Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess

But she’d simply have to stress that their dislike of each other was a positive advantage under the circumstances. And that any acceptance of her terms would be strictly business.

After all, she told herself grimly, she didn’t want that appalling male arrogance, which seemed as natural to him as breathing, to persuade him for one second that she found him even remotely attractive.

His pretty blonde might be a snag, of course, but she could hardly raise any real objections to the scheme, as she was married herself.

And as she turned over, punching the pillow into submission, a name came floating into her mind, reminding her of someone in the art world she might approach. ‘Desmond Slevin,’ she murmured with drowsy satisfaction, and closed her eyes, smiling.

The following morning brought a few misgivings, but no real second thoughts.

If he chose to co-operate, this Roan could secure Gracemead for her after all. Therefore she had to pursue the idea that had come to her last night.

At the office, having meekly handed her report to Tony, and attended to any urgent business, she did a quick computer check on her designated prey.

Desmond Slevin, an art dealer and collector, who owned the Parsifal Gallery in the West End, was a former tenant now living in Surrey.

Harriet had read a piece about him quite recently in one of the broadsheets, describing him as one of the treasure seekers of the art world, always on the look-out for new and gifted painters. If it was true, he might be just the man she needed.

Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.

‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’

Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’

‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’

She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’

He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’

‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’

‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’

‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’

He laughed. ‘Which doesn’t always mean much. Does he know that you’ve come to see me on his behalf?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It was just an impulse, really.’

‘So you don’t know whether he’d be interested in selling his work?’

‘Well, of course he would. Why ever not?’

Desmond Slevin’s sigh held a touch of cynicism. ‘My dear, I’ve met many in my time who feel their work is unique, and of far too lofty significance to be handled commercially. Therefore I find it’s always best to check in advance.’

‘I don’t think that would apply in this case.’ Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘So, if I talk to him first, would you be willing to see his paintings? Give an opinion?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why not?’ He raised a minatory finger. ‘Just as long as you both understand that it doesn’t necessarily mean a deal.’

‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’

‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ he said, and rose.

‘You know,’ he said as he accompanied her through the gallery to the street door. ‘It occurs to me you’re going to a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.’ He paused, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But I’m sure you know your own business best.’

I wouldn’t count on it, Harriet thought grimly as she pinned on a beaming smile and walked away. In fact, I might well be making one of life’s more serious mistakes.

If, in fact, she went through with it. Because, as she kept reminding herself, she didn’t have to do this. She could still pull out, and no harm done. Tell Desmond Slevin that, after all, the paintings hadn’t repaid a second, closer inspection, and she was sorry for wasting his time. A smile and a shrug, and it would be all over.

But so would Gracemead, as a telephone conversation with her grandfather that same evening swiftly confirmed. Because if she’d hoped that his attitude might be softening at this late stage, she was gravely disappointed. He was still completely adamant in his views.

‘Stay a career woman if that’s what you want, Harriet,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Although I hear even that isn’t going so well these days. Live alone in that bleak flat of yours. But you’ll have no need of a family house and Gracemead can be put to better use.’

She put the phone down feeling sick at heart, and not just about the house. His comment about her work had struck a chill too.

So, gritting her teeth, she sat down to bait her hook. But what could she say to tempt him? I have a proposal for you? No, too blatant. A proposition? God, even worse.

And where could they meet? She didn’t want to go to his studio again. Somewhere public would be preferable. Even essential. A restaurant maybe? But for lunch, perhaps, rather than dinner. Or was that all too social?

Eventually she came up with a form of words which would have to do. And she was annoyed to find her hand shaking as she dialled his mobile number. It was almost a relief to find she was speaking to his voicemail.

She said steadily, ‘This is Harriet Flint. I have a business matter I would like to discuss with you, which could be to your advantage. Perhaps you would meet me for afternoon tea on Saturday at the Titan Palace Hotel, at four-thirty.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘If this is inconvenient, please contact me at Flint Audley between nine and six to arrange another appointment.’

Well, that was brisk and businesslike enough, which was why she’d chosen the Titan Palace as an appropriate rendezvous. As one of the capital’s newest hotels, it was large, impersonal and catering for an upmarket business clientele. A place where deals were done.

Also, afternoon tea sounded very correct and English. Fairly aloof, too, so he couldn’t possibly infer that he was being asked out on some kind of date.

Although there was still no guarantee, of course, that he’d turn up, no matter how she phrased the invitation.

But Saturday arrived with no cancellation, so it seemed they were destined for another confrontation after all.

Harriet went through the predominantly black contents of her wardrobe several times before deciding on a pair of taupe linen trousers, with a matching thigh-length jacket worn over a stone coloured tee shirt. Neutral but neat.

