Anne Mather - His Virgin Mistress

She looked down at her feet then, and Demetri found himself doing the same, watching as she crossed one slim bare foot over the other. Until then he hadn’t realised she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and there was something infinitely sensuous about the way she rubbed the sole of one foot across the arch of the other.

To distract himself, he spoke again, his words a little harsh as he struggled to sustain his composure. ‘Were you his nurse?’

‘His nurse?’ She smiled then, and he was treated to the sight of a row of almost perfect white teeth. ‘Heavens, no!’

‘What, then?’ Demetri was impatient at the way she could apparently best him at every turn. ‘His doctor?’

She shook her head, and her hair dipped confidingly over one shoulder. ‘I am not a member of the medical profession, Mr Kastro.’

Demetri’s nostrils flared. ‘Do not play with me, Mrs Manning. You might just get more than you—what is the expression you use?—bargained for, no?’

Her smile disappeared. ‘I wouldn’t dream of playing with you, Mr Kastro,’ she declared coolly. ‘I just wonder why you are so interested in what I do for a living.’

‘I am not.’ But he was and she knew it, damn her. ‘I am merely curious to know how a man who has spent the last two weeks in hospital could have acquired such a—close relationship with a woman his family knew nothing about.’

She took a deep breath. ‘As you say, your father has been in hospital.’

‘Where I visited him,’ put in Demetri shortly. ‘On more than one occasion. Yet he apparently chose not to mention your existence to me.’

Her slim shoulders lifted. ‘I suppose he preferred to wait until we could be introduced.’

‘You are prevaricating again, Mrs Manning.’ Demetri’s temper was slipping. ‘I suggest that, far from knowing my father for some considerable time, as you told Livvy, yours has been what a kinder person might call a whirlwind romance, no?’

‘No.’ She was angry now. ‘What I told your sister was—is true. I work—I have worked—for Bartholomew’s for several years. They’re—’

‘One of the foremost auction houses in London,’ Demetri inserted tersely. ‘I have heard of Bartholomew’s, Mrs Manning.’

‘Good.’ Her eyes challenged his. ‘As you’re aware, your father is a keen collector of antique snuffboxes. He has been a regular customer there for many years.’

Demetri was stunned. He was ashamed to admit that, because of her beauty, he’d been inclined to dismiss her as an airhead. Now, learning that she had a career far removed from any cosmetic pursuit disturbed him more than he cared to admit. It also made her relationship with his father that much more serious somehow.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me…’

She was leaving him, and Demetri could no longer think of an excuse to keep her there. But what troubled him most was that he should want to do so, and he abruptly stepped aside, opening her path to the villa.

‘Until later,’ he said, but she didn’t answer him. If he hadn’t known better he’d have said she was trembling with apprehension. Only it wasn’t apprehension, it was rage.

Joanna made it to her apartments before she gave in to the fit of shaking that had threatened her downstairs. Dear Lord, she thought, she would never have ventured outdoors if she’d even suspected she might run into Demetrios Kastro on the patio. A naked Demetrios Kastro, moreover. Her mouth dried again at the thought.

But she’d looked over her balcony and there’d appeared to be no one about. Oh, she’d seen a couple of men working in the gardens, and a youth of perhaps fifteen sweeping the steps. Yet even he had disappeared by the time she’d stepped out of the villa, and she’d walked to the boundary wall with the first feeling of freedom she’d had since coming here.

And the view was so beautiful. Acres of flower-filled gardens falling away into dunes of sun-bleached sand. A wooden jetty pointed into the blue-green waters of the Aegean, a two-masted schooner bobbing at anchor, all gleaming steel and polished teak. A millionaire’s plaything in a million-dollar setting.

Then Demetrios had emerged from the pool and everything had changed. Her sense of wellbeing had vanished, replaced by the tension that man always evoked. She’d known him for less than twenty-four hours, yet he’d already succeeded in setting her nerves on edge whenever he was near. She had the feeling he looked at her and saw right through her. He didn’t like her: that much was obvious. But, more than that, he despised her for what he thought she was doing with his father.

Now Joanna wrapped her arms about herself and crossed the room to the windows. Despite her revulsion for the man, she felt compelled to see if he was still enjoying his swim. She had only interrupted his pleasure. He had destroyed hers.

But the pool was empty. Although she waited half apprehensively to see if he was briefly out of sight, hidden by the lip of the deck, he didn’t appear. The water was as smooth and unbroken as a mirror, reflecting only the sunlight and the waving palms that grew close by.

Stepping back into the room again, she looked bleakly about her. And then, annoyed that she had let Demetrios sour her mood, she walked through the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom.

She felt a little better after a shower. The cool water had washed away the perspiration that had dried on her skin, and she felt more ready to face the day. Constantine had said he would take her to the small town of Agios Antonis this morning, and she was looking forward to seeing a little more of the island. Since their arrival two days ago they had spent all their time at the villa. Constantine had been weary after the flight from London, and yesterday he had had the reception Olivia had organised to contend with. Joanna knew he would have much preferred to stagger the celebrations for his homecoming, but Constantine hadn’t wanted to disappoint his elder daughter. Besides, until his younger daughter’s wedding was over he didn’t intend to discuss his illness with any of his family.

