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Mistress

Taming the Playboy

Constantine’s Defiant Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

Androletti’s Mistress

Melanie Milburne

Valenti’s One-Month Mistress

Sabrina Philips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Constantine’s Defiant Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

About the Author

SHARON KENDRICK started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances, with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl! Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester—where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tiptoe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS hearing his name on the radio which made her senses scream. Laura never had time for newspapers—even if her dyslexia hadn’t made reading so difficult—she relied on the morning news programme to keep her up to date. Usually she only listened with half an ear, and usually she wasn’t remotely interested in anything to do with international finance.

But Karantinos was an unusual name. And it was Greek. And didn’t anything to do with that beautiful and ancient land put her senses on painful alert for very obvious reasons?

She had been busy making bread—sprinkling a handful of seeds into the dough before she popped the last batch into the oven. But with shaking hands she stopped dead-still and listened—like a small animal who had found itself caught alone and frightened in the middle of a hostile terrain.

‘Greek billionaire Constantine Karantinos has announced record profits for his family shipping line,’ intoned the dry voice of the news-reader. ‘Playboy Karantinos is currently in London to host a party at the Granchester Hotel, where it is rumoured he will announce his engagement to Swedish supermodel Ingrid Johansson.’

Laura swayed, gripping the work surface to support herself, her ears scarcely able to bear what she had just heard, her heart pounding with a surprisingly forceful pain. Because she had preserved Constantine in her heart, remembering him just as he’d been when she’d known him—as if time had stood still. A bittersweet memory of a man who still made her ache when she thought of him. But time never stood still—she knew that more than anyone.

And what had she expected? That a man like Constantine would stay single for ever? As if that lazy charm and piercing intellect—that powerhouse body and face of a fallen angel—would remain unattached. She was just surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner.

She could hear the sounds of movement from above as she took off her apron. But her heart was racing as she mechanically went through her morning routine of tidying up the kitchen before going upstairs to wake her son. She often told herself how lucky she was to live ‘over the shop’, and although helping run a small baker’s store hadn’t been her life’s ambition, at least it gave her a modest income which she supplemented with occasional waitressing work. But most of all it provided a roof over their heads—which was security for Alex—and that was worth more than anything in Laura’s eyes.

Her sister Sarah was already up, yawning as she emerged from one of the three poky bedrooms, running her fingers through the thick dark curtain of her hair, which so contrasted with her sister’s finer, fairer mane.

‘Mornin’, Laura,’ Sarah mumbled, and then blinked as she saw her older sister’s face ‘What the hell’s happened? Don’t tell me the oven’s gone on the blink again?’

Mutely, Laura shook her head, then jerked it in the direction of her son’s bedroom. ‘Is he up yet?’ she mouthed.

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

Laura glanced at the clock on the wall, which dominated her busy life, and saw that she had ten minutes before she had to get Alex up for school. Pulling Sarah into the small sitting room which overlooked the high street, she shut the door behind them and turned to her sister, her whole body trembling.

‘Constantine Karantinos is in London,’ she began, the whispered words falling out of her mouth like jagged little fragments of glass.

Her sister scowled. ‘And?’

Laura willed her hands to stop shaking. ‘He’s throwing a party.’ She swallowed. ‘And they say he’s getting engaged. To a Swedish supermodel.’

Sarah shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say? That it’s a surprise?’

‘No … But I …’

‘But what, Laura?’ demanded Sarah impatiently. ‘You can’t seem to accept that the no-good bastard you slept with hasn’t an ounce of conscience. That he never gave you another thought.’

‘He—’

‘He what? Refused to see you? Why, you couldn’t even get a single meeting with the great man, could you, Laura? No matter how many times you tried. He’s never even taken your phone calls! You were good enough to share his bed—but not good enough to be recognised as the mother of his child!’

Laura shot an agonised look at the closed door, straining her ears as she wondered if Alex had done the unheard-of and managed to get himself out of bed without his mother or his auntie gently shaking him awake. But then, seven-year-old boys were notoriously bad at getting up in the morning, weren’t they? And they became increasingly curious as they got older … kept asking questions she wasn’t sure how to answer …

‘Shh. I don’t want Alex to hear!’

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t he know that his father happens to be one of the richest men on the planet—while his mother is working her fingers to the bone in a bread shop, trying to support him?’

‘I don’t want to …’ But her words tailed off. Didn’t want to what exactly? Laura wondered. Didn’t want to hurt her beloved son because it was the duty of every mother to protect her child? Yet she had been finding it increasingly difficult to do that. Just last month Alex had come home with a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek, and when she had asked him what had happened he had mumbled and become very defensive. It had only been later that she’d discovered he’d been involved in some kind of minor skirmish in the playground. And later still that she had discovered the cause, when she’d gone tearing into the school, white-faced and trembling, to seek a meeting with the headmistress.

It transpired that Alex was being bullied because he looked ‘different’. Because his olive skin, black eyes and towering height made him look older and tougher than the other boys in his class. And because the little girls in the class—even at the tender ages of six and seven—had been following the dark-eyed Alex around like eager little puppies. Like father, like son, she had thought with a pang.

Laura had felt a mixture of troubled emotions as she’d gone home that day. She’d wanted to ask her son why he hadn’t hit back—but that would have gone against everything she had taught him. She had brought him up to be gentle. To reason rather than to lash out. For two pins she would have withdrawn her son from the school and sent him somewhere else—but she didn’t have the luxury of choice. The next nearest state school was in the neighbouring town, and not only did Laura not have a car but the bus service was extremely unreliable.

Lately her son had been asking her more and more frequently about why he looked different. He was an intelligent little boy, and sooner or later he wouldn’t allowed her to fob him off with vague and woolly pieces of information about a father he had never seen. If only Constantine would just talk to her. Acknowledge his son. Spend a little time with him—that was all she wanted. For her beloved boy to know a little of his heritage.

She was distracted while she gave Alex his breakfast, and even more distracted during the short walk to his school. Although it was almost the summer holidays, the weather had been awful lately—nothing but rain, rain, rain—and this morning the persistent drizzle seemed to penetrate every inch of her body. She shivered a little, and tried to chatter brightly, but she felt as if she had a heavy lead weight sitting in the pit of her stomach.

