eyes darkened as they always did when his thoughts were called in that unwelcome direction. Berenice was convinced—obsessed, he amended—that he should marry an heiress, preferably Greek-born, both to bolster his own financial position and to present his father with a grandson to continue the Nicolaides dynasty. Her constant attempts to matchmake only exasperated Alexeis.
As did, right now, Marissa’s discoursing on the art market. He made some perfunctory reply, still considering whether to end their relationship right now. The trouble was, if he did, he would be facing yet another night on his own. The dilemma worsened his mood and, peremptorily, he beckoned to a server circulating with drinks. As his fingers circled the stem of a champagne flute, he found himself glancing at her.
And holding the glance.
Long, blonde hair, caught back in a clip at her nape, an oval face with flawless features, translucent skin, a short straight nose and accented cheekbones. Wide-set, long-lashed clear grey eyes completed the package—the very delectable package. His first thought was automatic. What was a girl with looks like that doing working as a waitress?
He took the glass, murmuring a thank-you, and the girl’s eyes met his.
He could see it happen as if in slow motion: her reaction to him. Her reaction to the way he was looking at her.
The soft grey-blue eyes widened, pupils dilating and her lips parted slightly. For one long moment she looked—helpless. That was the word, thought Alexeis. As if there was nothing she could do except meet his eyes and let him look at her.
Out of nowhere, Alexeis felt his mood improve. She really was very, very lovely—
‘There’s no mineral water.’
Marissa’s voice was a snap of complaint. Suddenly the waitress looked flustered. Her eyes broke from Alexeis, and went to the woman at his side.
‘I—I’m very sorry,’ she stammered.
She had a low voice, Alexeis noted, and sounded nervous and under stress. The tray, crowded with brimming glasses, wobbled slightly in her uplifted hands.
Marissa rasped in irritation. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a dummy. Go and get some. Still, not sparkling—and no lemon.’
The girl swallowed. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she got out. Jerkily, she turned to go. As she did, another of the guests in the crowded gallery stepped back abruptly and collided with her. Instinctively Alexeis felt his hand go out to balance the tray in the girl’s hands, but it was too late. The glass of orange juice nearest the edge tottered crazily and then cascaded forwards, smashing to the ground and emptying its contents all over Marissa’s cocktail dress.
‘You idiot!’ Marissa’s voice was shrill with fury. ‘Just look what you’ve done!’
A look of horror—and more—convulsed the girl’s face.
‘I’m…I’m sorry—’ It was all she could get out.
A space had cleared around her, and someone was bustling up to her. A short man with an expression on his face that was both irate, and aghast.
‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Marissa’s voice was still shrill. ‘This moron has ruined my dress.’
The aghast look on the short man’s face deepened, and he launched into vociferous apology—which Alexeis cut short.
‘Only the bodice is wet, Marissa,’ he said coolly, cutting the man off. ‘If you sponge it down it will dry out. It’s dark; it won’t show.’
Marissa was not consoled. ‘You half-brained little idiot!’ she raged at the girl again.
Alexeis put a restraining hand on her wrist. ‘Go and find the powder room,’ he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Throwing him a fulminating glance, Marissa stormed off. Meantime, the short man had summoned two other waiting staff, who’d rushed up with cloths and a dustpan and brush, to clear up the shards and the spilt juice on the polished wood floor. He’d also banished the erring waitress whilst Alexeis had spoken to Marissa. Alexeis could see her scurrying, shoulders hunched, towards the back of the gallery.
Then the short man was turning his fulsomely dismayed apologies on Alexeis. Alexeis wasn’t interested. ‘It was an accident,’ he said curtly, nodding dismissal impatiently.
The moment was too opportune to miss—he strode to the reception desk at the entrance.
‘Tell Ms Harcourt I’ve had to leave,’ he said. Then he walked out of the gallery, extracting his mobile to summon his driver. He’d send Marissa a cheque for a new dress, and a trinket to wear with it. it. That should dispose of her. It also meant he’d be facing a celibate night for certain.
Without volition, he found himself thinking about the waitress Marissa had railed at. He frowned—there had been no call to be so abusive to the girl. It had been an accident, not incompetence. His mind wandered back to his perusal of the girl. She really had been very lovely indeed. And in the black, tight-skirted, white-aproned outfit, with the close-fitting short-sleeved white blouse, she’d looked very—
Beddable—that was the word for it.
Oh, not too obviously, not too flagrantly, but there was no denying that the black and white uniform—together with her soft blondeness and those long-lashed wide-set eyes—did the business.
Involuntarily, he felt himself tightening.
Damn—that was not an appropriate response right now! However lovely she was, the girl was not the type of female he usually consorted with. Anyway, he was not in the habit of picking women up on a casual basis. He selected them carefully, not just on their looks, but on whether they would fit into his lifestyle—and, of course, not seek to outstay their shelf-life.
His car glided up to the pavement and he got in. Tonight he would just have to work, that was all. He was flying to New York in the morning anyway, and he knew a large selection of suitable women there from which to choose a replacement for Marissa.
He sat back in the moulded leather seat, looking indifferently out of the tinted window as the car moved forward, heading back down Bond Street. It took him past the gallery again, and he was relieved to see no sign of Marissa. He felt his conscience twinge at having ended their relationship so ruthlessly, but put it aside. He knew very well that the main attraction for her was his wealth and status—nothing more.
He was about to avert his gaze when a figure caught his eye. Walking along with a rapid, somehow jerky gait, shoulders hunched, blonde head bowed, raincoat wrapped tightly round her, hands in pockets and shoulder bag clutched to her side, was the waitress.
Abruptly, for no reason he could justify, Alexeis pressed the intercom button.
‘Stop the car,’ he ordered his driver.
CHAPTER TWO
CARRIE kept walking forward. If she kept walking, she wouldn’t think. Wouldn’t think she’d just lost her job. Again. Was she doomed to keep losing jobs? she thought woefully. It had been her own fault, obviously, and she couldn’t blame them for sacking her.
