Mme Bernadette took one look at Cleo over the top of her glasses, and clucked her tongue. ‘Hmm, let’s get to work. This may take some time.’ She snapped her fingers at an attendant, who meekly bowed and handed Cleo a robe. ‘Put that on,’ Mme Bernadette instructed. ‘We have work to do.’
Two hours later, Cleo was exhausted. She’d lost count of how many times she’d changed, how many times the stylist had poked, prodded and pulled various bits of whatever she had on, analysing the fit, whether it was the sheerest lingerie or the most figure-hugging gown. But she obviously knew her craft, because by the end of it the racks had been depleted. Everything not still hanging was going with them. There wasn’t a whole lot left hanging.
For someone who’d survived on the contents of one backpack for six weeks and lately just one pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts, an entire couture wardrobe for one month seemed like overkill, but Andreas was clearly calling the shots as Mme Bernadette would not be swayed by any talk of moderation.
The dilemma of how it was supposed to fit in her luggage was soon taken care of, as another knock on the door heralded a trolley carrying a suite of designer luggage and two maids who curtsied as they entered—actually curtsied her—before getting on with the business of packing, letting her get on with her own preparations.
It was almost twelve. She had no doubt Andreas would expect her ready on the dot and had no doubt he would also expect to see the new collection put to good use. For that reason she’d chosen a creamy silk blend trouser suit with a silk camisole that skimmed her new shape, no doubt ably assisted with a new bra that was as sexy as it was an engineering masterpiece. It gave her both cleavage and support yet it looked sexy as sin and felt as if it were barely there. With the new slingbacks that added four inches to her height and showed off her newly pedicured toes to perfection, and a blue scarf Mme Bernadette had pressed upon her because it accented her eyes, she felt more feminine than she ever had, as if she’d grown up and made the transition from a child into a woman in the space of just a few hours. She couldn’t wait to show Andreas the new her.
Twelve noon came and went. Then twelve-thirty and still there was no sign of Andreas, no calls. She sat in a wing-back chair surrounded by packed luggage, swinging one leg and clicking her newly manicured nails, increasingly nervous about what she was doing.
After a whirlwind morning where there’d been no time to wonder at the recklessness of what she was doing, of agreeing to fly off to somewhere in Greece with a total stranger, she wasn’t sure she wanted a chance to think.
Nor did she need the time to wonder if Andreas had suddenly changed his mind, and, having totally sucked her into his plans, he’d left without her. She could imagine he’d worked out that nobody was worth one million dollars for one month of acting. She could equally imagine him laughing at her naivety as he soared thousands of feet above the earth back to his world.
Her stomach clenched. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been cast aside the moment she’d made a commitment. Kurt had chosen his moment with impeccable timing, offering to look after her money and taking everything she’d had to give, first her untested body and then her naïve heart, before cruelly rejecting both. She’d been no more than sport to him, a naïve girl lured overseas and out of reach of family and friends so she could be well and truly fleeced. Once he’d scored both her and her money, he’d discarded her to go in search of fresh prey.
Impatient with the direction of her thoughts, she pushed herself up out of the chair she’d specifically chosen because it was the first thing across the room Andreas would see upon entering, giving up any pretence of appearing cool and calm in favour of striding across the room to the windows, gazing down unseeingly across the busy street to the cool green serenity of Hyde Park beyond.
No, Andreas was no Kurt. He might be arrogant and autocratic, but he would never stoop to such a thing. He’d taken so long to convince her to come with him and he’d gone to such expense. Why do that if he wasn’t going to go through with it?
Her hand went to the drapes and she rested her head against it. Although he’d shown no mercy yesterday. He’d invaded the hotel like an army general routing the enemy, the guests evacuated, the sleeping turfed from their beds, and Demetrius summarily vanquished. She shivered. How could a haircut and a suitcase full of new clothes make her blind to what had happened at his behest only yesterday? Was she so fickle?
No, Andreas might resemble a Greek god, but she’d be a fool to assume he would be a merciful one.
The buzzer sounded and she jumped, suddenly all pins and needles as she crossed the room and pulled open the door. The porter nodded. ‘I’m here to collect the luggage for the airport. Your car is waiting downstairs, miss.’
She took a deep breath, trying to settle her quivering stomach. So she hadn’t been abandoned? That was a good thing, surely? She grabbed her jacket and scarf, threw her bag over her shoulder and marched out, doing her best to play the cool, confident person she was supposed to be when inside even her blood was fizzing. My God, she was actually doing this! She was leaving England for a Greek island with a man she barely knew, a billionaire who needed a pretend mistress.
And yes, he might be arrogant and ruthless and used to getting his own way, and yes, she’d seen enough of him to know she didn’t want to cross him, but it was just for one month. And at the end of that month, she’d walk away a millionaire herself.
How hard could it be?
She smiled as she made her way through the elegant lobby, the waves in her newly styled hair bouncing in time with the tapping of her heels on the marble floor. Finally her luck was changing. Finally Cleo Taylor was going to be a success.
A doorman in a top hat touched a hand to his brow as she emerged. ‘Miss Taylor,’ he said, as if she were some honoured guest he’d been waiting for and not the hick girl who’d walked in wearing cowboy boots less than a day before, and he pulled open the door to a waiting limousine.
She dipped her head and climbed inside, sliding onto the seat behind the driver, opposite where Andreas was sitting totally engrossed in some kind of report perched on his knees.
‘I thought you could probably use the extra time,’ he said by way of explanation, flipping over a page without looking up.
‘You mean you’re blaming me for you being late.’
He looked up at that, looked ready to take issue with her words, but whatever he’d been about to say died before it ever got to his lips. He didn’t have to say a word, though, not with the way his eyes spoke volumes as they drank her in, slowly and thoroughly, from the tip of her coloured hair to the winking toenails peeking out at him from her sandals, a slow gaze that ignited a slow burn under her skin, the flames licking at her nipples, turning them hard, before changing direction and licking their way south.
‘Cleo?’
‘You were expecting someone else?’
The report on his lap slid sideways, forgotten. She smiled. ‘Well? Do you think you got your money’s worth?’
They’d done something with her eyes, he realised. They’d done something with her hair too, so it was no longer mousy and shone in what looked like a hundred different colours, and her clothes were a world apart from her jeans and cowboy boots, but it was her eyes that looked most different. Before they’d been the misty blue of a Santorini morning, but now suddenly it seemed the mists had cleared and they were the perfect blue of a still summer’s day.
‘Have I had my money’s
