly moved out of sight.

It was no secret the model had the hots for the Greek-born tycoon. Along with many of the city’s socialites.

Except Ilana Girard…the one young woman from whom Danika had nothing to fear.

The irony of it brought forth a wry smile.

‘We’re done.’ Micki lifted a hand and Ilana met it mid-air. ‘Now let’s party!’ She named a bar within walking distance, linked arms with Ilana and headed towards the exit. ‘Liliana will be there, of course.’ She waited a beat. ‘And Xandro.’

Ilana’s heart gave a sudden jolt, then settled into a faster beat. ‘Why Xandro?’

Micki lifted up a hand and ticked off a finger as she listed a few reasons. ‘Because he kissed you like a man determined to have more of you. He happened to be deep in conversation with your mother when I extended the invitation. And it’s high time you started dating again.’

‘You took it on yourself to arrange my life?’

‘Just the night,’ her friend and partner assured with a wicked grin. ‘What follows is none of my business.’

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing is going to happen.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Ilana shot her a dark glance. ‘I’m not interested.’

‘Ah,’ Micki allowed quietly. ‘But he is.’

‘I very much doubt it was more than a challenge.’ Her voice held wry humour. ‘Kiss the ice maiden and see if you can make her melt.’

‘And did you? Melt?’

In an ignominious puddle. Not that she’d admit it to anyone. ‘He’s practised in the art of kissing.’

‘No toe-curling, gut-wrenching, off-the-planet reaction?’

In spades, and then some.

She managed a light shrug. ‘Not really.’

Team Arabelle were already seated when Ilana and Micki walked into the trendy bar, and there was champagne on ice, finger food spread out on the table.

Xandro rose to his feet, indicated a seat next to his own, and before Ilana could refuse Micki took the chair opposite, leaving no choice.

There were champagne toasts, much light-hearted laughter…and her stomach executed a painful somersault as Xandro touched his flute to her own and held it there a few seconds too long. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and she felt suddenly out of her depth.

He was seated too close, his thigh only a few centimetres from her own, and she was far too aware of his potent masculinity.

Ambivalent feelings coursed through her veins, teasing her with what could be…if only she had the courage to reach out for it.

Followed by the fear of opening her vulnerable heart to a man who might destroy her.

It was far wiser to refrain from having anything to do with any man…Xandro Caramanis in particular.

At midnight the girls began making a move to end the evening, and together they converged on the pavement, caught up in ‘good-night’ hugs.

‘I’ll drive you home.’

Ilana spared Xandro a fixed glance and shook her head. ‘I’ll take a cab.’

‘No, you won’t.’

Was it her imagination, or did everyone suddenly disperse with discreet speed? Even Liliana.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Xandro took her hand in his. ‘My car is parked close by.’

‘Are you always so bossy?’

‘Let’s just go with I gave Liliana my word to see you safely home.’

Ilana found herself seated in a luxury vehicle before she had time to think about it. The result of a little too much champagne, or clever manipulation?

Music filtered softly through the car’s speaker system, and she leaned back against the head-rest and closed her eyes as she reflected on the evening…the clothes, the models, the judging. Winning.

And Xandro’s kiss.

Wow…was the word that came readily to mind.

What would he be like as a lover?

Not that she intended to find out.

Hell, she dared not go there. Instinct warned she’d never survive with her emotions intact.

Besides, how could she ever forget Grant Baxter’s dire threat after she’d opted out of their wedding?

I’ll kill you if you date another man.

For two years she hadn’t wanted to get close to any male of the species.

She assured herself nothing had changed.

Except it had. And she didn’t know what to do about it.




CHAPTER FOUR


‘WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.’

Ilana turned her head and looked at Xandro’s strong features beneath the lit bricked apron adjoining the entrance to her apartment building.

‘I wasn’t asleep.’

His teeth shone white as he smiled. ‘Pleasant thoughts?’

‘Thanks,’ she offered belatedly as she released the seat belt and reached for the door-clasp.

‘You’re welcome.’

She couldn’t move as he captured her face and leant in close for a brief evocative kiss.

Then he let her go, and she scrambled from the seat with undue haste. Otherwise she’d have been tempted to stay, wind her arms around his neck, and sink in against him as she returned the salutation.

And that would never do.

He waited until she passed security and entered the lift, then he fired the engine and eased the Bentley onto the street.

It had been a great night, Ilana determined as she entered her apartment. Terrific celebration. Winning took it off the Richter scale.