Alex looked up at her with his dark olive eyes and frowned. ‘Is something wrong, Mum?’ he questioned.

Your father is about to marry another woman and will probably have a family with her. Telling herself that the blistering shaft of jealous pain was unreasonable under the circumstances, she hugged her son to her fiercely as she said goodbye.

‘Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong, darling.’ She smiled brightly, and watched as he ran into the playground, praying that the head teacher’s recent lecture on bullying might have had some effect on the little savages who had picked on him.

She was lost in thought as she walked back to the shop. Hanging up her damp coat in the little cloakroom at the back, she grimaced at the pale face which stared back at her from the tiny mirror hung on the back of the door. Her grey eyes looked troubled, and her baby-fine hair clung to her head like a particularly unattractive-looking skull-cap. Carefully, she brushed it and shook it, then crumpled it into a damp pleat on top of her head.

Pulling on her overall, she was still preoccupied as she walked into the shop, where her sister was just putting on the lights. Five minutes until they opened and the first rush of the day would begin—with villagers keen to buy their freshly baked bread and buns. Laura knew how lucky she was to have the life she had—lucky that her sister loved Alex as much as she did.

The two girls had been orphaned when Sarah was still at school, after their widowed mother had died suddenly and quietly in the middle of the night. A stricken Laura had put her own plans of travelling the world on hold, unsure what path to take to ensure that Sarah could continue with her studies. But fate had stepped in with cruel and ironic timing, because Laura had discovered soon after that she was carrying Alex.

Money had been tight, but they had been left with the scruffy little baker’s shop and the flat upstairs, where they had spent most of their childhood years. They had always helped their mother in the shop, so Laura had suggested modernising it and carrying on with the modest little family business, and Sarah had insisted on studying part-time so that she could help with Alex.

Up until now the scheme had worked perfectly well. And if the shop wasn’t exactly making a huge profit, at least they were keeping their heads above water and enjoying village life.

But recently Sarah had started talking longingly of going to art school in London, and Laura was horribly aware that she was holding her back. She couldn’t keep using her little sister as a part-time child-minder, no matter how much Sarah loved her nephew—she needed to get out there and live her own life. But then how on earth would Laura cope with running a business and being as much of a hands-on mum as she could to Alex? To Alex who was becoming increasingly curious about his background.

Sarah was giving the counter a final wipe, and looked up as Laura walked into the shop. ‘You still look fed up,’ she observed.

Laura stared down at the ragged pile of rock-cakes and boxes of home-made fudge under the glass counter. ‘Not fed up,’ she said slowly. ‘Just realising that I can’t go on hiding my head in the sand any longer.’

Sarah blinked. ‘What are you talking about?’

Laura swallowed. Say it, she thought. Go on—say it. Speak the words out loud—that way it will become real and you’ll have to do it. Stop being fobbed off by the gatekeepers who surround the father of your son. Get out there and fight for Alex. ‘Just that I’ve got to get to Constantine and tell him he has a son.’

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why the new fervour, Laura?’ she asked drily. ‘Is it because Constantine is finally settling down? You think that he’s going to take one look at you and decide to dump the Swedish supermodel and run off into the sunset with you?’

Laura flushed, knowing that Sarah spoke with the kind of harsh candour which only a sister could get away with—but her words were true. She had to rid herself of any romantic notions where the Greek billionaire was concerned. As if Constantine would even look at her now! He certainly wouldn’t fancy her any more—for hadn’t hard work and a lack of time to devote to herself meant that her youthful bloom had faded faster than most? At twenty-six she sometimes felt—and looked—a whole decade older than her years. And even if the fire in her heart still burned fiercely for the father of her son she had to douse the flames completely.

‘Of course I don’t,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I owe it to Alex. Constantine has got to know that he has a son.’

‘I agree. But aren’t you forgetting something?’ questioned Sarah patiently. ‘Last time you tried to contact him you got precisely nowhere—so what’s changed now?’

What had changed? Laura walked slowly towards the door of the shop. She wasn’t sure—only that perhaps she’d realised time was running out, that maybe this was her last chance. And that she was no longer prepared to humbly accept being knocked back by the tight circle which surrounded the formidable Greek. She was fired up by something so powerful that it felt as if it had invaded her soul. She was a mother, and she owed it to her son.

‘What’s changed?’ Slowly, Laura repeated Sarah’s words back to her. ‘I guess/have. And this time I’m going to get to him. I’m going to look him in the eye and tell him about his son.’

‘Oh, Laura, exactly the same thing will happen!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘You’ll be knocked back and won’t get within a mile of him!’

There was a pause. Laura could hear the ticking of her wristwatch echoing the beating of her heart. ‘Only if I go the conventional route,’ she said slowly.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

Laura hadn’t really known herself up until then, but it was one of those defining moments where the answer seemed so blindingly simple that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. Like when she’d decided that they ought to start making their own loaves on the premises rather than having them delivered from the large bakery in the nearby town—thereby enticing their customers in with the delicious smell of baking bread.

‘The radio said he’s giving some big party in London,’ she said, piecing her whirling thoughts into some kind of order. ‘In a hotel.’

‘And?’

Laura swallowed. ‘And what industry has the fastest turn-over of staff in the world? The catering industry! Think about it, Sarah. They’ll … they’ll need loads of extra staff for the night, won’t they? Casual staff.’

‘Just a minute …’ Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning—’

Laura nodded, her heart beating faster now. ‘I’ve done waitressing jobs at the local hotel for years. I can easily get a reference.’

‘Okay, so what if you do manage to get on the payroll?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Then what? You’re going to march over to Constantine in your uniform, in the middle of his fancy party, and announce to him in front of the world, not to mention his soon-to-be wife that he has a seven-year-old son?’

Laura shook her head, trying not to feel daunted by the audacity of her own idea but her fervour refused to be dampened. ‘I’ll try to be a bit more subtle about it than that,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to leave until he’s in full possession of the facts.’

