the street, stamping her feet in her thin-soled pumps against the cold. It seemed surreal to be on her way out to dinner with Lukas Christophedes—billionaire, businessman, fake boyfriend.
As she well knew, it took time to attend to the various locks, bolts and security devices on the glossy black front door. She seized those few minutes to herself to try and sort her chaotic thoughts about the crazy deal she’d struck with him.
But as she watched him she started to shiver—not because of the cold but from delayed reaction as the full impact of her misconduct hit her. Security was vital to the high-end clients of Maids in Chelsea. She’d learned that London SW3 was one of the most desirable postcodes in the UK, possibly even the world. By handing her the keys to this house, Clio had entrusted her with the reputation of the agency—and she had betrayed that trust big time.
She felt she might hyperventilate when she realised how lucky she was to have got off so lightly. Had anyone other than Lukas Christophedes caught her in his bathtub she suspected she would right now be languishing in a police lockup. But his lenient treatment of her was only because she had something to offer him. If he changed his mind, or if she didn’t deliver on her part of the bargain, she could still end up enjoying the hospitality of the Kensington and Chelsea constabulary.
Men like Lukas—no matter how charming—didn’t get to be billionaires without being ruthless. She would have to play her assigned role to the nines. That meant getting as much as she could out of this evening so she could become the best pretend girlfriend ever. Then, after tomorrow’s dinner date was over, she could put him and today’s mortifying incident behind her. She took a deep breath to steady herself for the task to come.
Not that spending time with Lukas would exactly be a hardship. As he finished with the security device he turned to face her. Tall and imposing in a superbly tailored, deep charcoal overcoat, he was so strikingly handsome if she’d passed him in the street she would probably have tripped over her feet in her haste to turn and gawk at him. He was intelligent and interesting too. It seemed impossible that such a gorgeous man had to resort to a fake date. One thing was for sure—she could never think of Lukas Christophedes as boring.
He narrowed his eyes in the inscrutable way she had already come to recognise. ‘You need boots in this weather,’ he said. ‘Tall black boots.’
She stopped stamping, berating herself for drawing attention to the paucity of her wardrobe. ‘Yes,’ she said. If he only knew how many of London’s enticing shop windows she had lingered at, looking at boots she couldn’t possibly afford. Running away from her wedding had cost her in more ways than one. ‘Warm boots are on my shopping list.’ To be purchased at the Christmas sales. She had to find somewhere to live first, before she bought boots.
He indicated that she go ahead of him down the steps. ‘Do you like Italian food?’ he asked.
Her tummy threatened to rumble in response. She hastened to speak over it. ‘I like any food. Well, pretty well any food. I don’t care too much for really hot curries, which is a disadvantage living in London when that’s what my friends love best. But Italian? I love Italian. Wouldn’t you like to eat Greek?’
‘No one cooks Greek food as well as in Greece,’ he said, his voice underscored with arrogance.
‘I guess not. I’ve enjoyed Greek food back home in Australia,’ she said. ‘You know Melbourne is supposed to have the biggest population of Greek people of any city outside of Greece? Not that I’d recognise what was good Greek food or bad.’
Ashleigh knew she was chattering on too much, a habit she would have to curb if she were to be believable as the sophisticated kind of woman a man like this would date. Lukas and her. She had to get the script right. Because this might very well turn out to be one of the most life-changing experiences of her life.
‘I’ll take you to my favourite Italian restaurant on the King’s Road,’ he said.
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
As soon as she turned into the street, she gasped as a gust of cold, damp air hit her, burning her lungs, numbing her cheeks. Her eyes started to water and she blinked against the smarting tears.
‘You’re not used to the cold, are you?’ Lukas asked.
‘Not yet,’ she said, rubbing her hands together then sliding them into the pockets of her glorious borrowed coat. ‘I’m still getting acclimatised. Of course I spent very cold, wet winters in Manchester when I was younger but that was years ago. I’ve lived in tropical heat ever since.’
Immediately, Lukas unwound the finely woven grey scarf from around his neck. ‘Wear this and keep it up around near your face.’
Dumbfounded, Ashleigh shook her head. ‘There’s no need—I can’t possibly take your scarf.’ It was all very well to wear his mother’s clothing; to wear his clothes seemed way too intimate.
Did he intend to put it around her neck? She put up her hand to stop him and in doing so grazed his. At the brief contact, she dropped her hand—then regretted it immediately. A pretend girlfriend wouldn’t react like that at such a casual touch. A pretend girlfriend certainly shouldn’t feel such a zing of awareness.
‘But you must,’ he said, holding the scarf out to her. ‘I insist.’ It was not so much a demand but a statement not to be disputed.
Pretend girlfriend or not, it would be ungracious not to take the scarf when it had been so thoughtfully offered. Tentatively, she took it from him. The fabric was soft, cashmere and silk most likely, and warm from his body heat. She wound it around her neck, tucked it inside her collar and up around her chin, and immediately felt several degrees cosier.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, too shaken to say anything else.
The scarf was scented with something spicy and woody—cedar perhaps?—and distinctly male. Him. The scent of Lukas Christophedes—the man she needed to get to know by this time tomorrow evening. The man she would have to fight crazy stirrings of attraction for. There was too much of a fairy tale feel about all this—she couldn’t allow herself to believe any of it could be real.
‘But now you’ll be cold without your scarf,’ she said.
‘I’ll have to walk really, really fast then,’ he said, taking an exaggerated deeper stride.
She laughed, surprised at the unexpected touch of humour. Otherwise he seemed so serious.
‘Does it get cold in Greece in winter?’ she asked. ‘I always think of it as a summer place, all blue skies and even bluer waters.’
‘Even the islands get snow in winter,’ he said. ‘I live in Athens where it does get cold but not bitterly so. Then we have unexpected warm days—halkionis meres—halcyon days when the sun is shining and winter is temporarily banished.’
They were talking about the weather. She’d need to know more than that if she were to fool the astute businesswoman they’d be dining with tomorrow. But where to start without seeming to interrogate him?
They walked to the end of his street, turned into The Vale and then right into the King’s Road, heading west. Far from walking really, really fast, Lukas kept his pace to hers. As if they actually were a couple. At this time of evening Chelsea was buzzing. Trees were strung with thousands of tiny lights, the shops decorated for Christmas, snatches of festive music greeting them as they walked by the buildings. London at Christmastime was
