Czytaj książkę: «Greek Tycoon, Waitress Wife»
He found himself smiling at her. Giving her the reassurance she was silently seeking.
‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’
The flicker was in her eyes again. ‘It’s just that…’
‘It’s just that I’m a complete stranger and I picked you up off the street.’
The blunt way he said it made her cheeks colour. But he had done it deliberately, spelling out her fears, her apprehension and unease.
‘Over dinner, I trust we will get to know each other more. But nothing will happen that you do not want to happen. You have my word on this.’
His eyes held hers, and then, out of the solemnity, a smile slanted suddenly across his face. Carrie felt that dazzle glitter inside her, as it had done when she’d first seen that incredible smile in the car.
Slowly she nodded, swallowing. She wasn’t being stupid—she wasn’t! She was simply being—
Carried away. Swept away. But why not? Why not? What was the harm in it? And how could she walk away now? She didn’t have the strength of mind to do so. And she didn’t have the will. Why should she? He wasn’t some seedy, creepy bloke—he was… gorgeous. Fantastic. Devastating. Irresistible. And someone like that would never, never appear twice in her life.
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out. The champagne still seemed to be fizzing in her veins.
Julia James lives in England with her family. Mills & Boon® novels were Julia’s first ‘grown-up’ books, read as a teenager—‘Alongside Georgette Heyer and Daphne du Maurier’—and she’s been reading them ever since.
Julia adores the English countryside—‘And the Celtic countryside!’—in all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean—‘The most perfect landscape after England!’—and she considers both are ideal settings for romance stories! Since becoming a romance writer she has, she says, had the great good fortune to start discovering the Caribbean as well, and is happy to report that those magical, beautiful islands are also ideal settings for romance stories!
‘One of the best things about writing romance is that it gives you a great excuse to take holidays in fabulous places!’ says Julia. ‘All in the name of research, of course!’
Her first stab at novel-writing was Regency Romances—‘But, alas, no one wanted to publish them!’ she says. She put her writing aside until her family commitments were clear, and then renewed her love-affair with contemporary romances. ‘My writing partner and I made a pact not to give up until we were published—and we both succeeded! Natasha Oakley writes for Mills & Boon® Romance, and we faithfully read each other’s works-in-progress and give each other a lot of free advice and encouragement!’
In between writing Julia enjoys walking, gardening, needlework, and baking ‘extremely gooey chocolate cakes’—and trying to stay fit!
GREEK TYCOON, WAITRESS WIFE
BY
JULIA JAMES
MILLS & BOON
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GREEK TYCOON, WAITRESS WIFE
CHAPTER ONE
ALEXEIS NICOLAIDES glanced around him with displeasure. It had been a mistake to come here. A mistake to indulge Marissa. He was only in London for a twenty-four-hour stopover, and when he’d got out of the day-long meeting in the City and returned to his hotel suite he’d simply wanted to find her waiting for him. Then, once the bare niceties had been dispensed with, and they had made polite and completely empty enquiries about each other’s well-being, he would have done what his fundamental interest in Marissa was: taken her to bed. Instead, however, he had ended up in this overcrowded art gallery, bored rigid and surrounded by yapping idiots—among whom Marissa was the key offender. At this moment she was giving full throat to her knowledge of the art market and the financial worth of the artist on display. Alexeis couldn’t have cared less about either.
And with every passing moment he was caring less and less about Marissa, and about spending any more time with her. Not here—and not even in bed.
Even as he stood there, an expression of growing irritation in his eyes, he made his decision. Marissa was going to have to go. Up till now she hadn’t been much of a problem—no more than any woman was, for they all, invariably, wanted to outstay their shelf-life with him. But three months on Marissa, savvy as well as beddable, was evidently starting to think she could start making demands. Like insisting he take her to this opening. Doubtless she thought that an absence of a fortnight would have whetted his appetite for her so much that he would be complaisant to her whims.
His dark eyes narrowed.
Mistake. His was not a complaisant nature. The Nicolaides wealth had always meant that he could call the shots when it came to women. He chose the ones he wanted and then they did what he wanted—or they were out. No matter how beautiful, how desirable, how highly they rated themselves.