She reached up and turned over the sign on the shop door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. Already there was a small cluster of shoppers waiting, shaking off the raindrops from their umbrellas as they filed into the shop.

Laura pinned a bright smile to her lips as she stood behind the counter and took her first order, but the irony of her plan didn’t escape her. After all, she had been waitressing when she’d first met Constantine Karantinos, and had tumbled into his arms with embarrassing ease.

Afterwards she had looked back and wondered how she could have behaved in a way which had been so completely out of character. And yet it had been such a golden summer in those carefree months before her mother had died, and she’d felt as if she had the world at her feet as she saved up to go travelling.

She had been an innocent in every sense of the word—but a few months of waitressing in a busy little harbour town had trained her well in how to deal with the well-heeled customers who regularly sailed in on their yachts.

Constantine had been one of them, and yet unlike any of them—for he’d seemed to break all the rules. He’d towered over all the other men like a colossus—making everyone else fade into insignificance. The day she had first set eyes on him would be imprinted on her mind for ever; he had looked like a Greek god—his powerful body silhouetted against the dying sun, his dark and golden beauty suggesting both vigour and danger.

She remembered how broad his shoulders had been, and how silky the olive skin which had sheathed the powerful muscle beneath. And she remembered his eyes, too—as black as ebony yet glittering like the early-morning sunlight on the sea. How could she have resisted a man who had seemed like all her youthful fantasies come to life—a man who had made her feel like a woman for the first and only time in her life?

She remembered waking up in his arms the next morning to find him watching her, and she had gazed up at him, searching his face eagerly for some little clue about how he might feel. About her. About them. About the future.

But in the depths of those eyes there had been … nothing.

Laura swallowed.

Nothing at all.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YES, Vlassis,’ Constantine bit out impatiently, as he glanced up at one of his aides, who was hovering around the door in the manner he usually adopted when he was about to impart news which his boss would not like. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about the party, kyrios,’ said Vlassis.

Constantine’s mouth flattened. Why had he ever agreed to have this wretched party in the first place? he found himself wondering. Though in his heart he knew damned well. Because there had been too many mutterings for much too long about people in London wanting to enjoy some of the legendary Karantinos wealth. People always wanted to get close to him, and they thought that this might give them the opportunity. And it was always interesting to see your friends and your enemies in the same room—united by those twin emotions of love and hate, whose boundaries were so often blurred.

‘What about it?’ he snapped. ‘And please don’t bother me with trivia, Vlassis—that’s what I pay other people to deal with.’

Vlassis looked pained, as if the very suggestion that he should burden his illustrious employer with trivia was highly offensive to him. ‘I realise that, kyrios. But I’ve just received a message from Miss Johansson.’

At the mention of Ingrid, Constantine leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together in reflective pose. He knew what the press were saying. What they always said if he was pictured with a woman more than once. That he was on the verge of marrying, as most of his contemporaries had now done. His mouth flattened again.

Perhaps one of the greatest arguments in favour of marriage would be having a wife who could deal with the tiresome social side of his life. Who could fend off the ambitious hostesses and screen his invitations, leaving him to get on with running the family business.

‘And?’ he questioned. ‘What did Miss Johansson say?’

‘She asked me to tell you that she won’t be arriving until late.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘Something about her photo-shoot overrunning.’

‘Oh, did she?’ said Constantine softly, his black eyes narrowing in an expression instinctively which made Vlassis look wary.

Unlocking his fingers, Constantine raised his powerful arms above his head and stretched, the rolled-up sleeves of his silk shirt sliding a little further up over the bunched muscle. Slowly he brought his hands down again, lying them flat on the surface of the large desk. The faint drumming of two fingers on the smooth surface was the only outward sign that he was irritated.

Ingrid’s coolness was one of the very qualities which had first attracted him to her—that and her white-blonde Swedish beauty, of course. She had a degree in politics, spoke five languages with effortless fluency—and, standing at just over six feet in her stockinged feet, she was one of the few women he had ever met who was able to look him in the eye. Constantine’s mouth curved into an odd kind of smile. As well as being one of the few natural blondes he’d known …

When they’d met, her unwillingness to be pinned down, her elusiveness when it came to arranging dates, had contrived to intrigue him—probably because it had never happened before. Most women pursued him with the ardour of a hunter with prized quarry in their sights.

But over the months Constantine had realised that Ingrid’s evasiveness was part of a game—a master-plan. Beautiful enough to be pursued by legions of men herself, she had recognised the long-term benefits of playing hard-to-get with a man like him. She must have realised that Constantine never had to try very hard, so she had made him try very hard indeed. And for a while it had worked. She had sparked his interest—rare in a man whose natural attributes and huge wealth meant that his appetite had become jaded at an early age.

She had been playing the long game, and Constantine had allowed himself to join in; Ingrid knew what she wanted—to marry an exceptionally wealthy man—and deep down he knew it was high time he took himself a wife. And surely the best kind of wife for a man like him was one who made few emotional demands?

He didn’t want some clingy, needy female who thought that the world revolved around him. No, Ingrid came close to fitting almost all his exacting criteria. Every hoop he had presented her with she had jumped through with flying colours. Why, even his father approved of her. And, although the two men had never been close, Constantine had found himself listening for once.

‘Why the hell don’t you marry her?’ he had croaked at his son, where once—before age and ill-health—he would have roared. ‘And provide me with a grandson?’

Good question—if you discounted his father’s own foolish views on love. Didn’t there come a time when every man needed to settle down and produce a family of his own? A boy to inherit the Karantinos fortune? Constantine frowned. Circumstances seemed to have been urging him on like a rudderless boat—and yet something about the sensible option of marrying Ingrid had made him hold back, and he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

How long since they had seen one another? Constantine allowed his mind to flick back over the fraught and hectic recent weeks, largely filled with his most recent business acquisition. It had been ages since Ingrid had been in his bed, he realised. Their paths had been criss-crossing over the Atlantic while their careers continued their upward trajectory. Constantine gave a hard smile.

‘What time is she arriving?’ he questioned.

‘She hopes before midnight,’ said Vlassis.

