crisp tone. I wasn’t about to admit I’d gone into the office with hopes of snagging a stray Danish left over from the early-morning client meeting, only to be confronted by an incandescent Mr Donnelly before I could satisfy my raging hunger. After that, fear and panic had eroded my appetite. Until now, evidently.
Neo Xenakis regarded me with quiet intensity, weighing his decision for a terse moment. Then his lips flattened. ‘Far be it from me to send a criminal to the gallows on an empty stomach. Shall I instruct my chef to set another place for dinner, or are you in a hurry to face your crimes?’ he drawled.
Bite your tongue, Sadie!
‘That depends. Do you intend to torture me for the rest of the evening by recounting just how your wolves are going to tear me apart?’
‘You think you know what torture is?’ he asked, with a veil of deadly calm that didn’t fool me for a second.
I’d inconvenienced him, angered him by necessitating a return trip to the clinic to make a second deposit, when he’d much rather be occupied with other things. Like dating another supermodel.
And he wasn’t in a mood to let it go.
‘There are only so many times I can say I’m sorry. It’s clear you’re not going to forgive me or tell me what I can do to make this right. Right now I’m failing to see how joining you for dinner improves my circumstances.’
‘It could simply be an act of further character exploration on my part. To tell me which way I should lean in the punishment scales. Unlike you, I don’t wish to undertake that task on an empty stomach. But, of course, your options are very much yours to take.’
Oh, how cunning of him. That insidious need to surrender to his will swept over me. I resisted by squaring my shoulders. ‘Then I guess that’s fine. If that’s the only way to progress this...discussion.’
The merest hint of a smile twitched his lips. Then, seeming almost stunned by the action, he scowled.
Not the most enthusiastic response I’d ever had to meal-sharing, but I imagined under the circumstances a beggar couldn’t be a chooser.
For another short second he stared at me, as if debating the wisdom of his offer. Then abruptly he crossed the vast, magnificently decorated living room to a dainty-legged console table, picked up a phone and relayed a message in rapid-fire Greek.
Finished, he set his glass down. ‘Come.’
The command was quiet, but powerful enough to propel me forward. I told myself I couldn’t object because I’d agreed to dine with him. And because I owed Neo Xenakis a few non-confrontational gestures.
Thinking he was leading me to the large, antique-filled dining room I’d spotted earlier during my brief and tentative search for the bathroom, I followed him in surprise into a kitchen fit for the world’s most exacting chef.
Every imaginable gadget gleamed in polished splendour atop marble surfaces. On a large centre island, silverware gleamed under strategically suspended ceiling lights. Even the elevated stools looked too expensive for such a mundane activity as sitting.
But when he pulled one back and waited with tight expectancy, I swallowed the unnerving sensation that I was tangling with a supremely affluent and powerful man.
To the stout, rouge-faced chef who entered, I gave a quick smile. With a deferential nod, he started to uncover silver dishes.
Glorious smells hit my nostrils, and I stared at the mouth-watering array.
Exquisitely prepared Greek meze dishes were laid out next to an old-fashioned English shepherd’s pie. I didn’t fool myself into thinking this consideration had been made because I was joining him on such short notice. If the internet was right, Neo Xenakis was a man of extensive tastes and larger-than-life appetites.
Why that reminder triggered another wave of heat through my system I refused to consider as, with a few words, Neo Xenakis dismissed the chef and reached for the bottle of red wine that stood an arm’s length away.
Seeing the label, I felt my eyes widen. Once upon a time, before he’d pulled the rug from beneath our feet with his stark betrayal, my father had been as much of a wine enthusiast as my mother was a magazine fanatic. When I was old enough to take an interest, he had often recited his dream vintage collection. The five-figure-price-tagged Château Cheval Neo cavalierly reached for now had ranked among the top three on my father’s wish list.
I watched, slack jawed, as he deftly uncorked the bottle and set it aside to breathe.
Catching my expression, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Something wrong?’
I swallowed. ‘Nothing that doesn’t involve my wondering if you normally share expensive bottles of wine with criminals before sending them to their doom.’
His gaze hooded, he shrugged. ‘Satisfying your curiosity isn’t on my agenda, so you’ll just have to keep wondering. Eat.’
I toyed with refusing the order. But I was starving. And, really, he didn’t have to feed me. With one quick call he could have Wendell tossing me out. Staying might grant me the opportunity to make another plea for mercy.
I placed two beautifully wrapped vine leaves onto my plate, then added a couple of spoonfuls of Greek salad. About to lift my fork, I paused when his eyes narrowed again, this time on my plate.
‘You haven’t eaten all day and that’s all you’re having?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded at one of the many platters. ‘The kopanisti won’t keep. Don’t let it go to waste.’ He picked up serving tongs and caught up a dish of salad, roast peppers and an orange paste laid in between two crisp flatbreads. ‘Try it,’ he said.
Tentatively, I picked up the large morsel and bit into it. Sensations exploded in my mouth as the orange paste, which turned out to be the most incredible aged feta, combined with everything else immediately became the best thing I’d ever tasted—which in turn triggered a groan of appreciation before I could stop myself.
Perhaps my vivid imagination was playing tricks on me, but I could have sworn Neo swallowed hard at that moment, and I felt his tension ramping up.
Abruptly, he spooned several more items onto my plate, then reached for the wine bottle. ‘Would you like some wine?’
The chance to try the jaw-droppingly expensive vintage, especially considering that my fate hung in the balance, was too much to resist. ‘Just a little, please.’
After pouring two glasses, he chose steamed white cod and a spoonful of salad himself, which he polished off with a military efficiency that spoke of fuel intake rather than enjoyment. Then he simply sat, slowly twirling the stem of his wine glass, lifting it occasionally to his lips as he watched me eat.
Self-conscious, and reluctant to broach the ultrasensitive subject of my crime, I stilled my tongue in favour of enjoying the most exquisite meal I’d had in a long time, all the while painfully aware that his gaze hadn’t shifted from me.
‘Which university?’
I started. ‘What?’
‘Your marketing degree,’ he expounded.
I named it, and again caught the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes as he slotted the information away, his long fingers still twirling his glass.
‘Do you like aeroplanes?’ he asked abruptly, after another stretch of silence.
‘Who doesn’t?’
His lips tightened and his gaze dropped to my empty plate, then shifted to the platters of lamb cutlets, grilled meatballs, roasted vegetables and bread.
Sensing he was about to push more food on me, I sat back. ‘That was delicious. Thank you.’
He frowned, then lifted the lid off a dish set apart from the main courses. The scent of spun sugar and warm