Irresistible Bargain With The Greek / His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

CHAPTER FOUR

CAREFULLY, TALIA SAT herself down in the wide leather first-class seat on the plane, feeling tense and strained. Luke had taken the window seat and had immediately snapped open his laptop. He was taking as little notice of her as he had when she’d joined him in the First-Class Lounge, where he had merely glanced at her and nodded briefly.

Inside her chest she could feel her heart thudding. Seeing him again, even knowing who he was and what he had done, was still an ordeal.

But it’s an ordeal I’m going to have to bear. I have to bear it just as I have to bear everything else. Because I don’t have any choice in the matter.

She didn’t—and she knew she didn’t. She had known all through that gruelling twenty-four hours Luke had allowed her to make her decision that there was only one answer she could give. She had to take his job offer. If it was the only way to stop herself and her mother being summarily evicted from the Marbella villa she had to take it. That was all there was to it.

And when she’d broken the news to her mother she had only felt that decision reinforced.

As she fastened her seat belt she deliberately made herself remember the expression on her mother’s face when, on her return from Switzerland, she’d sat down on her mother’s bed and told her that they could stay on in the villa for the time being. As her mother’s fearful and haggard face had lit with relief Talia had gone on to tell her the exciting news that she’d been offered an interior design job. The only downside was that it would take her to the Caribbean for a fortnight.

Her mother’s expression had faltered momentarily, then she had rallied. ‘You mustn’t worry about me a bit! Maria will look after me while you’re away. And it’s just what you need—a chance to use your talents! I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time—it won’t be all work, will it? Oh, I do envy you!’ Maxine Grantham’s eyes had softened. ‘It’s such a romantic place, the Caribbean! Of course your father never liked it…’

Her voice had wavered for a moment, and then she’d become momentarily reminiscent.

‘I had a boyfriend once, you know, when I was a teenager. He talked of sailing to every island there—’ She had broken off, then made her tone suddenly hopeful. ‘Oh, my darling, perhaps you’ll meet someone special there! Oh, that would be too wonderful! To be romanced beneath a tropical moon!’

Talia had changed the subject, but she’d not been able to banish her mother’s words from her head.

‘Romanced beneath a tropical moon…’

Memory had struck her again—but they were memories of what had never happened. She had never flown off with Luke that morning after their searing night together—never fled with him as she had so longed to do.

She had felt her thoughts shift and rearrange themselves. If she took this job with him, flew to the Caribbean… Hope, like a beguiling spirit, had welled within her. Was it possible? Could it be possible…?

Could I have a second chance with him? Dare I hope for the romantic escape we should have had?

She had felt hope strengthen, take wings. Longing had filled her.

Yet now, as she sat beside him on the plane, only anguish filled her. Her mother’s words mocked her. Indeed, her own longings were mocking her.

At her side, Luke was focussed on his laptop, a faint frown of concentration between his eyes, clearly not paying the slightest heed to her presence. She felt the anguish stab at her. She knew she must subdue these dangerous, forbidden thoughts that came unbidden, but they were impossible to banish—especially the one thought that lingered, with a temptation that she felt clinging to her like a fine mesh of gold.

What if being in the Caribbean with Luke could bring them together again? What if what had happened after that party could happen again? What if he turned to her now and, instead of cold indifference, she saw in his eyes the warmth she longed for…?

‘Champagne, madam?’

A stewardess was hovering with pre-flight drinks. With a start, Talia shook her head, taking an orange juice instead. Luke merely waved the tray away, not even looking up. That ache of anguish came again, silencing the pointless flare of hope that had fluttered so uselessly just a second ago.

With a silent sigh, she reached for her paperback, wanting her thoughts silenced, wanting to be diverted by something—anything that might get her through what lay ahead.

Hope was impossible—only torment was certain. Torment and regret.

I threw it away. I threw away my chance of seizing the happiness he promised me. And I walked out back to my prison.

The print in the paperback hazed and blurred. But what use was it for her to weep for what she had done? She had had to do it—nothing else had been possible.

Bleakly, she went on reading, numbing herself as best she could through the long flight. Luke barely spoke to her, and she was grateful—and yet his silence hammered nail after nail into her, showing her just how great was the distance between them.

No trace of intimacy. No trace of anything at all.

The same impersonal indifference continued once they had landed, and Talia spent the journey from the airport gazing out through the window of the chauffeur-driven car they’d climbed into.

The lush green of the island entranced her, along with the vivid glow of the setting sun, and when, after forty minutes or so, the car wound its way along a paved drive to draw up at a large house, she was happy to get out and gaze around her, feeling the humid warmth engulf her like a soft cashmere shawl after the chill of the climate-controlled car interior.