Tomorrow—today, she corrected as a last waking thought, was Sunday, and there was no need to set the alarm for some unearthly hour before dawn.



A caffeine hit followed by a hot shower helped a little, so too did something to eat, followed by a couple of painkillers and more hot strong coffee.

The apartment had been just a place to sleep for more than a week in the rundown to awards night, and Ilana gathered clothes, ran the washing machine and took care of a few essential household chores before changing into designer jeans and a loose top and heading for the workroom.

The sun’s rays fingered warmth as she trod the pavement, and she slid sunglasses into place from atop her head to shade the midday glare.

Cafés were filled with the Sunday-brunch crowd, and cars tracked the oceanfront road in search of parking.

A light breeze drifted in from the sea, feathering the fringes of numerous beach umbrellas dotted on the sandy foreshore.

For many the weekend invited relaxation, stretching out on the sand for the day to gain a tan, cooling off in the water, wandering across the road for sustenance in any one of several cafés.

Tantalising aromas teased the air, tempting her with the promise of a late lunch when she was done restoring order to the workroom.

Ilana unlocked the door, set down her bag, cellphone, and went to work clearing the detritus. There was a need to update her appointment book, check dates, asterisk possible openings and pencil in contact numbers.

Next came a close examination of garments that had graced the catwalk the previous evening. Some would require spot cleaning, others put aside for the dry-cleaner, and she needed to scrutinise hems for any minuscule damage.

In general, models were careful, but occasionally in the rush of a quick-change it was possible for a lacquered nail to catch in a seam, a hemline.

It took a while, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief that only two garments required minimum repairs, and she’d assembled those needing the dry-cleaner.

Ilana crossed to the refrigerator and filched bottled water, unscrewed the top and took several long swallows before capping it.

Almost done.

For a moment she indulged in a mental review of the previous evening, visualising each garment in each category…only to pause with a frown.

The red evening gown. It wasn’t among the collection of garments returned to the workroom.

A tight ball of tension curled inside her stomach.

She had to be wrong…but she knew with sickening certainty she wasn’t.

Danika. It had to be.

What she wanted to do was call the model and breathe fire and brimstone!

Damn. She needed the complication like a hole in the head!

Instead, she had little recourse but to contact Danika’s agency, explain, request return of the gown and offer another in its place.

At that moment her cellphone pealed, and she picked up, offered her usual greeting…and received silence.

She checked the battery level, saw it was fine, then heard the call disconnect.

Within minutes it rang again, with the same result, and when she activated the call-back feature it registered a private number, denying access.

Weird. Unless the caller was close to an out-of-range area and the cellphone was cracking up.

Ilana had the model agency she used on speed-dial, and an answering machine picked up.

It was Sunday…what did she expect? A further call to the manager’s cellphone went straight to message-bank.

A muttered oath spilled from her lips. Defeated and angry, she had little option but to lock up, go have lunch, then return to her apartment.

She chose a café, ordered, and picked up the leading city newspaper from a selection the café offered its clientele.

The waiter delivered a chai latte, and she barely had time to take more than a sip when her cellphone pealed.

‘Should I warn him you’re a frigid little bitch?’

The call disconnected before she had a chance to respond, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to control the surge of shocked anger rising from deep within.

Grant?

Emerging out of the woodwork after nearly two years?

An icy shiver shook her slender frame. Why? And why now?

Unless…

No, it wasn’t possible anything she’d done or said had stirred the dark beast that lurked beneath her ex-fiancé’s surface charm.

Her mind went into overdrive as she replayed his words.

Then it clicked.

The photographers at the Fashion Design Awards. Surely one of them hadn’t captured the moment Xandro touched her mouth with his own?

Ilana flipped pages until she reached the social section, and she quickly scanned the featured prints, honed in on one of them and felt the breath catch in her throat.

If the photo didn’t spell it out, the caption certainly did, followed by printed text speculating Xandro Caramanis and Ilana Girard were an item, given they’d been seen together several times over the past few weeks.

Hell. The omnipotent innuendo of the Press.

Did they realise what they’d done?

An item?

Together?

She wanted to curl her hands into fists and hit something. Or someone!



Could she demand a correction?

Sure, and pigs might fly! The newspaper editor would fall about laughing.

He had no conception of the effect that particular photo, caption and text would have on her life, or any knowledge her ex-fiancé was a practised chameleon capable of extreme rage.

