see the violet-blue depths of her eyes. Eyes that had swallowed his soul for a foolish few seconds at the airport.
Initially she looked as though she would refuse his offer, but then she gave a nod of acceptance. She turned around and pushed her arms into the sleeves. When he pulled it up to her slim shoulders she moved at the same time to sweep up the long length of her golden blonde hair trapped beneath the jacket. Her hair fell against his hands like the gentle weight of silk, her floral scent carried with it. His gut tightened. And when she turned those huge eyes to him they were full of questions, of awareness of the chemistry sizzling between them. He itched to touch the smooth line of her jaw, to run his thumb over the sensual plumpness of her lips.
He took a step away.
She twisted back towards the sea, her shoulders sagging faintly before she went to pick up her weekend bag, but he whipped it up, along with her suitcase.
‘The path down to the villa is well lit, but still be careful—it’s steep. Ela. Come. I will lead the way.’
On the way down the path he paused a number of times, to allow her to catch up and to ensure that she was following him safely. As they rounded the corner that opened up the villa to their view he heard her gasp. He turned in alarm. Grace stood staring at the villa, its walls bathed in the light from the terraces.
‘What a stunning building—it’s like a stack of sugar cubes perched on the mountainside! How absolutely beautiful.’
Memories of the last woman he had brought here stirred at her words. He pushed them away. ‘Thank you. I’ll show you to your room as it’s getting late. In the morning you can look around the villa and the gardens.’
Instead of following him Grace moved to the furthest reaches of one of the terraces and leaned on the balustrade.
‘Now I understand why Christos was so eager to marry here. It’s an idyllic wedding location. Sofia showed me some photos, but I had no idea it was so lovely. I can just imagine how incredible it will look on the night of the wedding, when everyone is dancing out here on the terrace, candles lit...’
It was time to move her on. ‘As I said, I’ll show you to your bedroom and then you can join me for something to eat.’
She stepped more fully into the light of the terrace, as though she didn’t want to speak from the shadows. His jacket hung loose on her, almost reaching down to the hem of her dress.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’ She wrapped the jacket around her body, folding her arms over it to secure it closed. ‘You’re not excited about the wedding?’
He paused as he calculated his best response. Time to put his cards on the table. ‘I’m concerned that they are rushing into this. They barely know one another. How long have they been together? Four months? The whole thing is unwise.’
‘But they are really happy. I’ve never seen a couple so in love...so right for one another. It truly was love at first sight for them both.’
The gentle wistfulness in her voice had him clenching his fists.
‘Really? Love at first sight?’
‘Yes—why not?’
Her idealism made him want to be cruel, to shake her out of her romantic bubble. ‘Lust at first sight, maybe.’
Silence followed his words and they stared at each other, the truth of his words, as applied to them, hanging in the space between them.
He forced himself to continue. ‘It takes a long time to get to know another person—if you ever can. People aren’t what they seem.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘My brother is an exceptionally wealthy man.’
She studied him with a mixed expression of disappointment and hurt. ‘That means nothing to Sofia, trust me.’
For a brief moment he hated himself for his cynicism, for causing that wounded expression. But then he remembered how he had been played for a fool before, and he asked with a bitter laugh, ‘Do you seriously believe that?’
Hard resolution entered her eyes. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’ She walked back to him, anger clear in her quick pace, in the way she glared at him.
Well, tough. He would remain convinced that Sofia was marrying Christos for his name and wealth until it was proved otherwise. And as for Grace Chapman... She seemed to know a lot about him. Was she really here just to organise the wedding flowers? Or did she perhaps hope for romance with the best man?
And that wasn’t his vanity speaking. He had a constant stream of women eager to date him—to date a Petrakis, date a billionaire. To date him for all the superficial reasons he hated. But it suited him, because no woman was ever getting close to knowing the real him again. And no way was he getting entangled with the chief bridesmaid when tradition dictated that they would see each other in the future.
He picked up her suitcase and said once again, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’
Her phone rang. She checked the screen and turned away. ‘Hi, Matt.’ A long giggle followed. ‘Of course I miss you.’
As he took her bags up into the villa he gritted his teeth at how happy she sounded. When was the last time someone had answered his call with such warmth and tenderness? And then anger surged through his veins. Was she already in a relationship? If so, why the hell was she allowing the chemistry between them to smoulder on?
* * *
‘I love you too.’
Grace hung up from Matt and stretched her neck back, easing the tension in her muscles a fraction.
She rolled her shoulders and took in once again the quiet serenity of her surroundings. Then she steeled herself. She walked into the villa and entered a large living room, seeing walls whitewashed in gentle curves, a recessed fireplace. The stillness of the room and its simple refined beauty, from the huge white sofas on white marble floors to the handcrafted teak furniture, were at odds with the sense of injustice raging in her heart.
Andreas had no right to make such horrible assumptions about Sofia. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Was Andreas just like her father? Cold and cynical? A man so obsessed with becoming wealthy he was blind to the magic of love and loyalty?
Whatever the truth, Sofia and Christos could not arrive to find the best man and chief bridesmaid at loggerheads. She and Andreas would have to learn to get on.
She found him in the kitchen, propped against the countertop, peeling an orange. She placed his jacket on the back of a chair. Unconsciously, she let her hand linger for a few moments on the soft wool, until she realised what she was doing.
Long elegant fingers expertly spiralled the peel off the orange, but he didn’t glance downwards once to watch his progress—instead he studied her.
She placed a bottle of champagne on the counter. In response to his frown she explained, ‘It’s a thank-you for having me to stay.’
She had thought it might be an appropriate gift, given the upcoming celebrations, but was rapidly revising that idea. She twisted the bracelet at her wrist, her fingers reaching for the
