The Enigmatic Greek. CATHERINE GEORGE

       ‘I’m sincerely grateful to you, Eleanor Markham.’

      ‘I don’t need your gratitude,’ she retorted, trying to get free. But he held her fast.

      ‘So what do you need?’ His hands tightened. ‘You’ve had the interview as your reward. Now, I’ll take mine.’

      He bent his head and kissed her, then kissed her again with a heat that made her head reel. The meeting of tongue with tongue was like a match applied to kindling. He pulled her up on her toes, moulding every inch of her against his aroused body as his mouth seduced hers into such helpless response that they were both breathing like long-distance runners when he raised his head at last.

      Very slowly he slackened his hold, until she was standing square on her feet again, but he held her fast when she tried to move away.

      ‘Are you so desperate to get away from me?’ he demanded hoarsely.

      Since it was obvious that her body was deliriously happy where it was, she didn’t bother to lie. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I should be.’

      ‘Why? Because my body is telling you I want to be your lover?’

      About the Author

      CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. Instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, and browse in antiques shops.

       Recent titles by the same author:

       A WICKED PERSUASION

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       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      The Enigmatic

      Greek

      Catherine George

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      With love and thanks to my Alex.

      CHAPTER ONE

      HIS island had lain in the sun in this remote part of the Aegean Sea long before Bronze Age Minoans had sought refuge here from cataclysmic disaster on Crete. Normally Alexei Drakos relished its peace. Today, not so much. From his office in the Kastro he gazed down, frowning, and then abandoned the view of brilliant blue sea lapping at the golden beach far below to make a comprehensive check of the banks of technology across the room. But for once they failed to hold his attention. Feeling restless, and plagued by something unfamiliar he refused to identify as loneliness, he turned back to the windows to watch a ferry in the distance discharging its cargo of holiday-makers into the tavernas lining the harbour of the neighbouring island.

      Tomorrow tourists like these would flock here to his island for Agios Ioannis. Bonfires would blaze on the beaches to celebrate the feast of St John and visitors would come in droves for the festival and for the highlight of its entertainment, the bull dance famed for origins which reached far back into antiquity. Those Minoans again. But it was worth the sacrifice of privacy for a single day. The islanders who made a living from fishing here on Kyrkiros had reaped big benefits from his decision to revive the festival. It brought tourists who paid them an entrance fee, ate their food and bought their crafts, sampled their olives and honey, drank the wine from the island vineyards and ordered more from the websites he’d set up. But otherwise left the island in peace.

      Suddenly tired of his own company, he made the descent by the ancient, winding stairs for once to burn off some of the energy buzzing through his system and entered the big, modernised kitchen on the ground floor of the Kastro to exclamations of pleasure from the women working there.

      ‘You should have rung, kyrie,’ scolded his housekeeper, pouring coffee. ‘I would have come up to you.’

      He shook his head as he took one of the pastries she offered. ‘I knew you would be busy, Sofia.’

      The woman smiled fondly. ‘Never too busy to serve you, kyrie. And nearly all is ready now for tomorrow. A good meal is prepared for the dancers, and Angela and her daughters have done marvels.’

      ‘They always do.’ He smiled at the women who every year fashioned traditional costumes based on designs discovered on ancient, barely discernible frescoes during the Kastro’s restoration.

      Sofia smiled lovingly as her son came hurrying in. ‘Is all in place, Yannis?’

      The youth nodded eagerly. ‘You wish to check, kyrie?’

      Alex downed his coffee and stood up. ‘Lead on.’

      In contrast to the normal peace of the island, colourful stalls had been set up on the sweep of beach below. Higher up, on the natural shelf overlooking the terrace where the dancers would perform, a vine-wreathed pergola sheltered tables reserved in advance by the forward-thinking of the influx of visitors expected the next day. He nodded in approval to the men finishing up there. ‘Well done, everyone.’ With a reminder to check that all the necessary signs were in place, he returned to his office, but this time via the lift he’d installed years before as one of the first steps towards making the Kastro penthouse habitable. His phone rang as the doors opened and he smiled as he saw the caller ID.

      ‘Darling,’ said a lilting, unmistakeable voice. ‘I’m tired and thirsty and I’ve just landed at your jetty.’

      His eyebrows shot to his hair. ‘What? Stay right there. I’m on my way.’

      The moment the lift hit ground level again, he raced out of the Kastro and down the beach to the main jetty where a woman stood waiting, her face alight with laughter as she held out her arms.

      ‘Surprise!’

      ‘You certainly are!’ He hugged her tightly for a long moment, then held her away from him and raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You were just passing?’

      Talia Kazan’s eyes sparkled as she smiled up into the hard, handsome face. ‘Passing! I’ve been travelling for so long I hardly know what day it is!’

      He motioned to the beaming Yannis to help bring the bags. ‘Give it up, Mother, the ditzy-blonde act doesn’t work with me. You know exactly what day it is.’

      She shrugged, unrepentant. ‘Who better? I had a sudden desire to see my son so I packed my bags and came to do that—you are pleased, I trust?’

      He kissed the hand he was holding. ‘Of course; I’m delighted! But you took a risk. I might not have been here.’

      Her eyes gleamed in triumph. ‘Since I am not ditzy, I contacted your admirable Stefan to make sure you would be here for the festival and swore him to silence. He said you were coming alone, as usual.’ She shook her head in reproof. ‘You should have brought some pleasant company with you.’

      ‘If by pleasant you mean female, the women I know demand the sophisticated pleasures of the city, Mother. Arcane festivals on a remote island just don’t do it for them.’

      ‘Then invite someone with a higher cultural threshold.’ The luminous violet eyes were suddenly serious. ‘It is time you put that nonsense from Christina Mavros behind you and found a real woman.’

      He shrugged that off with