‘Let’s hope so,’ commented Constantine, as a faint feeling of irritation stirred within him once more. But he turned to a pile of papers—to the delicate complexity of an offshore deal he was handling. And, as usual, work provided a refuge from the far more messy matter of relationships. For Constantine had learned his lesson earlier than most—that they brought with them nothing but pain and complications.

He left the office around six and headed for the Granchester, whose largest penthouse suite he always rented whenever he was in town. He loved its glorious setting, overlooking lush green parkland, its quiet luxury and the discretion of its staff. And he liked London—just as he liked New York—even if they were too far from the sea for him to ever let complete relaxation steal over him ….

To the sound of opera playing loudly on the sound system, he took a long, cold shower before dressing in the rather formal attire which the black-tie dinner warranted. His eyes glittered back at him as he cast a cursory glance at himself in the mirror.

Slipping on a pair of heavy gold cufflinks, he made his way downstairs, his eyes automatically flicking over to his people, who were discreetly peppering the foyer. He knew that his head of security would be unable to prevent the paparazzi from milling around by the entrance outside, but there was no way any of them would be getting into the building to gawp at the rich and the powerful.

Ignoring the gazes of the women who followed his progress with hungry eyes, he walked into the ballroom and looked around. The Granchester had always been a byword for luxury—but tonight the hotel had really surpassed itself. The ballroom was filled with scented blooms, and chandeliers dripped their diamond lights …

A soft voice cut into his thoughts.

‘Could … could I get you a drink, sir?’

For a brief moment the voice stirred a distant memory—as faint as a breath on a still summer’s day. But then it was gone, and slowly Constantine turned to find a waitress standing staring up at him—chewing at her lip as if she hadn’t had eaten a meal in quite a while. His eyes flicked over her. With her small, pinched face and tiny frame she looked as if she probably hadn’t eaten a meal in ages. Something in her body language made him pause. Something untoward. He frowned.

‘Yes. Get me a glass of water, would you?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Miraculously, Laura kept her voice steady, even though inside she felt the deep, shafting pain of rejection at the way those black eyes had flicked over her so dismissively. She had tried to hold his look for as long as was decently possible under the circumstances—willing him to look at her with a slowly dawning look of incredulity. But instead, what logic told her would happen had happened. The father of her son hadn’t even recognised her!

Yet had she really bought into the fantasy that he might? That he would stare into her eyes and tell her that they looked like the storm clouds which gathered over his Greek island? He had said that when he had been charming her into his bed, and doubtless he would have something suitable in his repertoire for any woman. Something to make every single woman feel special, unique and amazing. Something which would make a woman willingly want to give him her virginity as if it were of no consequence at all.

It had been her moment to tell him that he had a beautiful little son—while there was no sign of the supermodel girlfriend all the papers had been going on about—and she had blown it. The shock of seeing him again, coupled with the pain of realising that she didn’t even qualify as a memory, had made her fail to seize the opportunity. But surely you couldn’t just walk up to a man who was essentially a total stranger and come out with a bombshell like that?

Laura hid her trembling fingers in her white apron as she quickly turned away—but the emotional impact of seeing Constantine again made her stomach churn and her heart thump so hard that for a moment she really thought she might be sick.

But she couldn’t afford to be sick. She had to stay alert—to choose a moment to tell him what for him would be momentous news. And it wasn’t going to be easy. Getting an agency placement to waitress at the Karantinos party had been the easy bit—the hard stuff was yet to come.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ demanded a severely dressed middle-aged woman as Laura walked up to the bar to place her order.

Laura smiled nervously at the catering manager, who had summoned all the agency staff into a cramped and stuffy little room half an hour earlier to tell them about the high expectations of service which every Granchester customer had a right to expect. ‘I just offered the gentleman a drink—’

‘Gentleman? Gentleman? Do you know who that is?’ the woman hissed. ‘He’s the man who’s giving this party which is paying your wages! He’s a bloody world-famous Greek shipping tycoon—and if anyone is going to be offering him drinks then it’s going to be me. Do you understand? I’ll take over from now on. What did he ask for?’

‘Just … just water.’

‘Still or sparkling?’

‘He … he didn’t say.’

The manager’s eyes bored into her. ‘You mean you didn’t ask?’

‘I … I … No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t.’ Inwardly, Laura squirmed beneath the look of rage on her supervisor’s face, and as the woman opened her mouth to speak she suspected that she was about to be fired on the spot. But at that moment there was some sort of hubbub from the other end of the ballroom, as the harpist arrived and began making noisy demands, and the manager gave Laura one last glare.

‘Just do what you’re supposed to do. Offer him both still and sparkling, and then fade into the background—you shouldn’t find that too difficult!’ she snapped, before hurrying away towards the musician.

Laura tried to ignore the woman’s waspish words as she carried her tray towards Constantine. But inside she was trembling—mainly with disbelief that she had managed to get so close to him. And thrown into the complex mix of her emotions at seeing him again was also her body’s unmistakable reaction to seeing the biological father of her son. It was something she stupidly hadn’t taken into account—the powerful sense of recognition at seeing him. The sense of familiarity, even though this man was little more than a stranger to her.

Because here was Alex in adulthood, she realised shakily—or rather, here was a version of what Alex could become. Strong, powerful, prosperous. And wasn’t that what every mother wanted for her son? A lion of a man, as opposed to a sheep.

Whereas the Alex she had left back at home being looked after by a frankly cynical Sarah—well, that Alex was headed in a completely different direction. Bullied at school and living a life where every penny mattered and was counted—how could he possibly achieve his true potential like that? What kind of a future was she offering him?

And any last, lingering doubt that she must be crazy to even contemplate a scheme like this withered away in that instant. Because she owed Alex this.

It didn’t matter if her pride was hurt or the last of her stupid, romantic memories of her time with Constantine was crushed into smithereens—she owed her son this.

But as Laura approached him again, it was difficult not to react to him on so many different levels. His had always been an imposing presence, but the passing of the years seemed to have magnified his potent charisma. There had been no softening of the hard, muscular body—nor dimming of the golden luminance of his skin. And, while there might be a lick of silver at his temples, his wavy dark hair was as thick as ever. But with age had come a certain cool distance which had not been there before. He carried about him the unmistakable aura of the magnate—a man with power radiating from every atom of his expensively clad frame.