Besides, one odious comparison with a bat was quite sufficient in anybody’s lifetime, she thought, her mouth tightening.

For a moment, she contemplated leaving her hair loose, then decided it was probably wiser to wear it in her usual style, severely drawn back from her face. And definitely no cosmetics.

She got to the appointment early, and took a seat in the hotel’s vast lounge, where she could keep a beady eye on the main entrance into the hotel foyer.

It was an impressive place, she thought, glancing round her, and busy too. Afternoon teas were clearly doing a roaring trade, and the soft sounds of a pianist playing gentle jazz were only just audible above the hum of conversation. But a crowd she could blend into was exactly what she wanted.

Although it was never her intention to become invisible, she thought with faint irritation, as she made another of several vain attempts to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter.

And as she settled back into her chair with a sigh, she suddenly realised that Roan was there, walking towards her. Was aware too of an odd stillness at his approach, with people leaning towards each other at neighbouring tables, and murmuring.

But maybe they were simply planning to have him thrown out for breaking some dress code, she thought with disfavour. The jeans he was wearing were elderly, but clean, fitting him like a second skin, and his white shirt had at least one too many buttons undone. The cuffs were casually turned back, revealing bronzed forearms, and his bare feet were thrust into espadrilles. He still needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Yet for all that …

Barring any such thought, she got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Hi.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘So you came after all.’

The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’

‘Yes, of course. Please sit down.’ She sounded as if she was conducting a job interview, but maybe that was the correct note to use, she thought as she resumed her own seat. ‘I’ve been trying to order tea, but—’

She broke off as he lifted a languid hand, and two waiters came running, as if all they’d been waiting for was his signal.

‘The lady would like tea. Coffee for me, please.’

Harriet, bewildered and pardonably annoyed, watched the deference with which his instructions were received.

‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.

‘It wasn’t difficult.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you wish to begin our discussion now, or shall we talk about the weather until we have been served?’

‘Now would be best, perhaps,’ she said stiffly. ‘You must be wondering why I asked for this meeting.’

His brows lifted sardonically. ‘I am breathless with curiosity.’

Harriet bit her lip—hard, then addressed herself to the prepared script. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour at our last meeting. I can only say that I’ve been under a great deal of pressure lately, and your sketch of me was …’

‘The last straw?’ he supplied helpfully as she hesitated.

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. Although unforgivable was what I really had in mind. ‘I want you to know that I don’t usually lose my temper in such a way.’

‘Reassuring,’ he said. ‘But did you bring me all the way across London just to tell me that?’

‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed. ‘I really want to talk about your work. You see, I wasn’t pretending when I said it was good, and I—I’ve mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, who owns quite a well-known gallery—the Parsifal. You may have heard of it.’

‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.

Harriet ploughed on. ‘Anyway there’s a chance—if he also thinks you’re good—that he might stage an exhibition for you. Get you launched.’

At which point, the waiters returned. Plates of tiny finger sandwiches, scones, and cakes oozing cream were placed on the table, along with tea for Harriet, and a pot of coffee served black for her companion.

When they were finally alone again, she said, ‘You do realise what could be on offer here. Haven’t you—anything to say?’

‘I think I’m stunned,’ he returned slowly. ‘Also wary.’

‘It’s all perfectly genuine,’ she protested. ‘He’s a prominent figure in the art world. If he decides to feature you at his gallery, it would be a terrific break for your career.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘But what I need to know is why you, of all people, should have recommended me to this person. I find it puzzling.’

‘I feel you have talent which should be recognised. I’d like to play my part in that—recognition.’

She didn’t sound particularly convincing, she thought, vexed, but then the conversation was not going exactly as planned either. How can I ever thank you? was actually the response she’d been hoping for, if not depending on.

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Is it really that simple?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. Because I have to tell you, Miss Flint, that you are not my idea of a philanthropist.’

She sat very still. She said, ‘Then you’re not interested in this offer?’

‘Interested, yes, but not overwhelmed. You must understand I need to find out what you expect in return.’ His smile seemed to skin her to the bone. ‘In case the price is more than I’m prepared to pay.’

So that was that. For a moment she felt completely numb, then she reached for her bag. ‘In that case, there’s nothing more to be said. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

‘Now you’re being a fool,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to consider your terms, I suggest you stay where you are. Do what the British generally do at a crisis, and drink some tea.’

For a moment, she was tempted to storm out, having first emptied the teapot over his head, then she remembered what was at stake here and reluctantly subsided, giving him a muted glare.

‘Has anyone told you that you’re insolent?’ she enquired coldly.