Marissa Harcourt rated herself very highly. She was ferociously chic, with head-turning looks, a well-connected background, an Oxbridge degree and a fashionable and highly paid career in the art world. Clearly she considered these attributes sufficient not just to attach herself to a man like himself, but to hold him.
Did she even, Alexeis found himself speculating, consider them sufficient to hold him permanently?
Her predecessor had thought so. Adrianna Garsoni, whose exotic looks, soaring soprano voice and talent for self-promotion ensured her status as a diva at La Scala, had clearly believed that marrying Alexeis would mean the rich Nicolaides coffers could be put to work furthering her career. The moment Adrianna had shown her hand, making it clear she considered that marriage was on the agenda, Alexeis had disposed of her. Her reaction had been volatile in the extreme, but irrelevant to him. In comparison with Adrianna’s tempestuous personality, Alexeis had welcomed Marissa’s cool chic, as well as enjoying her highly sensual nature in bed.
Now, it seemed, much to his irritation, she would have to go too. He had quite enough going on in his life as it was. Alexeis’s thoughts shifted closer to home, and mouth tightened automatically. His father was currently marrying his fifth wife, and far too busy to bother himself with the intricacies and pressure of running a global business. As for his half-brother, Yannis, he was the offspring of his father’s second marriage, and far too busy pursuing his twin pleasures in life—fast sports and faster women. Alexeis’s mouth tightened even more.
However, he knew that the last thing he’d welcome was his father trying to interfere in how he was running the group, or Yannis trying to muscle in on it. The latter, at least, was one thing upon which Alexeis saw eye to eye with his mother. Berenice Nicolaides was vehement in her determination that the son of the woman who had usurped her should not get his hands on what she considered her own son’s rightful inheritance—nothing less than total and permanent control of the Nicolaides Group. Alexeis’s reason for wanting Yannis out of the picture was less vindictive—he merely considered his brother feckless, hedonistic, and far too much of a risk to be involved in running so large and complex a company.
Alexeis didn’t always agree with his mother. And on one aspect of his inheritance he was completely at odds with her. Alexeis’s eyes darkened as they always did when his thoughts were called in that unwelcome direction. Berenice was convinced—obsessed, he amended—that he should marry an heiress, preferably Greek-born, both to bolster his own financial position and to present his father with a grandson to continue the Nicolaides dynasty. Her constant attempts to matchmake only exasperated Alexeis.
As did, right now, Marissa’s discoursing on the art market. He made some perfunctory reply, still considering whether to end their relationship right now. The trouble was, if he did, he would be facing yet another night on his own. The dilemma worsened his mood and, peremptorily, he beckoned to a server circulating with drinks. As his fingers circled the stem of a champagne flute, he found himself glancing at her.
And holding the glance.
Long, blonde hair, caught back in a clip at her nape, an oval face with flawless features, translucent skin, a short straight nose and accented cheekbones. Wide-set, long-lashed clear grey eyes completed the package—the very delectable package. His first thought was automatic. What was a girl with looks like that doing working as a waitress?
He took the glass, murmuring a thank-you, and the girl’s eyes met his.
He could see it happen as if in slow motion: her reaction to him. Her reaction to the way he was looking at her.
The soft grey-blue eyes widened, pupils dilating and her lips parted slightly. For one long moment she looked—helpless. That was the word, thought Alexeis. As if there was nothing she could do except meet his eyes and let him look at her.
Out of nowhere, Alexeis felt his mood improve. She really was very, very lovely—
‘There’s no mineral water.’
Marissa’s voice was a snap of complaint. Suddenly the waitress looked flustered. Her eyes broke from Alexeis, and went to the woman at his side.
‘I—I’m very sorry,’ she stammered.
She had a low voice, Alexeis noted, and sounded nervous and under stress. The tray, crowded with brimming glasses, wobbled slightly in her uplifted hands.
Marissa rasped in irritation. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a dummy. Go and get some. Still, not sparkling—and no lemon.’
The girl swallowed. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she got out. Jerkily, she turned to go. As she did, another of the guests in the crowded gallery stepped back abruptly and collided with her. Instinctively Alexeis felt his hand go out to balance the tray in the girl’s hands, but it was too late. The glass of orange juice nearest the edge tottered crazily and then cascaded forwards, smashing to the ground and emptying its contents all over Marissa’s cocktail dress.