Laura felt the erratic fluttering of her heart. Yet none of that mattered. His eyes were still the blackest she had ever seen, and his lips remained a study in sensuality. She still sensed that here was a man in the truest sense of the word—all elemental passion and hunger beneath the sophisticated exterior.

‘Your water, sir,’ she said, trying to curve her mouth into a friendly smile and silently praying that he would return it.

Hadn’t he once told her that her smile was like the sun coming out? Wouldn’t that stir some distant memory in his mind? And didn’t they say something about the voice always striking a note of recognition—that people changed but their voices never did?

She spoke the longest sentence possible under the circumstances. ‘I … I wasn’t sure if you wanted still or sparkling, sir—so I’ve brought both. They both come from … from the Cotswolds!’ she added wildly, noticing the label. A fact from a recent early-morning farming programme on the radio came flooding back to her. ‘It’s … um … filtered through the oolitic limestone of the Cotswold Hills, and you won’t find a purer water anywhere!’

‘How fascinating,’ murmured Constantine sardonically, taking one of the glasses from the tray and wondering why she sounded as if she was advertising the brand. She didn’t look like the kind of out-of-work actress who would moonlight as a waitress, but you could never be sure. ‘Thanks.’

He gave a curt nod and, turning his back on her, walked away without another word and Laura was left staring at him, her heart pounding with fear and frustration. But what had she expected? That he would engage her in some small-talk which would provide the perfect opportunity for her to tell him he had a son? Start remarking that the slice of lemon which was bobbing around in his glass of fizzy water was vastly inferior to the lemons he grew on his very own Greek island?

No. The smile hadn’t worked and neither had the voice. Those black eyes had not widened in growing comprehension, and he had not shaken his coal-dark head to say, in a tone of disbelief and admiration, Why, you’re the young English virgin I had the most amazing sex with all those years ago! Do you know that not a day goes by when I don’t think about you?

Laura chewed on her lip. Fantasies never worked out the way you planned them, did they? And fantasies were dangerous. She mustn’t allow herself to indulge in them just because she had never really got over their one night together. She was just going to have to choose her moment carefully—because she wasn’t leaving this building without Constantine Karantinos being in full possession of all the facts.

The evening passed in a blur of activity—but at least being busy stopped her from getting too anxious about the prospect which lay ahead.

There had been a lavish sit-down dinner for three hundred people, though the space beside Constantine had remained glaringly empty. It must be for his girlfriend, thought Laura painfully. So where was she? Why wasn’t she sticking like glue to the side of the handsome Greek who was talking so carelessly to the women in a tiara on the other side of him. It was a royal princess! Laura realised. Hadn’t she recently come out of a high-profile divorce and walked away with a record-breaking settlement?

Laura had managed to pass right by him with a dish of chocolates, just in time to hear the Princess inviting him to stay on her yacht later that summer—but Constantine had merely shrugged his broad shoulders and murmured something about his diary being full.

The candlelight caught the jewels which were strung around the neck of every woman present—so that the whole room seemed to be glittering. In the background, the harpist had calmed down, and was now working his way through a serene medley of tunes.

It was not just a different world, Laura realised as she carried out yet another tray of barely touched food back to the kitchens, it was like a completely alien universe. She thought of the savings she had to make so that Alex would have a nice Christmas, and shuddered to think how much this whole affair must be costing—why, the wine budget alone would have been more than the amount she lived on in a single year. And Constantine was paying for it all. For him it would be no more than a drop in the ocean.

The guests had now all moved into the ballroom, where the harpist had been replaced by a band, and people had started dancing. But the minutes were melting by without Laura getting anywhere near Constantine, let alone close enough to be able to talk to him. People were clustering around him like flies, and it was getting on for midnight. Soon the party would end and she’d be sent home—and then what?

There was a momentary lull before a conversational buzz began to hum around the ballroom, and then the dancing crowd stilled and parted as a woman began to slowly sashay through them, with all the panache of someone whose job it was to be gazed at by other people. Her flaxen fall of hair guaranteed instant attention, as did the ice-blue eyes and willowy limbs which seemed to sum up her cool and unattainable beauty.

She wore a dazzling white fur stole draped over a silver dress, and at over six feet tall she dominated the room like the tallest of bright poppies. And there was really only one person in the room who was man enough not to be dwarfed by her impressive height—the man she was headed for as unerringly as a comet crashing towards earth.

‘It’s Ingrid Johansson,’ Laura heard someone say, and then, ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’

Convulsively, she felt her fingers clutching at her apron as she watched the blonde goddess slink up to Constantine and place a proprietorial hand on his forearm before leaning forward to kiss him on each cheek.

Constantine was aware of everyone watching them as Ingrid leaned forward to kiss him. ‘That was quite an entrance,’ he murmured, but inside he felt the first faint flicker of disdain.

‘Was it?’ Ingrid looked into his eyes with an expression of mock-innocence. ‘Must we stay here, alskling? I’m so tired.’

‘No,’ Constantine said evenly. ‘We don’t have to stay here at all—we can go upstairs to my suite.’

To Laura’s horror she saw the couple begin to move towards the door, and she felt her forehead break out into a cold sweat.

Now what?

She saw some of the bulkier security men begin to follow them, and the slightly disappointed murmur from the rest of the guests as they began to realise that the star attractions were leaving. Soon Constantine would be swallowed up by the same kind of protection which had shielded him so effectively from her all those years ago …

And then a terrible thought occurred to her—a dark thought which came from nowhere and which had never even blipped on her radar before. Or maybe she had simply never allowed it to. What if it hadn’t been his security people who had kept her away from him all those years ago? What if he’d known that she was trying to make contact? And what if he’d actually read the letter she’d sent, telling him about Alex, and had decided to ignore it?

What if he had simply chosen not to have anything to do with his own son?