‘Oh, this is beautiful!’ she could not stop herself exclaiming as she gazed around at the lush gardens, with splashes of vivid colour from the tropical flowers all about.

She got no acknowledgement from Luke, who was striding indoors, so she followed him in. She’d wondered if they were heading for a hotel, but this was clearly a private villa. The large atrium-style hall reached up to high rafters, a reception room opened beyond, and there was a mahogany staircase sweeping upstairs. Staff appeared out of nowhere, murmuring in an island lilt, taking their suitcases upstairs, and Talia’s bulky portfolio case and art kit.

She hesitated, not knowing what she should do, and Luke, striding towards a door at the side of the hall, turned his head.

‘We’ll be dining in an hour. Don’t keep me waiting.’

It was all he said before he disappeared into a room in which Talia could glimpse a desk and IT equipment. He shut the door behind him with a decisive click.

With a sigh, Talia followed the luggage upstairs.

Bleakness filled her, and a weariness that came not only from the long flight. It went much deeper than that…

I’ve lost him—lost him for ever… And I must abandon any hope of winning him back.

She had to accept what Luke was making so chillingly clear—he had no interest in her any longer. Not as the woman she’d been at that party. There could be no second chance.

Wearily, she showered and started to get ready. A maid had unpacked for her, and as Talia selected a dress to wear she deliberately chose one her father had approved of. He had always wanted her to wear only fussy, over-styled clothes, and this knee-length dress in a pastel shade of pale blue did not suit her—but it would signal to Luke that she was well aware she was no longer of any personal interest to him. From now on she must remember that she was here only to work. Nothing more than that.

A tightness clutched around her heart, but there was nothing she could do about it.

He doesn’t want me any more.

That was the truth—bleak, unvarnished—and she had to face it.

Luke sat at the head of the long table in the villa’s dining room, his gaze focusing down the table to where Talia was sitting, immobile and expressionless. His face tightened. Inside him he felt the emotions he’d become all too familiar with, scything inside him. How could he still find her so beautiful?

Just as she had that day in his office in Lucerne, she looked nothing like the way she had at that party—there was no wanton wildness about her at all, no tightly sheathed body, no exposed shoulders and bare arms, no swaying walk from five-inch heels.

Now, she was dressed for the evening, in a knee-length cocktail dress that was high-necked and long-sleeved—as if, he thought with an illogical spurt of anger, she were deliberately hiding her figure from him. Her hair was caught in the same plain coil at the back of her head that it had been in on the flight, and she had not put on any make-up, let alone jewellery.

A thought flickered in his mind. Maybe there wasn’t any jewellery left for her to wear…

After all, she couldn’t even afford to pay rent on a single one of Gerald Grantham’s many properties. There probably wasn’t much jewellery these days.

She would be feeling the lack of it.

His eyes flickered over her, unconsciously changing her concealing gown to something much more to his taste. Something that would show her voluptuous cleavage, ripe for adornment with something glittering and expensive.

He tore his mind away. She wasn’t here to look alluring. That was the last thing he should want her to do. It had been hard enough to have her sitting beside him hour after hour on the flight over and make himself blank her presence. It had been next to impossible not to turn his head and drink in that beauty that had caught his breath as it did again now, even when she was wearing the unflattering dress. But he must not yield to such a dangerous temptation.

She’s here to work, to earn the right to go on living in a villa she can no longer afford.

It was time to remind her of that. Even more, to remind himself.

The staff were setting plates in front of them and pouring wine as Luke spoke. ‘I’ll be visiting the site first thing tomorrow morning,’ he said abruptly, lifting his fork and starting to eat. He was hungry after the change in time zone and it was past midnight on his body clock. ‘Because of the heat and the jet lag we’ll make an early start.’

He saw her swallow and take a drink from her glass. ‘Where is the site?’ she asked. ‘And what kind of property is it?’

It seemed to be an effort for her to speak, and that annoyed him. Why she should be radiating tension on all frequencies was beyond him. She was the one who’d rejected him. It had been her choice to leave, not his.

It was pointless to wonder, yet again, whether he was clinically insane to have brought her out here with him. He’d oscillated continuously in the twenty-four hours he’d given her to make her mind up, between cancelling his impulsive offer and raising the stakes on it. When she’d walked up to him in the airport lounge he’d felt that toxic mix of emotion writhe in him again, and he’d been plunged into confusion once more.

It filled him still, but he was hammering it down, refusing to face it. He had been insane to bring her here—truly mad to subject himself to her presence—but it was too late to change his mind. She was here and he would have to deal with it. Whatever strength of mind it took, he had to make this Caribbean project work and then get on with the rest of his life.