‘You idiot!’ Marissa’s voice was shrill with fury. ‘Just look what you’ve done!’
A look of horror—and more—convulsed the girl’s face.
‘I’m…I’m sorry—’ It was all she could get out.
A space had cleared around her, and someone was bustling up to her. A short man with an expression on his face that was both irate, and aghast.
‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Marissa’s voice was still shrill. ‘This moron has ruined my dress.’
The aghast look on the short man’s face deepened, and he launched into vociferous apology—which Alexeis cut short.
‘Only the bodice is wet, Marissa,’ he said coolly, cutting the man off. ‘If you sponge it down it will dry out. It’s dark; it won’t show.’
Marissa was not consoled. ‘You half-brained little idiot!’ she raged at the girl again.
Alexeis put a restraining hand on her wrist. ‘Go and find the powder room,’ he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Throwing him a fulminating glance, Marissa stormed off. Meantime, the short man had summoned two other waiting staff, who’d rushed up with cloths and a dustpan and brush, to clear up the shards and the spilt juice on the polished wood floor. He’d also banished the erring waitress whilst Alexeis had spoken to Marissa. Alexeis could see her scurrying, shoulders hunched, towards the back of the gallery.
Then the short man was turning his fulsomely dismayed apologies on Alexeis. Alexeis wasn’t interested. ‘It was an accident,’ he said curtly, nodding dismissal impatiently.
The moment was too opportune to miss—he strode to the reception desk at the entrance.
‘Tell Ms Harcourt I’ve had to leave,’ he said. Then he walked out of the gallery, extracting his mobile to summon his driver. He’d send Marissa a cheque for a new dress, and a trinket to wear with it. it. That should dispose of her. It also meant he’d be facing a celibate night for certain.
Without volition, he found himself thinking about the waitress Marissa had railed at. He frowned—there had been no call to be so abusive to the girl. It had been an accident, not incompetence. His mind wandered back to his perusal of the girl. She really had been very lovely indeed. And in the black, tight-skirted, white-aproned outfit, with the close-fitting short-sleeved white blouse, she’d looked very—
Beddable—that was the word for it.
Oh, not too obviously, not too flagrantly, but there was no denying that the black and white uniform—together with her soft blondeness and those long-lashed wide-set eyes—did the business.
Involuntarily, he felt himself tightening.
Damn—that was not an appropriate response right now! However lovely she was, the girl was not the type of female he usually consorted with. Anyway, he was not in the habit of picking women up on a casual basis. He selected them carefully, not just on their looks, but on whether they would fit into his lifestyle—and, of course, not seek to outstay their shelf-life.
His car glided up to the pavement and he got in. Tonight he would just have to work, that was all. He was flying to New York in the morning anyway, and he knew a large selection of suitable women there from which to choose a replacement for Marissa.
He sat back in the moulded leather seat, looking indifferently out of the tinted window as the car moved forward, heading back down Bond Street. It took him past the gallery again, and he was relieved to see no sign of Marissa. He felt his conscience twinge at having ended their relationship so ruthlessly, but put it aside. He knew very well that the main attraction for her was his wealth and status—nothing more.
He was about to avert his gaze when a figure caught his eye. Walking along with a rapid, somehow jerky gait, shoulders hunched, blonde head bowed, raincoat wrapped tightly round her, hands in pockets and shoulder bag clutched to her side, was the waitress.
Abruptly, for no reason he could justify, Alexeis pressed the intercom button.
‘Stop the car,’ he ordered his driver.
CHAPTER TWO
CARRIE kept walking forward. If she kept walking, she wouldn’t think. Wouldn’t think she’d just lost her job. Again. Was she doomed to keep losing jobs? she thought woefully. It had been her own fault, obviously, and she couldn’t blame them for sacking her. She’d let herself be distracted, she knew—fatally—by that incredible man. If she hadn’t been gawping at him so stupidly she’d have been more aware of what was going on. But, no, she’d had to just stand there like an idiot.
