clicking as she made her way across the marbled foyer to the executive lift. Stroking her clammy palms down over her dress, she tried not to feel claustrophobic as she rode up towards Xenon’s penthouse office. The smoked mirrors threw back distorted images of her face and the dress she wore seemed to have leeched all the colour from her skin and she suddenly felt terribly provincial. It was a long time since she had been somewhere like this, somewhere where you could almost smell the scent of money.
Xenon’s was a success story which business schools used as a template aimed at people for whom no glass ceiling was too high. Born into a wealthy Greek family, he had assumed control of the Kanellis empire after the sudden death of his father—only to discover that the family finances were failing.
Although prodigiously young, Xenon had been undaunted by the task which lay ahead of him, and the fact that the markets had crashed soon afterwards. He had quickly discovered that he possessed the gifts of financial foresight coupled with nerves of steel. He had seen the need to diversify in order to cope with the changeable economic climate and he had done this while assuming the role as head of his extended Greek family, with all the responsibilities that involved.
Through sheer hard graft and dedication, he had revitalised the family shipping line and then added a chain of luxury shops. A newspaper and publishing house had increased the growing value of his portfolio, and during one economic downturn he had bought the rights of a screenplay written by an unknown student. It had captured the Zeitgeist of the time and My Crazy Greek Father had become the surprise global smash-hit of the year.
But the film had dug much deeper into the national psyche of Greece than the usual stereotypical jokes about sex before marriage and the benefits of moussaka. It had charted the rich and complex history of a beautiful and often misunderstood country. It had detailed wars and defeat. It had chronicled heartbreak and triumph—and had won a plethora of awards for it, included a much-coveted Oscar. The stardust of Hollywood had still been clinging to Xenon’s skin when Lexi had met him, some years later, when she had just embarked on an ill-judged solo career.
She knew that Xenon deserved his success. She knew he had worked hard for it and that he still did. But hadn’t his insatiable appetite for even more success helped drive a wedge between them? Hadn’t his ambition grown so big that it had dominated their lives and left her feeling pushed out and resentful?
She had been unable to be the wife he needed, or provide the heir which his fierce Greek pride had demanded. Xenon had wanted perfection and Lexi was a long way from perfection.
The lift pinged to a halt and she walked into the outer office to find a blonde—another blonde!—she didn’t recognise seated behind the large desk. Her predecessor had been there for years and Lexi had liked the middle-aged woman who had acted as gatekeeper to the Greek billionaire. It was a little disconcerting to see this new and rather glamorous incumbent rifling through a pile of papers with her shiny pink nails.
The blonde was looking at her and smiling. ‘Mrs Kanellis?’
Once again, the words sounded shockingly wrong. Like waking up and finding you were in someone else’s body. Lexi wondered how it would go down if she blurted out that she was not really Mrs Kanellis. That she and her estranged husband hadn’t shared a bed in almost two years and that Xenon had steadfastly refused to grant her the divorce she wanted. How would the blonde react to that?
But she said none of these things. Instead, she gave the polite smile which was expected of her even if behind it she was gritting her teeth. ‘That’s right.’
‘Mr Kanellis is expecting you. He said to ask whether you would like anything to drink after your journey.’
Tempted to ask for a mild sedative, Lexi nodded. ‘A cup of tea would be great.’
‘Tea it is. I’ll bring some right in.’
A discreet buzzer sounded on the desk and Lexi watched as the blonde smoothed her hand over her already immaculate hair. And that unconscious gesture told her more than a thousand words ever could, because she’d seen it so many times before. She’d seen it with shop assistants and bar staff, with airline stewardesses and female executives. It was a mixture of adoration and availability and it told her that Xenon could still get women adoring him, without even having to try.
‘You can go in now, Mrs Kanellis.’
‘Thanks.’ Tucking her bag under her arm, Lexi headed for the inner sanctum and walked into Xenon’s office, shutting the door behind her.
It was an impressive room. One hundred and eighty degrees of glass overlooked some of the most expensive real estate in the capital. In among the skyscrapers were dotted the roofs of famous monuments, looking so out of scale that they would have seemed more at home in a doll’s house.
But Lexi barely noticed the view. Xenon dominated that, just as he dominated everything else around him. He was seated at his desk, surveying her with the stillness of the natural predator. His black hair was tousled, as if he had been running impatient fingers through it. He’d loosened his tie—unless the smooth blonde had been responsible—revealing a glimpse of olive flesh which looked warm and inviting. It was only a little thing, but Lexi hadn’t been prepared for it. It was too intimate. It reminded her of too much. She knew that the hair began at the top of his chest and arrowed all the way down to his groin. She knew the way she used to scrape her fingernails through it and the way he used to moan in response. It was a mental picture she would have preferred not to have created and it made her cheeks grow hot.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Her legs felt weak and she was glad to sink into the chair opposite his. Beneath the filmy folds of her dress, she pushed her knees together, looking at the various trophies around his office. There was the Oscar carelessly standing next to a set of leather-bound books by the great Greek philosophers. On one of the walls hung the platinum disc awarded for the colossal sales of his film’s soundtrack and there were several citations from various business schools. A small sculpture by a former Turner Prize winner stood next to a sofa on which he sometimes catnapped, if he was working all night. All in all, it was a very impressive room which spoke volumes about its occupant.
‘So.’ She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. ‘Here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ he agreed slowly.
‘Why here?’ she questioned. ‘I mean, why bring me to your office? So you could work right up to the last possible minute, I suppose. Or to remind me of what a successful man you are?’
‘Surely you don’t need reminding of that?’ he mocked.
‘Funnily enough, your achievements aren’t the first things I think about, on waking.’
‘It’s neutral territory,’ he said. ‘Plus you know that I never like to waste time. Why wait for you at the house, when I could be doing something constructive here?’
She met the hard gleam of his blue eyes. ‘So work still rules, does it?’ she questioned. ‘You’re still that man who can never say no to earning an extra dollar even though you’ve got the kind of wealth which could probably bankroll the economy of a small country.’
For a moment Xenon didn’t answer. Instead, he just mused on the fact that nobody had ever spoken to him with quite the same degree of insolence as his wife. He watched as she pressed her beautiful knees together and thought she looked a damned sight more respectable today than when he had turned up announced. No. That was the wrong word. You could never use the word ‘respectable’ about a woman he could imagine
