glance with mixed feelings of pleasure and alarm fizzing inside her like lemonade bubbles. Turning her head away, she deliberately focused on the sublime scenery instead—silently and fervently calling upon divine help to prevent her from dangerously succumbing to the myriad and infinitely fascinating qualities of this wildly attractive and unusual man.
Lysander had been unable to resist inviting Ianthe to join him for dinner. He’d refused to consider the question of whether it was wise of him or not, and now he could barely contain his great desire to see her again as he sat at one of the best tables on the terrace of an exquisitely positioned restaurant overlooking a presently calm ocean, the sun almost ready to demand homage as it set.
He spied Ianthe at the entrance, talking to an animated young waiter, and his chest tightened oddly at the sight of her. Even though she stood several tables away from him, he could sense the hum of admiring interest that her appearance was generating. He experienced a small, yet almost violent reflex low down in his belly—part jealousy, part pride that for tonight at least she was his—and with every moment that passed he realised he was growing more and more impatient for her to join him.
She was wearing a simple red and white halter-necked cotton dress that paid loving homage to breast, hip and thigh before flaring slightly and falling elegantly to just below her knees. With her rich dark hair as shiny as a sunlit river flowing prettily down her slim back she was stunning, and observing her in those arresting few moments gave Lysander a picture that he would not soon forget. Sensual excitement dealt him another stunning blow.
He stood up as she arrived at their table, the young waiter deferentially arranging the chair opposite his for her to sit, and flushing ever so slightly beneath his perfect olive skin. Lysander guessed that perhaps the young man was embarrassed at being noticed talking so animatedly to the wealthy Lysander Rosakis’s new ladyfriend.
Thanking him in his native tongue for showing his guest to his table, Lysander waited until his charming dinner companion sat down before addressing her.
‘I am very glad that you could make it,’ he asserted, his gaze locking possessively onto her shy brown eyes.
‘Am I late?’ she anxiously returned, glancing down at her watch in dismay. ‘It was such a perfectly lovely evening that I couldn’t resist just strolling.’
‘I arrived early, so, no, you are not late. You are just in time to witness one of the most spectacular sunsets, in fact.’
They both glanced towards the blazing orb hovering just above the sea’s edge, sending a ricochet of intense orange flame scudding across the already darkening waters. Ianthe sucked in her breath.
Hearing the unbelievably sensual little sound, Lysander felt the smile on his lips melt abruptly away—so taken aback was he by her innocent yet at the same time passionate response to witnessing one of nature’s most awe-inspiring wonders.
‘Doesn’t that stir your soul?’ she demanded, her eyes wide, briefly moving her glance back to Lysander’s.
Marianna had never noticed a sunset in her life. He doubted it would ever have occurred to her to consider whether she had a soul, let alone ask him about his. Ianthe’s words struck an answering chord inside him, deeply and provocatively.
‘Yes, it does,’ he replied, his voice low and slightly husky. ‘No matter how many times I am privileged to witness it, its beauty and power never fail to move me.’
He had the most amazing voice, Ianthe thought as a flare of heat exploded inside her breast. Hearing it was like bathing in a warm bath scented with her favourite perfume. In fact, it was one of the most delicious sensory experiences she’d ever had…perfect for seduction.
The all too tempting idea escaped her characteristic self-restraint like wild horses chasing a dream, and for a while Ianthe succumbed to it with undeniable relish. But cold reality quickly surfaced. She hadn’t agreed to have dinner with Lysander in the hope that he might seduce her. She’d heard all about the pitfalls of holiday romances even if she’d personally never experienced one, and a man as dynamically attractive and charismatic as him had probably had his share and regarded them as fleeting pleasures that he would quickly forget. For all Ianthe knew, he might even be married.
This new thought filled her with horror. As charming and compelling as he was, she would no more consider having an affair with a married man than she would walk down her conservative suburban high street naked! That was one opportunity that she would definitely not be taking!
‘What will you have to eat?’ he asked, breaking into her thoughts afresh with that sensual, provocative cadence of his voice.
Taking the menu he offered, and glancing only briefly down at its lacquered pages, Ianthe cast her gaze almost immediately back to his.
‘Please don’t think me presumptuous, but…’ How could she put an undeniably indelicate question delicately? His relaxed contemplation of her face did not waver at her words, but seemed to become more disturbingly concentrated. Little implosions of panic and awareness were like landmines dotted along her vertebrae. She swallowed. ‘You asked me if I had a husband or a boyfriend. Well…do you mind if I ask you the same quest—?’
‘My wife died.’
His voice was as bleak and foreboding as a deep, dark well—the kind that she would not dare to look down in case there was something menacing and dangerous lurking in there. He did not bother to hide his complete distaste for her nervously executed question. The hue of his disturbing eyes suddenly resembled impervious blue marble, and it appeared as if the Lysander that Ianthe had sensed herself succumbing to with such surprising vehemence had suddenly vanished—in his place was a cold, forbidding stranger. A horrible shiver licked slowly down her spine.
‘Now that that is clear, and you know that I am not trying to involve you in some kind of illicit love affair, perhaps you would care to think about what you would like to eat, Ianthe?’
Her throat dried so hard that she gazed longingly at the carafe of water on the table between them, almost willing it to levitate and come to her rescue.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, Lysander.’
A disconcerting dimple appeared at the side of his tanned cheek and confused her altogether. ‘Of course you did not. Now the matter is at an end. Forget about it and we can concentrate on enjoying our evening together.’
Ianthe wanted desperately to know what had happened to his wife. How had she died and how long ago? It was clear he must have loved her deeply, going by the jagged rip of pain she had momentarily glimpsed in his eyes before that distinctly frosty barrier had slammed into place to guard against unwelcome speculation.
It was clear, Ianthe thought, that those areas were taboo: topics that she didn’t dare raise again unless she wanted to incur his deep disapproval and maybe even wrath.
Forcing herself to scan the menu again, she was taken aback when he softly pronounced her name.
‘I did not mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset.’
Shaking off her uneasiness with a forced smile, Ianthe found herself unable to glance away as quickly as she’d intended, so that she wouldn’t expose her sudden unhappiness. It wouldn’t have worked in any case. Lysander’s reaction was like quicksilver.
‘Do not lie to me, Ianthe. You are the kind of