She hadn’t been able to help herself, though. He had just been so incredible! It really was the only word for him. She’d never seen a man that good-looking, who had that kind of impact. Talk about tall, dark and handsome! In the few moments she’d looked at him she hadn’t really been able to take in any specific details, but the overall impact had been just amazing.
And when he’d met her eyes…
She felt again the whoosh that had knocked her in that breathless moment, when she’d felt the impact of those dark, long-lashed eyes holding hers. There had been something in them as he’d looked at her that had squeezed her lungs tight.
Then his partner had wanted water, and the moment had passed. And then—then the disaster.
Mr Bartlett had raged at her when he’d found her in the back, and sacked her on the spot. She was incredibly lucky, he’d told her, not to have to pay for the woman’s dress she’d ruined, which would easily have cost hundreds of pounds. Even so she’d been sacked without her wages, to cover the cost of the specialist dry cleaning Mr Bartlett had said would be required.
Well, at least now she could get a daytime job and not just the evening work that she’d been restricted to up till now. Her eyes shadowed. She’d only been in London for three months, and had been glad to get away from her home—get away from the grief and the anguished memory of her father’s final days. Glad, too, to get away from everyone’s sympathy, not to mention the kindly meant offers of financial help that she could never accept. Here, in this vast city, she was all but anonymous, and she welcomed it.
Yet London was a bleak place, certainly when finances were as straitened as hers were. Just keeping her head above water was hard, but it had to be done—at least until the summer was over and she could go home again to Marchester and resume the life she knew, painful though it would be without her father. Casual jobs here, at least, were plentiful, but it was relentless and grinding, and in three months she’d had no time off for herself and no money to spare for anything beyond necessities.
There was another aspect to working in London she didn’t like either. The hassle she got. That was what had cost her the first job she’d lost. She’d been working in a tapas bar and a customer had slid his hand up her skirt. Shocked and appalled, she had hit his hand away violently. The man had complained about her and Carrie had been sacked. The woman at the job agency had been unsympathetic.
‘With your looks you should be used to it—and used to handling it,’ she’d said dismissively.
But she wasn’t, thought Carrie miserably. No one behaved like that in the world she was used to, nor had any interest in doing so. Their minds were focussed on other matters. It was hard to be subjected to that kind of treatment, or even just to be looked at the way men did here—so blatantly. So sleazily.
It wasn’t sleazy when that incredible guy looked at you—
Memory flushed through her again hotly. No, sleazy had not been the word. Not in the slightest. The way that man had looked at her had made her feel—
Breathless.
She felt the tightness in her chest again as she recalled the way his eyes had held hers. He really had been amazing! The sort of fantasy man a girl could dream about. He was probably rich, too, because all the guests at the gallery had been—or at least well-heeled. He’d had a very rich look indeed about him. There’d been something about him, something more than just his fantastic dark looks and what had obviously been a hand-made suit and a silk tie—a sort of assurance, arrogance, even, as if he were one of the princes of the world…
She gave a twist of her mouth. Whatever he was, he belonged to the London that she didn’t! The one she only saw from the other side of the bar or the table or through the door, where the likes of her served the likes of him, and remained anonymous and unobtrusive.
Dejection hit her again, and she quickened her pace, unconsciously hunching her shoulders, feeling bleak and lonely. Though she saved money and got exercise by walking, there was still a good long way back to the poky bedsit in Paddington that was all she could afford.
Suddenly she stopped. A car door had just opened in front of her, enough to block her path and require her to veer around it. Then, as she gathered her wits to do just that, a voice spoke.
‘Are you all right?’
Carrie’s head turned. The voice—deep, and with an accent she did not register—came from the interior of the car. As she looked at the speaker her eyes widened involuntarily. It was the incredible-looking man from the gallery, whose girlfriend’s dress she’d soaked. Apprehension stabbed at her. Was he going to demand money for the dress? She didn’t have anywhere near enough on her, even just for cleaning it. And if he told her she had to replace it she would be completely stuck. The prospect was so daunting that she just froze.
The man was getting out of the car, and she stepped back hurriedly. He seemed taller than she remembered—and even more incredible looking. She couldn’t help reacting to it, even though it was the stupidest thing in the world to do.