He shrugged. ‘And you, Miss Flint, are clearly both devious and determined,’ he retorted. ‘Let us accept that neither of us is perfect, and move on.’

She took a breath. ‘I have—a problem. I need a husband.’

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Then the answer is simple. Get married.’

‘But I don’t want to be married, not now, not ever.’ She spoke with quiet vehemence. ‘However, I don’t have a choice.’ She paused. ‘So, I need someone prepared to go through a marriage ceremony with me, then get out of my life.’

‘And I clearly need more coffee,’ he said. ‘Or even something stronger. Unless, of course, you can promise me that you have not, even for a moment, cast me in this unlikely role.’

‘Listen to me—please.’ She leaned forward. ‘It’s a form of words in a register office—that’s all. We say them—and we split. When the marriage has served its purpose, we divorce. And I pay all the expenses.

‘What’s more, I’ll pay you an additional lump sum big enough for you to stage your own exhibition, if the Parsifal Gallery isn’t interested in your work, or to spend in any other way you please. That’s not a variable. You really won’t lose out over this.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Tell me, Miss Flint, how long did it take for you to invent this incredible fantasy?’

She shook her head. ‘No fantasy. I’m deadly serious. And desperate.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ he said grimly. ‘But why?’ His dark gaze seemed to drill into hers. ‘And please do not say it does not concern me, when it clearly does.’

Harriet pushed away her untouched tea. ‘Very well—if you must know,’ she acceded reluctantly, ‘unless I’m married by my twenty-fifth birthday, I stand to lose something that means the world to me.’ She swallowed. ‘My grandfather, who operates from the Dark Ages, insists that he will not allow me to inherit my childhood home if I don’t have a husband to help with the running of the estate. He feels a family house would be wasted on a single woman, and that I might fall prey to unscrupulous—people.’

‘You think a husband picked off the streets would not fall into this category?’

‘Naturally, I would insist on a strict pre-nuptial agreement.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ he said. His expression was deadpan but there was a slight tremor in his voice.

She gave him a suspicious glare. ‘You seem to think it’s funny.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I think it’s tragic.’ He paused. ‘And your birthday is—when?’

‘In six weeks’ time.’

‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I would have thought you much younger.’ He added coolly, ‘And that is not intended as a compliment.’

‘Fortunately, your opinion of me doesn’t matter. My only concern is Gracemead.’ She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I actually found someone to marry through a personal ad, but a few days ago he suddenly backed out—and now I’m stranded.’

‘Or had a lucky escape,’ he suggested unsmilingly.

‘I saw it as a no-risk strategy,’ Harriet said defiantly. ‘Where we both gain. I still do.’

He said harshly. ‘Then I am not surprised your grandfather wishes you to have a husband. I am only astonished he allows you to go about without a keeper.’

‘How—how dare you?’ Her voice shook. ‘If that’s all you can say, let’s forget the whole thing.’

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that stopped her unwillingly in her tracks. ‘I presume that my introduction to this gallery owner depends on my acquiescence to this monstrous plan—am I right?’

‘Naturally,’ she returned curtly. ‘That’s the deal on the table. A straightforward quid pro quo.’

‘I do not think we share the same understanding of “straightforward”,’ he drawled. ‘How much are you planning to pay in cash for my compliance? I ask only because I have never been for sale before, and I wish to savour the experience—to the full.’

She sat up very straight. ‘The exact terms have to be agreed, but I think you’ll find me generous,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite sure that I will.’

She found his faint smile distinctly unnerving, and continued hastily, ‘Afterwards we would live and work exactly as we do now—apart.’ She coloured a little. ‘And of course you’d be free to conduct your—private life just as you wish. I wouldn’t dream of imposing any restrictions on your personal conduct.’

‘You are too gracious, Miss Flint.’ His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. ‘And I would also be expected to turn a blind eye if you chose to take a lover? Is that what you’re saying?’

She frowned. ‘Well, no. I mean—how could you possibly know? It’s not as if we’ll be meeting at any point before we divorce.’ She added with constraint, ‘And, anyway, it won’t happen. I have no intention of becoming involved in that kind of relationship.’

‘So sex has no place in your life,’ he murmured, his lips twisting. ‘Well that, perhaps, explains your unpleasant temper.’

She said icily, ‘And that, if I may say so, is a typically male viewpoint.’

‘But I am a man, Miss Flint. What else do you expect?’ He paused. ‘Let us return to essentials. Do you truly believe your grandfather will quietly accept the appearance in your life of some complete stranger? That he will not smell a very large and very pungent rat?’