A cold, sick feeling of dread made her skin suddenly clammy, but Laura knew it was a chance she had to take. If that had been the case, then maybe she would find out about it now. And if he chose to reject his son again … well, then she wanted to see his face while he did it.

She went over to the bar and ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne and two glasses.

‘Put it on Mr Karantinos’s account,’ she said recklessly, and took the tray away before the barman could query why the order hadn’t gone through room service.

Her flat, sensible shoes made no sound as they squished across the marble foyer, but within the mirror-lined walls of the lift she was confronted with the reality of her appearance and she shuddered. Hair scraped back into a tight bun, on top of which was perched a ridiculous little frilly cap. A plain black dress hung unflatteringly over her knees and was topped with a white-frilled apron.

She looked like a throwback to another age, when people in the service industry really were servants. Laura was used to wearing a uniform in the bread shop—what she was not used to was looking like some kind of haunted and out-of-place ghost of a woman. A woman who must now go and face one of the world’s most noted beauties, who happened to be sharing a bed with a man whose child Laura had borne.

The lift glided upwards and stopped with smooth silence at the penthouse suite, its doors sliding open to reveal Laura’s worst fears. Two dark and burly-looking men were standing guard outside the door. So now what? Fixing on a confident smile, which contradicted the awful nerves which were twisting her stomach like writhing snakes, Laura walked towards the door.

One of the guards raised his eyebrows. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

His accent was thickly Greek, and somehow it only added tension to her already jangled nerves. Laura’s smile widened, though a bead of sweat was trickling its way slowly down her back. ‘Champagne for Mr Karantinos.’

‘He told us he didn’t want to be disturbed.’

Because of what was at stake, Laura found herself digging deep inside herself, finding courage where she had expected to find fear. Her smile became conspiratorial; she even managed a wink. ‘I think he’s about to announce his engagement,’ she whispered.

The other guard shrugged and jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘Go on, then.’

Rapping loudly on the door, Laura heard a muffled exclamation—but she knew she couldn’t turn back now. She had to get this over with—because if she left it much longer she might find them … find them …

Blocking out the unbearable thought of Constantine and the supermodel beginning to make love, Laura pushed open the door, and the scene before her stamped itself on her gaze like a bizarre tableau.

There was Constantine, staring hard at the supermodel. And there was Ingrid staring back at him, her expression disbelieving. She had removed her fur wrap, and her dress was nothing but a sliver of silver which clung to her body and revealed the points of her nipples.

They both looked round as she walked in.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ demanded Constantine, and then frowned as he saw the tray she was carrying. ‘You don’t just walk into my suite like this—and I didn’t order champagne.’

Not even he was cold-hearted enough to celebrate the fact that he’d just finished with his girlfriend—even though Ingrid was still standing there staring at him as if she didn’t quite believe it.

Putting the tray down on a table before she dropped it, Laura looked up at him, her voice low and trembling. ‘I need to talk to you.’ She glanced over at the model, who was glaring at her. ‘Alone, if that’s all right.’

‘Who the hell is this?’ snapped Ingrid.

He had absolutely no idea, and for one moment Constantine wondered if the insipid little waitress was some kind of set-up. Were her male accomplices about to burst in with cameras? Or did her uniform conceal some kind of weapon? Hadn’t kidnap attempts been suspected enough times in the past?

But he remembered her from the ballroom—her pinched, pale face and her inappropriate babbling on about some type of water. She didn’t look like the kind of woman capable of any kind of elaborate subterfuge. And her expression was peculiar; he had never seen a woman look quite like that before—and it made him study her more closely.

Her cheeks were pale but her grey eyes were huge, and she looked as if she was fighting to control her breathing. Her breasts—surprisingly pert breasts for such a tiny frame, he thought inconsequentially—were heaving like someone who had just dragged themselves out of the water after nearly drowning.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded hotly. ‘And what do you want?’

‘I told you,’ answered Laura quietly. ‘I need to talk to you. Alone, if I may.’

Constantine’s eyes narrowed as some primeval instinct urged him to listen to what this woman was saying. And something in her strange urgency told him to ensure that they had no audience. He turned to the supermodel, praying that she wouldn’t make the kind of scene which some women revelled in when a man had just ended a relationship.

‘I think you’d better leave now, don’t you, Ingrid?’ he questioned quietly. ‘I have a car which will take you wherever you want to go.’

For a moment Laura felt eaten up with guilt and shame as she saw the supermodel’s stricken face, and her heart went out to her. Because what woman wouldn’t be able to identify with the terrible battle taking place within the gorgeous blonde? Anyone could see she wanted to stay—but it was also easy to see from the obdurate and cold expression on Constantine’s face that he wanted the supermodel out of there.

Oh, this was just terrible—and it was all her fault. Awkwardly, she shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Look, perhaps I can … come back.’

‘You are not going anywhere,’ snapped Constantine as he flicked her a hard glance. ‘Ingrid was just leaving.’

At this, Ingrid’s mouth thinned into a scarlet line. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed, and marched out of the suite without another word.

For a moment there was silence, and Laura’s heart was pounding with fear and disbelief as she lifted up her hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Shut up,’ he snapped, two fists clenching by the shafts of his powerful thighs as a quiet fury continued to spiral up inside him. ‘And don’t give me any misplaced sentiments. Do you think you can hysterically burst in here making veiled threats and then act like a concerned and responsible citizen who cares about the havoc she’s wreaked along the way? Do you?’

Nervously, Laura sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She supposed she deserved that—just as she supposed she had no choice other than to stand there and take it. Maybe if she let him vent his anger then he would calm down, and they could sit down afterwards and talk calmly.

His black eyes bored into her like fierce black lasers. ‘So who are you?’ he continued furiously. ‘And why are you really here?’

Brushing aside her hurt that he still didn’t recognise her, Laura tried again. ‘I …’It sounded so bizarre to say it now that the moment had arrived. To say these words of such import to a man who was staring at her so forbiddingly. But then Alex’s face swam into the forefront of her mind, and suddenly it was easy.

She drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I’ve come to tell you that seven years ago I had a baby. Your baby.’ Her voice shaking with emotion, she got the final words out in a rush. ‘You have a son, Constantine, and I am the mother of that son.’