‘Is—is it about the dress?’ she blurted, gripping her bag by its shoulder strap out of sheer tension.
A frown pleated his brow momentarily. It made him look even more forbidding than the dark, severely tailored bespoke suit and his air of wealth and power did.
‘Your girlfriend’s dress? The one I spilt the juice over?’ Carrie continued.
The man ignored her question. ‘Why are you not still at the gallery?’ he demanded.
Carrie swallowed. It seemed more like an accusation than a question, and she could only say, ‘I got dismissed.’
The man said something in a language she did not recognise. He looked foreign, she registered belatedly. That dark tanned skin and the darker eyes.
‘You were fired?’ he demanded. Again, it sounded like an accusation.
Carrie could only nod, and clutch her bag more tightly.
‘I’m really sorry about the dress. Mr Bartlett said he’d use my wages to dry clean it, so I hope it will be all right.’
The man made an impatient gesture with his hand.
‘The dress is taken care of,’ he said. ‘But tell me—do you want your job back? If you do I shall arrange it. What happened was clearly an accident.’
Carrie felt her cheeks heat with acute embarrassment.
‘No—please,’ she said. ‘I mean—thank you—thank you for offering. And I’m really very sorry about the dress. I really am,’ she finished quickly. Then she made to start walking again.
Her elbow was taken.
‘Allow me,’ said the man, ‘to offer you a lift to wherever you are going.’ His voice had changed somehow. She didn’t know how. It seemed smooth—not abrasive, the way it had been before. Then the import of what he’d said registered. Carrie could only stare at him—feel his hand on her elbow like a burning brand.
‘A lift?’ she echoed stupidly. ‘No—no, thank you. I’m fine walking.’
Something flickered in the man’s eyes. If she hadn’t known better she would have said it was surprise.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said. The smoothness was still there, but underpinned now by something else. ‘Please—allow me. I insist. After all, it is the least I can do to make amends for you losing your job.’
Carrie’s eyes widened even more. ‘But it wasn’t anything to do with you!’
‘Had I been quicker off the mark I could have steadied your tray,’ said the man, in the same smooth voice. ‘Now, where would you like to be driven?’
The hold on her elbow had tightened imperceptibly, and Carrie felt herself being inexorably guided towards the open door of the car.
‘No—please, it’s not at all necessary.’ Nor, she knew with strong female instinct, would his girlfriend welcome the presence of the waitress who’d ruined her dress.
‘Please do not delay me further. The car is causing an obstruction.’ The voice was still smooth, but now in its place was something like impatience.
Carrie looked, and realised that cars were backing up, unable to get by easily. Without realising how, she found herself being handed into the car, looking apprehensively for the brunette. But she wasn’t there.
‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ She’d gone back to blurting.
The man lowered himself lithely into the seat next to her, and reached for his seat belt with a fluid movement. He cast a frowning look at Carrie.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘The one I spilt the juice over—’
His eyes cleared. ‘She is not my girlfriend.’ He said the word as if it were deeply alien to him.
Something lifted in Carrie. Something she knew was quite pointless, but it did all the same. That chic brunette hadn’t been his girlfriend.
And it wouldn’t matter if she was, anyway! Good grief, what do you think this is? Some kind of pick-up? For some reason the man feels a sense of obligation that you’ve lost your job, and is giving you a lift! That’s all!
She swallowed again. ‘The end of Bond Street will be fine. Thank you very much.’
The man didn’t say anything, just instructed the driver to go, and the car moved forward. Carrie sank back into the leather seat. It was deep and luxurious, as was the rest of the car. Carrie had never been inside a car so upmarket, and she couldn’t help looking around. The man was leaning forward, depressing a button, and a recessed shelf slid forward into the spacious leg-well between them. Carrie’s eyes widened. There was a bottle of champagne and several flutes. Before she could say or do anything, she was watching with disbelieving fascination as the man lifted the champagne bottle, eased it expertly open, and with equal expertise took up a flute, tilted it, and filled it with foaming liquid. Then he handed it to her.
‘Um—’ said Carrie. But she found she had taken the flute anyway.
