a seat.’
Cecelia knew that although he had called her Ms Andrews he was awaiting correction and an invitation to call her by her first name.
There would be no such invitation to do so.
Ms Andrews would do just fine, Cecelia had decided.
She had read about him, thoroughly researched him, and even been told by his current PA during two prolonged interviews about his bad-boy ways.
‘You would have to deal with his girlfriends, or rather his exes,’ Hannah had explained. ‘It can be quite a juggling act at times. Luka works hard all week and then works just as hard breaking hearts at the weekend.’
Cecelia had seen it all before, and not just through her work. She abhorred the rich, debauched kind of lifestyle he led and with good reason—her mother, Harriet, had lived and died the same way.
Still, Luka Kargas’s morals were his own concern, not hers. Cecelia had her sights set on working for royalty and he was a step in the right direction, that was all.
‘He has a yacht, currently moored in Xanero,’ Hannah had said.
‘That’s where he’s from?’ Cecelia checked, although she had found that out in her research.
‘Yes, though you won’t be expected to travel there with him and you won’t be involved with the family business there. Luka keeps that strictly separate.’
She would not be falling for him, Cecelia had reassured both his incumbent PA and herself. The only thing the career-minded Cecelia wanted from Luka Kargas was his name on her résumé and the glowing reference that, after a year’s hard work, he would surely provide.
But now she had finally met him, and as his long olive fingers had closed around hers, the very sensible Cecelia’s conviction that she would not be attracted to him in the least had wavered somewhat.
‘Hannah said you got caught in the storm,’ Luka frowned.
The skies had darkened just over an hour ago.
Luka, from his vantage point of the fortieth floor, had watched the black clouds gather and roll over London.
Candidate Two had arrived drenched and had asked Hannah for a ten-minute delay before proceeding with the interview.
Usually that would have been enough to ensure a black mark against her name but, having watched the storm himself, Luka had accepted the excuse and the rather bedraggled candidate.
Cecelia Andrews was far from bedraggled, though.
She wore a dark grey suit that was immaculate, her blonde hair, worn up, was sleek and smooth, while her make-up was both discreet and in place.
Hannah had insinuated that a drowned rat sat in the entrance yet the woman who sat before him was far from that.
‘I got caught up in the storm,’ Cecelia said, ‘but I wasn’t caught out—I heeded the warnings.’
And she might want to start heeding them now, she thought, for the impact of him on her senses was like nothing she had ever known.
He wore a dark suit and tie and his crisp white shirt accentuated his olive skin; he hadn’t shaved that morning.
The air in the room had changed, as if the charge that had lit the sky for the past hour had joined them.
Luka Kargas was everything her aunt had warned her about, and though she had told herself she could handle it, and that there was no way she could ever be attracted to someone like him, Cecelia hadn’t allowed for the impact of Luka close up.
They skipped through the formalities, both determined to get this over and done with and move on with the day.
‘Hannah will have explained that the hours are long,’ Luka said.
‘She did.’
‘Sixteen-hour days at times.’
‘Yes.’ Cecelia nodded.
‘And there’s an awful lot of travel,’ Luka said. ‘Though for all that the working week is hell, you do get every weekend off.’
She smiled a tight, slightly disbelieving smile.
‘You do,’ Luka said, as he read those full lips. ‘Come Friday night, the entire weekend is yours.’
‘Though I’m guessing I wouldn’t be out of here by five p.m.?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Usually around ten.’
So not really the entire weekend to herself, Cecelia thought as his black eyes scanned through her paperwork. ‘Why are you finishing up with Justin?’
‘Because I didn’t want to live in Dubai.’
‘I go there a lot,’ Luka said, ‘which would mean, by default, so would you.’
‘That’s fine. I just don’t want to live there,’ Cecelia said, and she knew, she just knew, he was alluding to the fact she had a fiancé whose needs would have impacted on her decision.
He was right.
Gordon wouldn’t consider it.
‘Do you speak Greek?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Cecelia said, suddenly hoping it was a prerequisite for the role and that this torture would therefore come to an end. It was torture because her stomach seemed to be folding in on itself and she all of a sudden could feel the weight of her breasts. She had never had such a violent reaction to another person, though of course it was one-sided.
Luka Kargas looked thoroughly bored.
‘Do you speak any other languages?’ he asked.
‘Some French,’ Cecelia said, even though she spoke it very well and had both lived and worked in France for a year.
Anyway, he didn’t want her French, whether a little or a lot of it, for he screwed up his nose.
Good, because Cecelia had now decided that she did not want this job.
She liked safe, and for very good reasons.
Cecelia liked her world ordered, and ten minutes alone with Luka Kargas had just rocked hers.
His black eyes were mesmerising and his brusque indifference had her re-crossing her legs.
Until this moment, sex had been a perfectly pleasant experience, if sometimes a bit of a chore.
Now, though, she sat across from a man who made her think of it.
Actually sit and think about torrid, impromptu sex at two p.m. on a Monday afternoon, and that could never do.
‘Ms Andrews...’
‘Cecelia,’ she corrected, but only because she didn’t want to
