the auction, and Lucilla seemed sad about it.
No one knew where Liliana Chatsfield had gone, but one day she’d walked out on her family and never came home again. He knew the history, as so many did, but for the first time he could see how it must have affected at least one Chatsfield child.
It made him feel almost tender toward her. A complication he did not need. “She is indeed. Your mother, I presume?”
She took a sip of her champagne and he saw that her fingers trembled. “Yes.”
“And does it bother you this picture is in the auction?”
She sniffed. She did not look at him. “Of course not. It’s for a good cause, and my father is right to get rid of it. Graham Laurent painted it before he was quite so famous, so it will fetch a high price simply because of that. Obviously, my father knows this.”
And Gene Chatsfield was marrying again, so his new wife-to-be probably didn’t want a portrait of the old wife still in his possession. Though why he didn’t gift it to one of his children, Christos couldn’t say. It seemed the logical thing to do.
“You could buy it.”
She turned to look up at him again, and he felt the power of that gaze down to his toes. The gold flecks in her eyes sparkled in the light from above. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be seemly.”
He didn’t quite understand that logic, but it was not his concern really. If she didn’t want to buy it, what did he care?
“As you wish, Lucilla mou.” He didn’t know why he called her my Lucilla, but the first time he’d done it, she’d seemed annoyed—so he’d kept doing so because it amused him to irritate her. He had not meant to irritate her now, but of course she could not know that. Her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t you have some souls to collect elsewhere in the room?”
Christos couldn’t help the laugh that burst from him then. Lucilla tried to frown but ended up smiling, though she kept biting her lip to stop. He wished she would let it out because he was certain a smile would transform her face.
“I have met my quota of souls for the day, unfortunately.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Tomorrow is a new day. I’m sure you’ll find some lives to wreck before the morning runs out.”
He took a sip of champagne, uncharacteristically amused. She was acerbic and tart, not at all what he was accustomed to in a woman. It was a novelty, and he enjoyed it more than he should. He never cared if he was liked. Companies hired him to do the tough jobs, to make the decisions no one else would.
He didn’t care if this woman liked him, either—but he found himself hoping she wouldn’t go away just yet.
“It is on my schedule,” he said.
“Of course it is.” She pulled in a deep breath and turned away from the painting as if she had made a final decision to slice herself off from the allure of it. “Tell me about you, Christos. Where did you grow up? What did you like to do as a child?”
Her questions punched him in the gut. He never talked about his childhood. It was too painful. Too dark and disgusting. Compared to hers, even with an absent mother, his was hell on earth.
“I grew up in Greece. I had a happy life, I got an education and I went to work. What else is there to know?” The lies flowed easily from his tongue these days. He’d had years to practice them, after all.
She was staring at him. “Where in Greece? Near the sea? Inland?”
Ice formed in his veins. He did not like it when people pried. “Everywhere in Greece is near the sea.”
“That’s a very vague answer.”
He shrugged as if it were nothing to him. “We are not friends, Lucilla. There is no point in engaging in idle chitchat. You do not care about my childhood, nor I yours. You care about what I am doing to your precious company, and I care about returning the Chatsfield name and all it stands for to its former glory. We are not on opposite sides, no matter how you wish to view it. And we don’t need to engage in polite banter in order to pretend we like each other.”
Her eyes had narrowed considerably. And her color was high. The flush over her breasts was intriguing. He wanted to slip her gown off her shoulder and press his mouth just above her heart.
“With an attitude like that, no wonder you don’t have any friends. You refuse to let anyone get close enough to be a friend.”
He snorted. “And do you really want to be my friend, Lucilla? Or is there something more to this query?”
She tilted her chin up. “No, I don’t want to be your friend. But I was trying to be polite. I thought maybe life would be easier if we at least pretended to like each other.”
He took a step closer to her, watched the thrum of her pulse kick up in her neck. He had to admire that she did not back away. She stood her ground, though she had to tilt her head back to look up at him since he towered over her.
“I am quite willing to pretend, Lucilla mou. I find myself utterly intrigued by the cut of that gown and the mystery of what lies beneath. If you wish, we can leave together and pretend to like each other in my bed.”
Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. The color in her cheeks bloomed redder than before. And then she looked completely furious, as if he’d tricked her somehow. He didn’t have time to figure it out because she poked him in the chest with a manicured finger.
“You are not serious, Christos, and this isn’t funny.”
“I was not trying to be funny.”
She poked him again, harder this time. “I saw you come in and I know who you’re with. Don’t insult me by pretending you find me more appealing than you do your supermodel girlfriend.” She dropped her finger and straightened her shoulders. “I am not that desperate or that stupid and I resent you thinking I am.”
LUCILLA’S HEART BEAT hard and fast as she met Christos’s icy blue gaze. She knew her color was high, and she knew the hue of her gown didn’t help matters in the least. Why had she chosen red for tonight?
Because she knew he would be here.
No, that was not it at all.
She’d chosen the sexiest, boldest dress she owned because she liked to look and feel pretty, not because Christos Giatrakos would be here with yet another model on his arm. Since he’d arrived at the Chatsfield, he’d often been seen at their various events with beautiful women—a different one every time, in fact.
And now he was making fun of her. Taunting her with the idea of them being together, of tangled limbs and heated skin, when she knew it was the furthest thing from his mind. It was his aim to fluster her. It infuriated her that she could even be flustered—damn her stupid hormones—but she refused to let him know it was working.
She tilted her chin up and gave him her best