The smallest semblance of a smile seemed to flicker momentarily at the man’s mouth, before he filled his own glass and replaced the bottle in its holder. He eased back in his seat again and turned towards Carrie, who was just sitting there, disbelievingly.
‘It’s very good champagne, I do assure you,’ the man said. Again, that smile flickered briefly on his mouth, as if he found her reaction amusing. He took a considering mouthful of the gently effervescing liquid. ‘Yes, perfectly drinkable,’ he said. ‘Try it.’
Carrie lifted the glass to her mouth, and sipped. The chilled pale gold champagne slipped into her mouth, tasting delicious. Her eyes widened. She knew almost nothing about champagne, but she could tell that this was, indeed, a superior potation.
‘What do you think of it?’ the man asked. The smoothness was in his voice again, and it seemed to glide over Carrie, doing strange things to her. Like getting her to drink a glass of champagne with a man who was a complete stranger.
But we’re in the middle of Bond Street! It might be bizarre, but it’s not dangerous or anything!
And it was also—irresistible. The word was the right one, she knew, because it summed up what seemed to be going on in her—an inability to resist.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say, and it was the truth. Gingerly, she took another sip.
I’m drinking champagne with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. It’s something that will never happen to me twice in my life, so I might as well make the most of the experience!
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said the man, as he took another mouthful himself. He eased his long legs forward. His eyes were resting on her, and Carrie felt intensely self-conscious.
Oh, God, he really is gorgeous, she thought helplessly. Beneath his disturbing regard, she felt her nerve-ends jitter. Instinctively, she took another mouthful of the champagne. It fizzed down her throat, its native effervescence seeming to infect her blood.
‘So, where would you like to eat tonight?’ said the man. The voice was again as smooth as ever.
Carrie stared. ‘Eat?’
The man gestured loosely with his half-empty flute. ‘Of course,’ he said, as if it had been the most logical thing in the world to say to her. The most obvious.
An edge of caution cut into Carrie’s mind. Carrie looked at him. Really looked at him.
He met her eyes.
‘But…I don’t know who you are,’ she said, in a low, strained voice. ‘You could be anyone.’
Alexeis had never been told he ‘could be anyone’ before. The novelty intrigued him. But then the entire novelty of what he’d just done—what he was still doing and what he fully intended to do—was intriguing him. It was an experience he’d never had, and it had charms he had not anticipated. His identity had never been in question before.
Yet he could understand her caution and be pleased for it—for it only helped to recommend her to him. Half of his mind was telling him he was behaving with a rashness he would inevitably regret. The other half was determined to continue on the path his impulsiveness had started. After all, what real risk was there? There was nothing about the girl that was off-putting. Just the reverse. His original opinion of her had not changed—she was, indeed, very, very lovely.
So why not indulge his inexplicable whim and continue the evening with her? Besides, there had been something else that had made him so impulsively order his driver to stop. It was something to do with the way she had been walking—rapidly, but hunched up, head bowed. She’d looked—dejected. Down.
Clearly she needed something to divert her. Take her mind off her woes. So the whim he was following would be good for her, too, he reasoned. He would expect nothing of her she did not wish, and he would relinquish her at any point in the proceedings. But it would be a pity to do so now, so soon. Time to set her mind at rest. She was right, after all, to be cautious. Cities such as London could be dangerous for vulnerable and beautiful young women.
He slipped a hand inside his inner breast pocket and drew out a slim silver card case, flicking it open and offering her a card from within.
‘This will reassure you, I trust,’ he said.
She took the card and looked at it.
‘Alexe-is Ni-Nicol-ai-des,’ she read, hesitating over the foreign syllables.
‘You may have heard of the Nicolaides Group of companies?’ said Alexeis, a hint of arrogance in his voice.
The girl shook her head.
The sense of novelty struck Alexeis again. He had never encountered anyone who had not heard the name of Nicolaides. But then, of course, he moved in circles where everyone knew who had money and what that money derived from. Why should he expect a simple waitress to know such things?
‘It is listed on several stock exchanges, and is capitalised at just under a billion euros. I am the chief executive, and my father the chairman. So you can see, I am sure, that I am quite respectable, and that you are, accordingly, perfectly safe.’
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