Drakon gave a hard and humourless smile. ‘Oh, believe me, that possibility has not yet been dismissed.’
‘Oh.’ Uncertainty briefly flickered in her eyes as she drew herself up to her full height of possibly five feet ten inches in the two-inch-heeled boots she was wearing. The shirt that fitted so flatteringly over her breasts and the flatness of her abdomen was black in colour, the jeans that clung to that enticingly curvaceous bottom a light blue. ‘I only did what I did because I so badly needed to talk to you—’
‘Would you care for coffee?’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘Coffee?’ Drakon indicated the bar area, where a full pot of coffee had been brought up to him earlier and left on the black marble surface along with several black mugs.
‘Is it decaf?’
He raised dark brows. ‘I think possibly Brazilian, as that is my preferred blend…’
‘Then, no, thank you,’ she refused politely. ‘Unless it’s decaffeinated most coffees give me a migraine.’
‘Would you like me to send down for some that is decaffeinated?’
‘No, really. I’m fine.’ She smiled.
Drakon had absolutely no idea why he had even made the offer; the sooner the two of them talked and she departed, the better! ‘You do not mind if I do?’ He didn’t wait for her reply before walking over to the bar and pouring a cup of the steaming and aromatic brew, lifting the unsweetened liquid to his lips and slowly taking a sip as he used the respite in conversation to study her over the rim of the mug.
If, as he thought, this young woman was the daughter of Miles Bartholomew and the stepdaughter of Angela Bartholomew, then she did not appear or behave at all as one might have expected of the only child of a multimillionaire industrialist. Her clothing was as casual as that of any of the dozens of young women Drakon had seen as he was driven from the airport into central London two days ago, her unusually coloured hair was styled simply in straight layers and—as he had already noted—the fragile loveliness of her face appeared bare of make-up. Her fingernails were short and unvarnished on long and elegant hands, and she raised one to flick a wayward strand of that long white-gold hair over her shoulder.
The appearance of Miles Bartholomew’s daughter—if this was she—was indeed unexpected. Her familiar manner towards Drakon—with a complete lack of the awe with which he was usually treated!—was even more so…
He placed the black mug carefully back on the bar beside him before walking softly, unhurriedly, across the room until he stood only inches away from her. Their gazes were almost on a level as she stood only three or four inches shorter than his own six feet and two inches in height.
‘We appear to have omitted to introduce ourselves. As you have already guessed, I am Drakon Lyonedes. And you are…?’
‘Gemini,’ she blurted out. ‘Er—Gemini Bartholomew. I’m Miles Bartholomew’s daughter.’ She thrust out a hand, her cheeks having become coloured the same beguiling rose as the fullness of her lips.
Gemini…
Drakon inwardly appreciated how well that name suited her as he took the slenderness of her hand in his much larger one. The name was as unusual and beautiful as this young woman was herself…
‘And what is it you believe that only I can do for you, Miss Bartholomew?’
Gemini felt a quiver of awareness travel the length of her spine as Drakon Lyonedes continued to hold her hand captive in his much stronger one. His skin was cool to the touch, but at the same time the huskiness of his voice seemed to wash over her senses with the warmth of a lingering caress.
Surely she must have imagined that double entendre in his question?
Even the thought that she might not have done was enough to make her aware of the fact that not only was she not prepared for the sheer physical presence of the head of Lyonedes Enterprises, but she hadn’t even begun to guess—couldn’t possibly have imagined!—the rawness of the overwhelming sexuality he exuded.
It was a raw sexuality Gemini would have preferred not to have even recognised, let alone responded to, when she had every reason to suspect that he was currently involved in an affair with the stepmother she disliked so intensely…
CHAPTER TWO
JUST the thought of her stepmother was enough to make Gemini pull her hand abruptly from Drakon’s—no doubt his hand had touched the detested Angela in ways Gemini didn’t even want to begin to imagine!
With an inward shudder she thrust her hand firmly behind her back before taking a determined step away from him. ‘There’s only one thing you can do for me, Mr Lyonedes,’ she assured him flatly. ‘And that is to withdraw the offer you’ve made to purchase Bartholomew House from my father’s widow!’
Drakon studied Gemini Bartholomew from beneath narrowed lids, noting the wings of colour that had appeared in those ivory cheeks, and the over-bright glitter of emotion now visible in her beautiful sea-green eyes as she glared at him. ‘And why, when the sale is due to be completed in only two weeks’ time, would you imagine I might wish to do that, Miss Bartholomew?’ he said slowly.
A pained frown appeared between those long-lashed aquamarine eyes. ‘Because it isn’t hers to sell, of course. To you or anyone else!’
‘I believe my legal department have checked all the necessary paperwork and are completely satisfied with their results,’ Drakon assured her smoothly, no longer completely sure what or who he was dealing with. He certainly had no one else’s word but hers that she was who she claimed to be.
From all accounts her behaviour had been less than rational ever since she’d entered the building, and the claim she had just made, along with that slightly wild glitter in those stunning Aegean-coloured eyes, would seem to imply a certain wobble in her emotional balance. Perhaps, after all, he should have heeded Markos’s advice and not agreed to meet privately with this unusual young woman?
‘I’m sure that they were.’ She now gave an impatient shake of that white-gold head. ‘When I said Bartholomew House wasn’t Angela’s to sell, I meant morally rather than legally.’
The tension in Drakon’s shoulders relaxed slightly. ‘I see,’ he murmured.
Somehow Gemini doubted that!
And she didn’t care for the way in which Drakon was now regarding her so sceptically with those piercing coal-black eyes of his from between narrowed lids.
No doubt he already thought she was slightly deranged after her behaviour in the reception area, without her now claiming that Bartholomew House wasn’t Angela’s to sell, and then admitting that it was! Except it wasn’t. How could it be, when Bartholomew House in London had been owned by a Bartholomew since—well, for ever? And Angela wasn’t really a Bartholomew. The other woman had been the second wife of Gemini’s father, and only married to him for three years before his death six months ago—how could Angela possibly begin to understand the sense of tradition, of belonging, that a Bartholomew living in Bartholomew House had given to her family for hundreds of years?
As Gemini knew only
