tourist spots as the Agora, Plaka, Monastiraki flea market, Acropolis and Presidential Palace.
All very interesting, she was sure, and normally she’d have soaked up the information but, in this instance, she found it difficult to concentrate. Even the ancient, floodlit columns of the Parthenon failed to hold her attention for more than a second or two. And all because, much closer—and far too close for comfort—the sleeve of Mikos Christopoulos’s immaculate dinner jacket repeatedly brushed against her bare arm. His warm breath ruffled her hair. His voice, darker than midnight and more seductive than chocolate, mesmerized her with its foreign intonation. Most disturbing of all, his exceedingly masculine aura enveloped her in a web of sexual awareness that left her trapped like a hapless butterfly pinned to a collector’s mounting board.
Oblivious to his effect on her, he directed her attention to a block of real estate just east of the hotel. “Down there is Kolonaki, one of the most sought-after areas in Athens. Often referred to as Embassy territory, it’s also home to the business district, as well as some high-priced apartment buildings and many trendy coffee houses where the social set likes to hang out.”
“But that’s not where you live, is it?” she asked weakly, less because she really gave a hoot where he lived than because she felt she had to say something to indicate she still had a working brain. “When we were downstairs, you mentioned an apartment in Lika-something Hill.”
“Lycabettus, that’s right.” He cupped her shoulders in his big, warm hands, and turned her slightly to the north. “You can see it quite clearly from here. But I work in Kolonaki, in the Tyros office complex.”
Mention of Angelo Tyros’s name served as a stark reminder of why she was in Greece to begin with. Fighting to keep her tone neutral, she said, “How long have you worked for him?”
“Almost half my life, though not always in my present capacity.”
“So you know him well?”
“As well as anyone does, yes.”
“What kind of man is he—besides rich and famous, that is?”
Mikos gave the question some thought before answering. “Indestructible,” he finally replied. “As you know, he just turned eighty, but he’s still very much a hands-on chairman of the board, at his desk every morning by nine and expecting everyone else to be at theirs. He takes enormous pride in the fact that he’s never missed a day’s work in his life, not when his wife died, nor even when his son and only child was killed in an auto racing accident, some thirty years ago.”
That figures, Gina thought bitterly. What does family matter, compared to the amassing of more wealth? “And you admire such a man?”
“I respect him, I’m grateful to him, and yes, I’m fond of him. Deeply so. I might not always agree with him or the choices he makes, but I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for Angelo Tyros.”
Nor would my mother!
How she kept the words from flying out of her mouth, she’d never know, but something of her contempt must have shown on her face because Mikos tilted his head to one side, the better to observe her. She’d noticed earlier that his eyes were not the dark brown she’d have expected of a man so classically Greek in every other respect, but a light, clear green. Framed by thick, black lashes, they made an arresting statement in a face already blessed with more than its fair share of masculine beauty. But more than that, they were sharply observant and full of keen intelligence. He wouldn’t be easily fooled.
She’d do well to remember that, she thought, glancing away before she lost herself in the depths of that alluring gaze. If she played her cards right, this man could introduce her to Angelo Tyros, but not if she gave him reason to be suspicious of her motives. Without his help, a journalistic nonentity like herself hadn’t a chance of getting within spitting distance of the old brute. His army of sycophants would see to that, as she’d realized the moment she set foot in the ballroom.
Interpreting her silence as disapproval, Mikos said, “If I’ve given the impression that he’s cold and unfeeling, and more concerned with power than people, let me balance that by saying with absolute sincerity that he’s also capable of great generosity and kindness.”
“I’ll try to remember that when I write my article.”
His voice sank lower, rolling over her skin with the soft abrasion of velvet dragged against the nap to bring every nerve ending in her body to tingling life. “And I will never forget this night, or this moment.”
“Why’s that?” she whispered haltingly.
Again, he brought his hands to her shoulders, but this time ran them up her neck and along the underside of her jaw until they cradled her face. “We both know why, calli mou.”
Well, she didn’t. Not really. Oh, she knew he was going to kiss her. Had known it from the moment they’d stepped out onto the deserted roof garden, just as she’d known she was going to let him because, quite apart from any other consideration, he happened to be handsome as the proverbial Greek god, and so charming that his smile alone was enough to set her entire body vibrating right down to her toes, and it had been such a long time since she’d felt desirable. But in no way did any of that answer the real question, why?
The ballroom had been overflowing with beautiful women clad in the very latest, most sumptuous designer fashions. She had on a dress she’d last worn five years ago, and even in its prime, it hadn’t exactly qualified as being on the cutting edge of haute couture.
Those other women had diamonds threaded through their hair, and draped around their necks and wrists, and swinging from their ears. Her only adornment consisted of a piece of costume jewelry—a big old purple-colored pendant, studded around the perimeter with grimy crystals, which she used to wear when she played dress-up as a little girl. Although its chain had long since been lost or broken, she’d scrubbed its paste gems in ammonia until they sparkled, then attached it to a wide band of black velvet, which she now wore at her throat. It was a pretty enough bauble to suit the occasion, especially in the subdued light of the ballroom, but it didn’t compare to the real thing.
Which brought her back full circle to her original question: Why had Mikos Christopoulos singled out her, a social nobody from Canada, with neither pedigree, position nor money to make her stand out from the crowd?
Grabbing at the remnants of her vanishing sanity, she stammered, “That hardly answers my question, Mikos.”
“No? Then perhaps this does,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss that redefined the meaning of the word, at least as it applied to her experience.
She clutched at him, then, because it was either that or slither to the ground in a heap of molten hormones. How was it possible for fire to torch her senses, yet leave behind no scar? How could a man turn the most elementary tool of seduction into an instrument of such exquisite sensory torture that spasms of pleasure shot to the pit of her stomach and left her most secret flesh humming and aching and drenched?
Oh, this was madness! But telling herself so did nothing to stop an inarticulate moan from rising in her throat. Or keep her hands where they properly belonged, planted firmly at his shoulders to ward him off. Instead she wilted against him and wound her arms around his neck, and tunneled her fingers through his smooth, dense hair, and opened her lips to his persuasive tongue and let him do as he pleased with her mouth, and just generally behaved like a trollop.
Remember why you’re here!
