‘Let me take your coat,’ he said now, and although Helen suspected she should keep it on—just in case—she obediently unfastened the zip. Besides, glancing about her at all the glamorously clad women entering and leaving the lobby, she could see that her parka was very much out of place. At least her shirt was new and fashionable, its deep vee neckline and string ties at the waist giving her a spurious look of maturity.
Her coat was deposited with the cloakroom attendant and then Milos directed her into the cocktail bar that adjoined the famous restaurant. A waiter, recognising her escort, immediately found them a corner table, and Milos made sure she was seated comfortably and then ordered champagne.
With hindsight, Helen had realised that she shouldn’t have drunk any champagne. She wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol, for one thing, and, for another, she’d never tried anything but beer before. And then only at a party when she would have looked a prude to refuse it. But she hadn’t liked the taste on that occasion and had dumped most of the bottle down the loo.
Champagne, as she discovered, was different. It was much sweeter, and the bubbles fizzed pleasantly on her tongue. In addition to which, it seemed to give her confidence and she found herself chattering on about the subjects she was taking to A level, and her ambitions for the future, with an uncharacteristic lack of reticence.
In no time at all, it seemed, it was eight o’clock, and when Milos invited her to stay and have dinner with him it would have been churlish to refuse. Besides, she didn’t want to. She liked being with Milos; she liked the envious female eyes that were cast in her direction. But most of all she liked it that he made her feel like a woman, an attractive woman that he was proud to be with.
They struck a snag when Milos summoned the waiter and asked if he had a table in the restaurant. The man was most apologetic, but the earliest he could accommodate them was at half past nine, which Helen insisted was much too late. If, as she was considering, she intended telling her mother where she’d been after the event, she had to get home at an acceptable time.
‘Send the head waiter over, would you?’ Milos asked now, politely but a little autocratically, Helen thought, and almost immediately the maître d’ presented himself, looking decidedly embarrassed at having to disappoint an apparently important guest.
‘We knew you were staying in the hotel, Mr Stephanides,’ he said, pressing his hands together a little diffidently. ‘But you did not reserve a table, sir, and one of our other guests, Prince Halil Mohammad—’ he said the other man’s name with some deference ‘—made an unexpected late reservation for himself and his entourage to dine in the restaurant.’ He threw up his hands in apology. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’
Milos was regarding him coldly, and Helen was feeling almost sorry for the man himself when he said, ‘I suppose you would not consider dining in your suite, Mr Stephanides. I would be happy to arrange for you to be served immediately. With the management’s compliments, of course.’
Helen’s cheeks turned pink then. She knew what the man was saying was reasonable. If, as he said, Milos did have a suite of rooms, then it wasn’t as if he was suggesting they had dinner in Milos’s bedroom.
But before she could make any comment, Milos intervened. ‘I think not,’ he said curtly, obviously expecting her to object. ‘I suppose I’ll have to make other arrangements.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
Helen could hardly believe she’d said the words. But the knowledge that to refuse would make her look like the kid she was had her accepting the maître d’s suggestion with apparent ease.
‘You’re sure?’
Milos was looking at her now, and she felt the frisson of excitement she’d felt earlier stirring inside her again. It might be the champagne, but she didn’t regret coming here. This was so much more thrilling than spending an evening watching Richard getting progressively wasted.
So, ‘I’m sure,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t regret her recklessness. ‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILOS’S apartments were on the top floor of the hotel. Helen supposed it was a penthouse suite, with doublepanelled doors opening into a large sitting room. Other doors opened from the sitting room, one of them obviously being his bedroom, and she shivered a little uneasily as the heavy doors closed behind them.
They had ordered downstairs and the waiter had assured them they wouldn’t have to wait long for their food. Looking about her, Helen saw the table standing in the bay of the window with some relief. Obviously it was quite common to be served in the apartment and she made a determined effort to relax.
‘Would you like a drink while we wait?’ Milos suggested as she hovered near the window. ‘Some wine, perhaps. Or would you prefer some music?’ He bent to a sophisticated sound system and moments later the rhythmic sound of Santana filled the room.
Helen turned, her lips parted. ‘Oh, I love this,’ she said, unable to prevent the automatic shift her body made to the music. ‘Is it your CD?’
‘It is, actually,’ he said, coming towards her and holding out his arms. ‘Do you want to dance?’
‘Dance?’ Helen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Why not?’ he asked, catching both her hands in his and drawing her forward into the hypnotic beat. ‘Your body obviously wants to.’
Helen licked her lips. ‘I’ve just—never done anything like this before,’ she confessed.
‘I know,’ he said, making no attempt to pull her closer. ‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’
‘Fun?’ Helen’s response was breathless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Good.’
The knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen couldn’t exactly say she was sorry. Her legs had become increasingly shaky, and looking into Milos’s dark eyes was making her weak.
The waiter wheeled a trolley into the apartment and started setting the table. Pristine white place mats gleamed against the dark wood, silver tableware glinted in the light from candles set in the middle of the table, and tall wineglasses of the finest crystal prepared the way for wines of both white and red.
Their first course—a mousse of crab and lobster—was served and the waiter stood back, waiting for Milos’s instructions.
‘We’ll serve the rest ourselves,’ Milos told him as the crisp crackle of notes changed hands, and moments later the doors closed again and they were alone.
Later, Helen could hardly remember how the food tasted. It could have been arsenic or ambrosia, she doubted she’d have noticed. With Milos sitting beside her, his knee brushing hers, serving her tiny morsels of what he was eating from his plate, she was too bemused to pay attention to her own food. She only knew she was floating several inches above the table for most of the meal, the sensuous rhythm of the music and the disturbing directness of Milos’s gaze causing a sensation of elevation in the pit of her stomach.
After the meal was over, Helen needed to use the rest-room, and she discovered that one of the doors that opened off the living room led into a luxuriously appointed vanity-cum-bathroom. Lamp lit mirrors lined the walls, inviting inspection of her appearance, while the marble bathroom adjoining was as big as the largest bedroom back home.
She availed herself of the facilities and then paused for a moment beside the row of mirrors, intrigued by her appearance. She almost looked beautiful, she thought, touching the hectic colour in her cheeks, noticing how soft her lips looked in the flattering light. She also noticed that, despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, her nipples were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her shirt.
She crossed her arms over her chest and then let them fall again. Who was she kidding? she thought impatiently. If Milos was being unusually attentive to her it was because he’d promised her father