A waiter delivered her food, and she looked at the Caesar salad, then forced herself to fork a few mouthfuls before pushing the plate to one side, her appetite gone.

Ilana paid her bill and walked towards her apartment building. Nervous tension tightened the muscles in her stomach to a painful degree, and it wasn’t until she was safely inside that the tension began to ease a little.

The light was blinking on her answering machine, and she hit the play-back function, pen in hand.

A message from Liliana, one from Micki, a few congratulatory calls, then Grant’s voice—

‘I’m watching you.’

Her landline was ex-directory, and it unnerved her Grant had managed to access it.

Anger meshed with very real fear as she retrieved Xandro’s card and dialled his cellphone.

He picked up on the third ring. ‘Ilana.’

Her fingers tightened on the phone. ‘Do you have any idea what problems the newspaper photograph and idle social supposition has caused?’ Her voice was tight, controlled and angry. ‘Or its ramifications?’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘You can’t—’

‘Ten minutes, Ilana.’

The call disconnected, and she hit redial, heard it ring, then it went direct to message-bank.

A very unladylike oath fell from her lips.

Damn him!

If he arrived at her apartment building and Grant was watching…

Without thought she collected her bag and keys, then took the lift down to the lobby.

She was a mass of nerves by the time Xandro’s Bentley swept into the entrance, and she had to consciously force her feet to walk at a normal pace, when every nerve-end suggested she run.

Calm, she must remain calm, she told herself as she reached the car, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

‘Please. Can we get away from here?’

Xandro wanted to demand an answer, and he would…soon. But for now he did as she asked, and drove until he reached Double Bay, then he cut the engine.

‘Let’s go.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘We’ll relax, eat, and you can tell me what’s worrying you.’

She flung him a cautious look. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

He crossed round to her side of the car and opened the door. ‘Maybe you’ll be tempted by an entrée.’

Minutes later they entered a charming restaurant where the maître d’ greeted Xandro with the deference of a valued patron, seated them, then sent the wine steward to their table.

Ilana declined in favour of chilled water, and Xandro joined her before perusing the menu and ordering for both of them.

The waiter retreated, and Xandro regarded her carefully, noting the agitated way the pulse beat at the base of her throat. The barely controlled anxiety emanating from her slender frame.

‘The photograph in today’s newspaper,’ he prompted.

Where did she begin? And how much did she explain?

Enough…just enough to have him understand.

‘My ex-fiancé made certain…threats, when I cancelled the wedding.’

‘And you’re concerned the photograph will reach his attention?’

Ilana hesitated a fraction too long, and his eyes narrowed. ‘It already has?’

‘Yes.’

‘Problems?’

She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly as she inclined her head.

He regarded her carefully. ‘As in?’

‘Please…just accept my word for it.’

‘Do you consider yourself to be in any danger?’

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Did abusive phone calls come under that heading?

Threats…as long as they remained verbal, were nuisance value.

Yet if Grant acted on any of them, then the answer had to be yes.

Except who knew for certain? How could she judge?

What good would it do to explain her ex-fiancé was mentally unbalanced?

It wouldn’t change a thing, for the photograph constituted damage already done.

The waiter delivered their order, and Ilana toyed with the food on her plate while Xandro ate with enjoyment.

‘I want to spend time with you.’

Her heart seemed to stop, then race to a quicker beat. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Because of your ex-fiancé’s threats?’

She wanted to cry out that he didn’t understand…except somehow she suspected he knew too well.

‘Perhaps I’ve lost all trust in the male of the species?’

‘You’re sufficiently intelligent to know all men are not the same.’

‘They all want the same thing.’

‘Sex? There’s a vast difference between sex for the sake of it, and lovemaking.’

‘Really?’

His eyes speared her own. ‘A man who ignores gifting a woman pleasure whilst seeking his own displays carelessness.’

‘Who could doubt your vast experience?’

His soft laughter did strange things to her equilibrium, and for a wild moment she mentally envisaged what it might be like to take Xandro as a lover.

Akin to inviting emotional nirvana…with only one end.

It wouldn’t last, of course. How could it? But oh, what a journey!

‘I have tickets for dinner and a show Tuesday evening. I’d like for you to join me. Shall we say six-thirty?’

Xandro was asking her out?

‘I don’t think—’

‘Six-thirty,’ he insisted as he signalled for the bill.

Independence had her reaching for her wallet, only to have Xandro voice a determined refusal.

Ilana sat in silence as he sent the Bentley along the arterial road leading to Bondi.





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