back and released her.
‘I’ll get you a taxi.’
For a shattered second all Althea could do was stare, blink, her mind and body shocked and numb. Then she nodded mutely, still unable to form a thought, much less a sound. She knew it would be difficult for her to get a taxi in this part of Psiri—a woman alone on the street. And she wanted to go home … alone. Even if Demos had won this round. Even if she was left wondering, wanting, unsure and unsated.
She followed Demos through the taverna, weaving her way through the tables, and tried to ignore Andreolos and the other waiters’ speculative looks.
Out in the street a couple staggered past them, laughing uproariously and clearly drunk.
Althea wrapped her arms around herself. The wind had picked up and was now slicing through her skimpy dress.
Demos hailed a taxi in a matter of seconds—an admirable accomplishment in any part of Athens, and certainly in this neighbourhood.
Althea pushed past him without a word, too frozen in body and spirit even to offer her thanks. She felt something heavy drop over her shoulders and she stiffened in surprise.
It was his blazer.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said, and handed the taxi driver a wad of euros. ‘I don’t—’
‘Yes,’ he replied with flat certainty, ‘you do.’ He closed the door in her face, leaving her alone in the darkened taxi, speeding away, his jacket still on her shoulders.
Demos watched the taxi disappear around the corner and wondered where she was going. He wondered who she was.
He was intrigued by her spirit, her sass, as well as by the hidden depths in those jewel-like eyes. She wasn’t, he mused, an empty-headed socialite—even though she pretended to be one. He had a feeling she wasn’t the easy slut Angelos had claimed her to be either.
So who was she? And why did he want her so much?
Was it the challenge, the mystery? Or the simple fact that he was currently unattached and bored?
No, it had to be more than that; there had been at least a dozen debutantes in that forsaken club that would have gladly come home with him. He hadn’t given them a single look. They hadn’t been worth a single thought.
But her.
She’d been going to run out on him. He smiled at her sheer audacity and nerve, even though he’d been furious—furious and stupidly a little hurt—at the time.
Why had she been sneaking out? Had she been bored? Provocative? Or something else altogether? He didn’t like games. He should have left her there—alone, humiliated. Yet he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.
She had courage. She was beautiful. He wanted her.
Three reasons to make her his, however he could. But first he needed a name.
It didn’t take long. Nothing ever did when you had determination. Demos had discovered that long ago. He paid the bouncer at the club fifty euros to find Angelos and bring him outside.
Demos leaned against the graffiti-splattered brick wall as Angelos came out, looking surly and suspicious.
‘You …!’ he said in disbelief, and then looked quickly around, noticing that the bouncer had stepped closely behind him. ‘What do you want?'
‘A name.’
Angelos shook his head, nonplussed and not a little drunk.
‘What?’
‘The name,’ Demos repeated softly, ‘of the woman I was with tonight.'
Angelos snorted. ‘You didn’t even get her name?’ He glanced around, saw that Althea was absent. ‘She tired of you quick, hey? She’ll come running to me. Althea and I go way back.'
‘Althea,’ Demos repeated in satisfaction. It suited her.
‘Althea Paranoussis,’ Angelos confirmed with a shrug. ‘Daddy’s little rich girl. Stupid sl—'
‘Don’t,’ Demos warned him. ‘Don’t speak of her again. Ever.’
‘What do you care?’ Angelos took a step backwards, and came up against the bouncer. ‘She left you anyway. She’s good at that.'
‘I’m finished here.’ Demos addressed the bouncer, then started down the street. He didn’t look back as Angelos was hustled into the club.
Althea Paranoussis. He had a name. He knew how to find her. And he would, Demos thought with satisfaction. Soon.
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