upholstery or the carpet.
Anatole watched her polish off the pastry, letting his eyes drift over the sweet perfection of her heart-shaped face, the cerulean eyes, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curls of her fair hair.
She is breathtakingly lovely—and she is taking my breath away just looking at her...
He glanced at his watch. It was coming up to seven, though the evenings were still light. They could drink champagne on his roof terrace. But first...best to order dinner.
He reached for his laptop, brought up the website for the service he used when dining in, then tilted the screen towards her. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, ‘and see what you’d like for dinner. I’m going to order in.’
Immediately—predictably—she shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please—not for me. I’m absolutely fine just eating these pastries.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not,’ he rejoined affably. ‘Come on—take a look. What sort of food do you like best? And do not,’ he added sternly, ‘say pizza! Or Indian. Or Chinese. I’m talking gourmet food here—take your pick.’
Wide-eyed, Tia stared at the long page of menu options on the screen. She couldn’t understand most of them. She swallowed.
‘Will you let me choose for you?’ Anatole asked, realising her dilemma.
She nodded gratefully.
‘Anything you’re allergic to?’ he asked.
She shook her head, but all the same he chose relatively safe options—no shellfish, no nuts. A midnight dash to A&E was not the way he wanted this evening to end.
And you’re not going to let it end the way you’re thinking right now either! his conscience admonished him sternly.
Not even when he was leaning towards her, and she towards him, so they could both read the screen, and he could catch the fresh scent of her body. All he would have to do to touch her would be to lift his hand, let it slide through those softly drying curls, splay his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw that sweet, tender mouth to his...
He straightened abruptly, busying himself with putting the order through, then closing his laptop. Time to fetch the champagne.
He returned a few moments later, with a bottle at the perfect temperature from his thermostatically controlled wine store and two flutes dangling from his hand. He crossed to the picture window, sliding it open.
‘Come and see the view,’ he said invitingly.
Tia got to her feet, following him out on to a roofline terrace with a stone balustrade along it. She was still in a daze. Was he really intending to have dinner with her? Drink champagne with her? Her heart was beating faster, she knew, just at the very thought of it.
As she stepped out the warm evening air enveloped her. Sunshine was still catching the tops of the trees visible in the park beyond. Nor was that the only greenery visible—copious large stone pots adorned the terrace, lush with plants, creating a little oasis.
‘Oh, it’s so lovely!’ she exclaimed spontaneously, her face lighting up.
Anatole smiled, feeling a kick go through him at her visible pleasure, at how it made her eyes shine, and set down the champagne and flutes on a little ironwork table flanked by two chairs.
‘A private green haven,’ he said. ‘Cities aren’t my favourite places, so when I’m forced to be in them—which is all too often, alas—I like to be as green as I can. It’s one of the reasons,’ he went on, ‘that I like penthouse apartments—they come with roof terraces.’
He paused to open the champagne with a soft pop of the cork, then handed her one of the empty flutes.
‘Keep it slightly tilted,’ he instructed as he poured it half full, letting the liquid foam, but not too much. Then he filled his own glass and lifted it to her, looking down at her. She really was petite, he found himself thinking again. And for some reason it made him feel...protective.
It was an odd thought. Unfamiliar to him when it came to women.
He smiled down at her. She was gazing up at him, and the expression in her eyes sent that kick through him again. He lifted his glass, indicating that she should do the same, which she did, glancing at the foaming liquid as if she could not believe it was in her hand.
‘Yammas,’ he said.
She looked confused.
‘It’s cheers in Greek,’ he elucidated.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s what you are! I knew you must be foreign, because of your name, but I didn’t know what—’
She coloured. Had she sounded rude? She hadn’t meant to. London was incredibly multicultural—there had been no reason to say he was ‘foreign’. He was probably as British as she was—
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking dismayed. ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘No,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘I am foreign. I’m a Greek national. But I do a lot of work in London because it’s a major financial hub. I live in Greece, though.’ He smiled again, wanting to set her at her ease. ‘Have you ever been to Greece? For a holiday, maybe?’
Tia shook her head. ‘We went to Spain when I was little,’ she said. ‘When my dad was still alive and before mum got MS.’ She swallowed, looking away.
‘It’s good to have memories,’ Anatole said quietly. ‘Especially of family holidays as a child.’
Yes—it was good to have such memories. Except he didn’t have any. His school holidays—breaks from boarding at the exclusive international school in Switzerland he’d attended from the age of seven—had been spent either at friends’ houses or rattling around the huge Kyrgiakis mansion in Athens, with no one except the servants around.
His parents had been busy with their own more important lives.
When he’d reached his teens he’d taken to spending a few weeks with his uncle—his father’s older brother. Vasilis had never been interested in business or finance. He was a scholar, content to bury himself in libraries and museums, using the Kyrgiakis money to fund archaeological research and sponsor the arts. He disapproved of his younger brother’s amatory dissoluteness, but never criticised him openly. He was a lifelong bachelor, and Anatole had found him kindly, but remote—though very helpful in coaching him in exam revision and for university entrance.
Anatole had come to value him increasingly for his wise, quiet good sense.
He cleared his thoughts. ‘Well, here’s to your first trip to Greece—which I’m sure you’ll make one day.’ He smiled, tilting his glass again at Tia, then taking a mouthful of the softly beading champagne. He watched her do likewise, very tentatively, as if she could not believe she was doing so.
‘Is this real champagne?’ she asked as she lowered her glass again.
Anatole’s mouth twitched. ‘Definitely,’ he assured her. ‘Do you like it?’
And suddenly, out