She shrugged defensively. ‘He’s put his demands in writing. They say nothing about the nature of the relationship, just that it should legally exist. Nor does he mention the length of time any marriage should last. And that’s where he made his mistake.’

She lifted her chin. ‘He thinks he has me over a barrel, but he has to learn that I’m my own woman, and he can’t control me in this way. Also that no contract is entirely foolproof.’

‘Then for once we are in agreement.’ His tone was ironic. ‘But we might differ on who may turn out to be the fool in all this.’

He was silent for a long moment, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, his glance flickering thoughtfully over her.

At last, ‘Very well, Miss Flint,’ he said quietly. ‘Crazy as it is, I accept your proposal. I will marry you on the terms discussed.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am—more than grateful.’

Hs glance was frankly cynical. ‘I think that remains to be seen.’ He paused. ‘As we are now officially engaged, am I permitted to call you Harriet?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ She flushed. ‘And I need to know the rest of your name—for when I break the good news to my grandfather.’

‘I am Zandros,’ he said. ‘Roan Zandros.’ He leaned forward, offering his hand, and before she realised what she was doing Harriet allowed her fingers to be clasped by his. His touch was warm and strong, and in spite of herself she felt her pulses leap in an unexpected and unwelcome response.

And saw his firm mouth slant, as if he’d gauged her reaction, and was amused by it.

He said softly, ‘To our better acquaintance, Harriet mou.’ Then, before she could free herself, he raised her hand almost ceremoniously to his lips and kissed it, leaving her gasping.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT on earth are you doing?’ Harriet snatched back her hand, furiously aware that she was blushing.

‘A formal seal to our betrothal.’ He sounded completely unconcerned. ‘That is all.’

‘Thank you,’ she said grittily. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with any further formalities.’

He was grinning now. ‘Of course, if that is what you wish.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’ Something told her she was being absurd to make such a fuss over so little. After all, the kiss had barely lasted a second. Yet she had a curious conviction that if she looked at her hand she would see the mark of his mouth burning like a brand on her skin.

Anxious to dismiss the incident, she hurried into speech. ‘Zandros—that’s a Greek name?’

‘You seem surprised.’

‘No, not really,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that—you speak English so well.’

‘I had an English mother, and I spent a lot of time in this country when I was young. Also, it was where I began my education.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Roan said, not unkindly. ‘But there is no reason why you should.’ He paused. ‘So, when do you plan to tell your grandfather about this sudden change in your circumstances?’

‘I’ll go down next weekend and talk to him.’

He nodded meditatively. ‘And how will you explain me? I cannot be the grandson he had in mind.’

‘No,’ Harriet agreed. ‘Quite the contrary, which makes it all the better.’

His glance held faint reproof. ‘In your view, perhaps. But if I may offer some advice,’ he added dryly, ‘you should not gloat too openly over your victory. A man does not like to find himself bested by a woman.’

‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘But it’s hardly that, because I’m doing exactly what he wants. So how can he complain if I interpret that in my own way?’

‘Experience suggests he may complain very bitterly. Does your desire for this pile of bricks and mortar really justify causing such upset?’

Harriet looked down at the table. She said constrictedly, ‘Don’t get me wrong. I love him—I really do. But he doesn’t understand my need to live as an independent woman, and he never has. He has to accept that.’

‘And your parents? What have they to say about this?’

She said, ‘They’re—no longer around.’

He glanced at her frowningly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve had years to grow accustomed to it.’

‘You are fortunate. My mother died nearly three years ago, and she is still constantly in my thoughts.’ He leaned back in his chair, his gaze watchful. ‘This house you want so much—without marriage, who will be there to inherit it when you are gone?’

She said defensively, ‘I could always adopt a child.’

‘A single woman?’ His brows rose. ‘Does the law allow this?’

‘Why not? After all, I shan’t be poor, and money opens all kinds of doors.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am beginning to see that.’ His smile was ironic. ‘But, as one of those doors has opened for me, I can hardly complain.’ He paused again. ‘You do not think that one day you will meet a man you can love, and wish to have his babies?’

‘No,’ Harriet said shortly. ‘I don’t. And may we please leave my personal foibles to one side, and get back to business? I’d already started on the arrangements when I thought I was going to marry—the other man, but there’s still a great deal to do.’ She looked down at her bare hands. ‘For one thing, I need a ring.’

‘That is usually the bridegroom’s responsibility,’ he said. ‘Therefore, you may leave it to me.’

‘It’s hardly an expense you can afford,’ she returned. ‘Besides, you don’t know the correct size.’

‘I could make an educated guess.’ He looked her over, eyes narrowed. ‘As I could do about the size of everything you are wearing at this moment. Do you wish me to demonstrate?’