Joanna finished drying her hair and paused on the threshold of the dressing room that was next to the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling closets lined two of the walls, but the clothes she had brought with her looked lost in their cavernous depths.

Nevertheless, Constantine had insisted on equipping her with several new outfits for the trip to Theapolis. And, although Joanna still felt slightly uncomfortable about that arrangement, she had to admit that the clothes she usually favoured would not have borne comparison with the designer fashions she had seen since their arrival.

The fact that she normally shunned anything that emphasised her femininity had not been lost on Constantine. And, despite the fact that he respected her preference for severe skirt-and trouser-suits, he had persuaded her that they would definitely look out of place in the hot dry climate of the island in late summer.

Besides, they would have detracted from the image he wanted her to present. It was because she could do what he asked that he’d chosen her, and in the circumstances Joanna had been unable to refuse.

Perhaps she’d wanted to do it for her own sake, she reflected, riffling through the rail of expensive garments, all of which were designed to inspire and provoke masculine attention. Flimsy shirts and tight-fitting basques; low-cut bodices and clinging skirts; hems slashed to expose her legs from thigh to hip—items that until two weeks ago she’d have avoided like the plague.

But it hadn’t always been so. Once she would have revelled in their style and beauty. Oh, she had never owned anything too revealing, but she had appreciated her own body and dressed in a way to make the most of her assets. She’d spent so many years believing she was worthless that when the opportunity had come to make the most of her appearance, she’d taken it. She’d wanted to be admired. She’d wanted to know the thrill of feeling beautiful.

And then she’d met Richard Manning…

But she didn’t want to think about Richard now. He was history. He’d hurt and humiliated her for the last time. But perhaps by downplaying her looks she’d been subconsciously denying their relationship. Maybe it was time to come out of her shell.

She viewed her appearance cautiously when she was ready. It would take some time before she was able to look at herself with uncritical eyes, and although the lime-green crêpe shell and cream silk shorts were very flattering, she couldn’t get used to exposing such a length of thigh. Still, she was sure Constantine would approve and, for the present, that was all that mattered.

Which reminded her—where was Constantine? He had said he would order breakfast to be served on the balcony again, as he had done the previous morning, but when she stepped outside again there was still no one about. The wrought-iron table wasn’t even laid, and she knew a moment’s apprehension. What was going on? Surely Demetrios hadn’t delayed him. His son had been eager to speak to him, it was true, but all the same…

Turning back into the room, she crossed to the connecting doors and tapped lightly on the panels. It was the first time she had had to initiate their meeting, and she felt a little awkward when Philip, Constantine’s valet, opened the door.

‘Kalimera, Kiria Manning.’ The man greeted her politely enough, though she sensed a certain reserve in his manner. ‘Boro na sas voithisso?’

Joanna contained her impatience. Constantine had told his valet that she didn’t understand his language, and therefore the man’s behaviour was a deliberate attempt to disconcert her.

However, she had taken the precaution of learning one phrase, and with smiling courtesy she said, ‘Then katalaveno,’ which she knew meant, I don’t understand. ‘Signomi.’ Sorry.

Philip’s thin lips tightened. He was a man in his late fifties, who Constantine had said had been with him for more than thirty years. Gaunt and unsmiling, he was the exact opposite of Joanna’s idea of a genial manservant, his only concession to vanity the luxuriant black moustache that coated his upper lip.

‘Kirie Kastro is not—up, kiria,’ he said at last, in a thick barely comprehensible accent. ‘Then sikothikeh akomi.’

Joanna frowned, looking beyond him into the living area of Constantine’s suite. The door to the bedroom was ajar, but she couldn’t see into the room, and she could only take Philip’s word that Constantine was still in bed.

‘Is he all right?’ she asked, not much caring if the valet cared to stand here trading information with her. ‘Can I see him?’

‘I do not think—’

‘Pios ineh, Philip?’ Who is it?

Constantine’s voice was frail, but he had obviously deduced that the manservant was talking to someone, and, ignoring Philip’s attempt to bar her way, Joanna sidestepped him into the apartment. ‘It’s me, Constantine,’ she called, crossing the floor to the bedroom door. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Please…’

Constantine showed no reservations about inviting her into his room. And why should he? she asked herself drily. When they were deemed to be lovers.

All the same, she halted in the doorway of the huge, distinctly masculine chamber, briefly shocked by his appearance. Constantine was lying propped against the pillows of the massive bed, his face as white as the linen sheets that covered him from chest to foot. Brown hands, slightly gnarled with veins, were a stark contrast to the bedlinen, his nails scraping against the fabric in a mute display of frustration.

‘Come—come in,’ he said weakly, lifting his hand to point at the tapestry-covered chair beside the bed. ‘Do not look like that, aghapitos. I am not dying yet.’