I can make myself indifferent to her. I can expose myself to her presence and get her out of my damn system.

His jaw set. That was what he must focus on. This time he would set the finish date: she’d stay here for a fortnight, work solidly to pay her rent, and would leave when he dismissed her. This time he would call the shots—not her.

And by the time she left—had been dismissed by him—he would have worked her out of his system. She would mean nothing to him and he would watch her being despatched from his life, on his terms, with all the indifference he was currently trying to present to her. But by then it would be genuine indifference—not the feigned, deliberate impassivity he was treating her with now.

He answered her finally, in the same clipped tone of voice he’d used for all their brief exchanges so far.

‘It’s a hotel in the south of the island, where the Caribbean coastline meets the Atlantic. It’s where the hurricanes hit if they reach this far. As they did last year.’

She’d started to eat, but looked up as he spoke.

He went on dryly. ‘Don’t worry, we’re out of hurricane season now. But last year the tip of the island was struck by a particularly vicious one—climate change is, as you probably know, fuelling their force and their frequency. The area we’re visiting got a hammering.’

‘Is the hotel still worth refurbishing?’ she asked frowningly.

‘That’s what I’m checking out,’ he said. Dryness had turned to terseness.

She was speaking again, her voice diffident, as if she were unsure whether to speak at all, and that irritated him more.

‘How badly damaged is it?’ she asked.

‘The external construction has borne up well—it was built to resist wind shear. But the interior has been blasted totally. It needs complete renovation.’

For the first time there was a spark of animation in her face, lightening her features. ‘What do you have in mind?’ she asked.

Luke’s mouth thinned. ‘Surprise me,’ he said flatly.

He was aware that he was supressing a stab of emotion he did not want to allow admittance. That the spark of animation in her expression which had brightened her eyes, giving her a glow for the first since she’d joined him in the airport lounge, had kicked at something inside him. For a few seconds she had looked as she had that first evening—with her eyes alight, responding to him, desiring him…

He repelled the memory. No point remembering that night, however much it hammered in his brain. It was over. Done. It wasn’t coming back.

She was replying. ‘I have to work to the client’s brief,’ she said tightly. There was no animation in her reply to his crushing rebuff.

Her father, the only client she’d been allowed to have, had been exacting in his briefs, and she had learnt long ago not to challenge him on what he wanted, or even suggest any modifications. Her father had not wanted creative input—he’d wanted docile compliance. She had produced only what he’d wanted, whatever her own opinions.

‘Well, my brief to you is to come up with your own ideas,’ Luke said indifferently.

Talia subsided, focussing once more on her meal. From the far end of the table Luke watched her close down again as she continued eating, and he said nothing more to her. She looked tired, he realised, and he felt the same way himself, jet lag having settled in.

When coffee arrived, Luke addressed her again. ‘We’ll make an early start for the site visit tomorrow morning before the day heats up too much. Wear suitable clothing—shoes for walking, not posing.’ He paused, wanting to make the point clear. ‘Remember you are here to WORK, Talia, if you want to stay on at the villa in Marbella.’

He saw her tense at the sharpness of his reminder, and something more. Had that been fear he’d just seen flash in her eyes? But why should it? He almost asked the question, his expression softening instinctively. Then that blank-eyed look was back in her face, expressing only tiredness.

‘Finish your coffee and go to bed,’ he instructed.

She did not need to be told twice. Draining her cup, she made her escape, heels clicking on the tiled floor. Luke watched her hurry out and that now familiar jab of anger came again.

She couldn’t wait to get away from him, could she?

It wasn’t the first time she hadn’t been able to wait to get away from him, was it?

The memory only reinforced his determination to use her presence in order to become indifferent to her.

But what if it makes you want her more…?

Talia stared around her at the scene of devastation. There were palm trees felled by the hundred-mile-an-hour winds that had uprooted them like matchsticks, and the ground was strewn with branches and vegetation, including seaweed and sand from the beach.

The hotel itself looked as if it had been blasted. Roof tiles lay smashed on the ground, window frames were hanging loose, mosquito screens falling off. She was glad that she was wearing strong rubber-soled shoes and long olive green trousers. There was shattered glass in places, too, and thick palm fronds with sharp edges.

Silently, Luke handed her a hard hat, donning one himself.

‘Take care,’ was all he said to her as he headed indoors.

He’d taken little notice of her on the way here—this time in a high-wheeled four-by-four—just as he had the previous day. It was as if he were blanking her deliberately, and she could do nothing but accept it—and respond in kind. She was grateful, if nothing else, that she was able to mirror his obvious indifference to her. He was treating her as someone he’d hired to do a job of work for him. Nothing personal…nothing intimate.