winged brows and always, always, those ludicrously long-lashed, gold-flecked eyes that were lethal weapons entirely on their own.
That was what she’d wanted to gaze at, and that was what had been searing through her head all through their snarling exchange.
And then, as if a switch had been thrown, he’d suddenly changed the subject...
More heat coursed through her as the physical memory of how he’d looked at her hit her again. Turning the blatant focus of his male reaction on her like a laser beam. One that had burned right through her.
The slow wash of his gaze had poured over her like warm, molten honey—like a silken touch to her skin. It had felt as though he were caressing her, as if she could actually feel his hands shaping her body, his mouth lowering to hers to taste, to tease...to arouse.
All that in a single sensual glance...
And then, when she’d been helpless—pathetically, abjectly helpless—to do anything other than tell him—beg him—to leave, what had he done? He’d laughed! Laughed at her—knowing perfectly well how he’d got the better of her, how he’d made a cringing mockery of her defiance.
The colour in her cheeks turned to hectic spots as anger burned out that shaming blush he’d conjured in her.
Damn him!
Fuming, she went on staring blindly out through the shop door. She could no longer see him. With a final damning adjuration to herself to stop thinking of him, and everything about him, she whirled around to get on with her work.
Washing up had never been so noisy, nor slicing bread so vicious.
‘DID YOU HAVE those flowers delivered?’
It was the first question Nikos found himself asking as he returned to his London office after his meeting that afternoon. He did not doubt that his PA had complied, for she was efficiency itself—and she was used to despatching flowers to the numerous assorted females that featured in his life when he was in the UK.
But not usually to females who worked in sandwich bars...
Mouthy, contrary females who gave him a hard time...
Possessed of looks so stunning he still could not get them out of his head...
He gave a shake of his head, clearing the memory and settling himself down at his desk. There really was no point thinking about the blonde any more. Let alone speculating, as he found himself wanting to do, on just what she might look like if she were dressed in an outfit that adorned her extraordinary beauty.
How much more beautiful could she look?
The question rippled through his mind, and in its wake came a ripple of something that was not idle speculation but desire...
With her hair loosened, a gown draping her slender yet rounded figure, her sapphire eyes luminous and long-lashed...
He cut the image. She’d been a fleeting fiery encounter and nothing more.
No, he thought decisively, switching on his PC, he’d sent flowers to atone for his rudeness—provoking though she’d been—and he would leave it at that. He had women enough to choose from—no need to add another one.
He flicked open his diary to see what was coming up in the remainder of his sojourn in London. His father, chairman of the family-run Athens-based investment bank, left that city reluctantly these days, and Nikos found himself doing nearly all the foreign travel that running the bank required.
A frown moved fleetingly across his brow. At least here in London he was spared his father’s wandering into the office to make one of his habitual complaints about Nikos’s mother. The moment Nikos got back to Athens, though, he knew there would be a litany of complaints awaiting him, while his father indulged himself and offloaded. Then—predictably—the next time he saw his mother a reciprocal litany would be pressed upon him...
With a sigh of exasperation he pushed his interminably warring parents out of his head space. There was never going to be an end to their virulent verbal attacks on each other, their incessant sniping and backbiting. It had gone on for as long as Nikos could remember, and he was more than fed up with it.
Briskly, he ran an eye down the diary page and then frowned again—for quite a different reason this time.
Damn.
His frown deepened. How had he got himself involved in that? A black-tie charity bash at the Viscari St James Hotel this coming Friday evening.
In itself, that would not have been a problem. What was a problem, though, was that he could see from the diary that the evening included Fiona Pellingham. Right now that woman was not someone he wanted to encounter.
A high-flying mergers-and-acquisitions expert at a leading business consultancy, Fiona had taken an obvious shine to Nikos during a business meeting on his last visit to London, and had made it strikingly clear to him that she’d very much like to make an acquisition of him for herself.
But for all her striking brunette looks and svelte figure she was, as Nikos had immediately realised, the possessive type, and she would want a great deal more from him than the passing affair that was all he ever indulged in when it came to women. And that meant that the last thing he wanted to do was to give her an opportunity to pursue her obvious interest in him.
He frowned again. The problem was, even if he didn’t go to this charity bash she’d somehow put into his diary, Fiona would probably find another way to pursue him. Plague him with yet more invitations and excuses to meet up with him. What he needed was to put her off completely. Convince her he was unavailable romantically.
What he needed was a handy, convenient female he could take along with him on Friday to keep Fiona at bay. But just who would fit that bill? For a moment his mind was totally, absolutely blank. Then, in the proverbial light-bulb moment, he knew exactly who he wanted to take. And the knowledge made him sit back abruptly and hear the question shaping itself inside his head.
Well, after all, why not? You did want to know just how much more beautiful she could look if she were dressed for the evening...
This would be a chance to find out—why not take it?
A slow smile started to curve his mouth.
* * *
Mel was staring at the cluttered table in the back room behind the sandwich bar. She didn’t see the clutter—all she saw was the huge bouquet that sat in its own cellophane container of water, its opulent blooms as large as her fists. A bouquet that was so over-the-top it was ridiculous. Her eyes were stormy.
Who the hell did he think he was?
Except that she knew the answer to that, because his name came at the end of the message on the card in the envelope pinned to the cellophane.
Hope these make amends and improve your mood.
It was signed ‘Nikos Parakis.’
Her brows lowered. So he was Greek. It made sense, now she thought about it, because although his English accent had been perfect, his clipped public-school vowels a perfect match with the rest of his ‘Mr Rich’ look, nevertheless his complexion had a distinctly Mediterranean hue to it, and his hair was as dark as a raven’s wing.
Even as she thought about it his image sprang into her vision again—and with it the expression in those dark, long-lashed eyes that had looked her over, assessing her, clearly liking what he saw...
As if he was finding me worthy of his attentions!
She bristled all over again, fulminating as she glared at the hapless bouquet of lilies. Their