CHAPTER THREE

CONSTANTINE stared at the trembling waitress who stood before him, and who had just made such a preposterous claim. That she was the mother of his son. Why, it would almost be laughable were it not so outrageous.

‘That is a bizarre and untrue statement to make,’ he snapped. ‘Especially since I don’t even know you.’

Laura felt as if he had plunged a stiletto into her heart, but she prayed it didn’t show on her face. ‘Then why didn’t you have the guards take me away?’

‘Because I’m curious.’

‘Or because you know that deep down I could be telling the truth?’

‘Not in this case.’ His lips curved into a cruel smile. ‘You see, I don’t screw around with waitresses.’

It hurt. Oh, how it hurt—but presumably that had been his intention. Laura forced herself not to hit back at the slur, nor to let herself wither under his blistering gaze. ‘Maybe you don’t now—but I can assure you that wasn’t always the case.’

Something in her calm certainty—in the way she stood there, facing up to him, despite her cheap clothes and lowly demeanour—all those things combined to make Constantine consider the bizarre possibility of her words. That they might be true. He looked deep into her eyes, as if searching for some hint of what this was all about, but all he saw was the stormy distress lurking in their pewter depths, and suddenly he felt his heart lurch. Eyes like storm clouds.

Storm clouds.

Another memory stirred deep in the recesses of his mind. ‘Take down your hair,’ he ordered softly.

‘But—’

‘I said, take down your hair.’

Compelled by the silken urgency of his voice, and weakened by the derision in his eyes, Laura reached up her hand. First, off came the frilly little cap, which she let fall to the floor—she certainly wouldn’t be needing that again. Then, with trembling fingers, she began to remove the pins and finally the elastic band.

It was a relief to be free of the tight restraints and she shook her hair completely loose, only vaguely aware of Constantine’s sudden inrush of breath.

He watched as lock after lock fell free—one silken fall of moon-pale hair after another. Fine hair, but masses of it. Hair which had looked like a dull, mediocre cap now took on the gleaming lustre of honey and sand as it tumbled over her slight shoulders. Her face was still pale—and the dark grey eyes looked huge.

Storm clouds, he thought again, as more memories began to filter through, like a picture slowly coming into focus.

A small English harbour. A summer spent unencumbered by the pressures of the family business. And a need to escape from Greece around the time of the anniversary of his mother’s death—a time when his father became unbearably maudlin, even though it had been many years since she had died.

His father had promised him far more responsibility in the Karantinos shipping business, and that summer Constantine had recognised that soon he would no longer be able to go off on the annual month-long sailing holiday he loved so much. That this might be the last chance he would get for a true taste of freedom. And he’d been right. Later that summer he’d gone back to Greece and been given access to the company’s accounts for the first time—only to discover with rising disbelief just how dire the state of the family finances was. And just how much his father had neglected the business in his obsessive grief for his late wife.

It had been the last trip where he was truly young. Shrugging off routine, and shrugging on his oldest jeans, Constantine had sailed around the Mediterranean as the mood took him, lapping up the sun and feeling all the tension gradually leave his body. He hadn’t wanted women—there were always women if he wanted them—he had wanted peace. So he’d read books. Slept. Swum. Fished.

As the days had gone by his olive skin had become darker. His black hair had grown longer, the waves curling around the nape of his neck so that he had looked like some kind of ancient buccaneer. He’d sailed around England to explore the place properly—something he’d always meant to do ever since an English teacher had read him stories about her country. He’d wanted to see the improbable world of castles and green fields come alive.

And eventually he’d anchored at the little harbour of Milmouth and found a cute hotel which looked as if it had been lifted straight out of the set of a period drama. Little old ladies had been sitting eating cream cakes on a wonderful emerald lawn as he strolled across it, wearing a faded pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Several of the old ladies had gawped as he’d pulled out a chair at one of the empty tables and then spread his long legs out in front of him. Cream cakes which had been heading for mouths had never quite reached their destination and had been discarded—but then he often had that effect on women, no matter what their age.

And then a waitress had come walking across the grass towards him and Constantine’s eyes had narrowed. There hadn’t been anything particularly special about her—and yet there had been something about her clear, pale skin and the youthful vigour of her step which had caught his attention and his desire. Something familiar and yet unknown had stirred deep within him. The crumpled petals of her lips had demanded to be kissed. And she’d had beautiful eyes, so deep and grey—a pewter colour he’d only ever seen before in angry seas or storm clouds. It had been—what? Weeks since he had had a woman? And suddenly he’d wanted her. Badly.

‘I’m afraid you can’t sit there,’ she said softly, as her shadow fell over him.

‘Can’t?’ Even her mild officiousness was turning him on—as was the pure, clean tone of her accent. He looked up, narrowing his eyes against the sun. ‘Why not?’

‘Because … because I’m afraid the management have a rule about no jeans being allowed.’

‘But I’m hungry,’ he murmured. ‘Very hungry.’ He gave her a slow smile as he looked her up and down. ‘So what do you suggest?’

As a recipient of that careless smile, the girl was like putty in his hands. She suggested serving him tea at an unseen side of the hotel, by a beautiful little copse of trees. Giggling, she smuggled out sandwiches, and scones with jam and something he’d never eaten before nor since, called clotted cream. And when she finished work she agreed to have dinner with him. Her name was Laura and it made him think of laurels and the fresh green garlands which ancient Greeks wore on their heads to protect them. She was sweet—very sweet—and it was a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms.

The outcome of the night was predictable—but her reaction wasn’t. Unlike the wealthy sophisticates he usually associated with, she played no games with him. She had a vulnerability about her which she wasn’t afraid of showing. But Constantine always ran a million miles from vulnerability—even though her pink and white body and her grey eyes lured him into her arms like a siren.

In the morning she didn’t want to let him go—but of course he had to leave. He was Constantine Karantinos—heir to one of the mightiest shipping dynasties in the whole of Greece—and his destiny was not to stay in the arms of a small-town waitress.

How strange the memory could be, thought Constantine—as the images faded and he found himself emerging into real-time, standing in a luxury London penthouse with that same waitress standing trembling-lipped in front of him and telling him she had conceived a child that night. And how random fate could be, he thought bitterly, to bring such a woman back into his life—and with such earth-shattering news.

He walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a tumbler of water—more as a delaying tactic than anything else. ‘Do you want anything?’ he questioned, still with his back to her.

Laura thought that a drink might choke her. ‘No.’

He drank the water and then turned round. Her face looked chalk-white, and something nagged at him to tell her to sit down—but his anger and his indignation were stronger than his desire to care for a woman who had just burst into his life making such claims as these.

A son ….

‘I wore protection that night,’ he stated coldly.

Laura flinched. How clinical he sounded. But there was no use in her having pointless yearnings about how different his reaction might have been. She knew that fantasies didn’t come true. Try to imagine yourself in his shoes, she urged herself. A woman he barely knew, coming back into his life with the most momentous and presumably unwelcome news of all.

‘Obviously it failed to do what it was supposed to do,’ she said, her voice as matter-of-fact as she could make it.

‘And this child is you say … how old?’

‘He’s seven.’

He felt the slam of his heart and an unwelcome twist of his gut. Constantine turned and stared out of the vast windows which overlooked the darkened park before the unwanted emotions could show on his face. A son! Above the shadowed shapes of the trees he could see the faint glimmer of stars and for a moment he thought about the stars, back home, which burned as brightly as lanterns. Then just as suddenly he turned back again, his now composed gaze raking over her white face, searching for truth in the smoky splendour of her eyes.

‘So why didn’t you tell me this before?’ he demanded. ‘Why wait seven long years? Why now?’

Laura opened her mouth to explain that she’d tried, but before she had a chance to answer him she saw his black eyes narrow with cynical understanding.

‘Ah, yes, but of course,’ he said softly. ‘Of course. It was the perfect moment, wasn’t it?’

Laura frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

But her thoughts on the matter were obviously superfluous, for ruthlessly he cut through her words as if he were wielding a guillotine. ‘You wait long enough to ensure that I can have no influence—even if the child is mine. How is it that the old saying goes? Give me a child until he is seven and I shall give you the man.’ He took a step towards her, his posture as menacing as the silken threat in his voice. ‘So what happened? Did you read the papers and hear that that Karantinos stock has soared, and then decide that this was the optimum time to strike? Did you think that coming out with this piece of information now would put you in a strong bargaining position?’

‘B-bargaining position?’ echoed Laura in disbelief. He might have been talking about a plot of land … when this was their son they were discussing.

His voice was as steely cold as his eyes. ‘I don’t know why you’re affecting outrage,’ he clipped out. ‘I presume you want money?’

Automatically, Laura reached her hand out and steadied herself on a giant sofa—afraid that her trembling knees might give way but determined not to sit down. Because that would surely put her in an even weaker position—if she had to sit looking up at him like a child who had been put on the naughty chair. But even her protest sounded deflated. ‘How dare you say that?’ she whispered.

‘Well, why else are you here if you haven’t come looking for a hand-out?’

‘I don’t have to stay here and listen to your insults.’

‘Oh, but I am afraid that you do. You aren’t going anywhere,’ he said with silky menace as he glittered her a brittle look. ‘Until we get this thing sorted out.’

This thing happened to be their son, thought Laura—until she realised with a pang that maybe the Greek’s angry words had the ring of truth to them. Because Alex was her son, not his. Constantine had never been a part of his life. And maybe he never would be. For a moment she felt a wave of guilt as Constantine’s black gaze pierced through her like a sabre.

‘Just by telling me you have involved me—like it or not,’ he continued remorselessly as his gaze burned into her. ‘Didn’t you realise that every action has consequences?’

‘You think I don’t know that better than anyone?’ she retorted, stung.

Something in her response renewed the slam of his heart against his ribcage, and Constantine narrowed his eyes, searching for every possible flaw in her argument the way he had learnt to do at work—an ability that had made him a formidable legend within the world of international shipping. ‘So why didn’t you tell me about this before—like seven years ago?’

She still wanted to turn and run, but she doubted that her feet would obey her brain’s command to walk, let alone run. ‘I tried …’ She saw the scorn on his face. ‘Yes, I tried! I tried tracking you down—but you weren’t especially easy to trace.’

‘Because I hadn’t meant it to be anything more than a one-night stand!’ he roared, steeling himself against the distressed crumpling of her lips.

‘Then don’t you talk to me about consequences,’ she whispered.

There was a pause as he watched her struggling to control her breathing, her grey eyes almost black with distress. ‘So what happened?’ he persisted.

Laura sucked in a low, shuddering breath. ‘I managed to find out the address and phone number of your headquarters in Athens.’ She had been completely gobsmacked to discover that her scruffy jeans-wearing, slightly maverick Greek lover turned out to be someone very important in some huge shipping company. ‘I tried ringing, but no one would put me through—and I sent you a letter, but it obviously never reached you. And I’ve tried several times since then.’

Usually around the time of her son’s birthday, when Alex would start asking questions, making her long to be able to introduce the little boy to his father.

‘The result has always been the same,’ she finished bitterly. ‘It doesn’t matter how I’ve broached it or what approach I’ve made—every time I’ve failed to even get a phone call with you.’

Constantine was silent for a moment as he considered her words, for now he could imagine exactly what must have happened. An unknown English girl ringing and asking to be put through to Kyrios Constantine—why, she would have been swatted away as if she were a troublesome fly buzzing over a plate of food. Likewise any letters. They would have been opened and scrutinised. Who would have made the decision not to show him? he wondered, and then sighed, for this was something he could believe.

The ancient Greek troop formation of a tightly-knit and protective group known as the phalanx still existed in modern Greece, Constantine thought wryly. It was not the right of his workers to shield him, but he could see exactly why they had done it. Women had always shamelessly pursued him—how were his staff to have known that this woman might actually have had a case. Might, he reminded himself. Only might.

There was a pause. ‘Do you have a photo?’ he demanded. ‘Of the child?’

Laura nodded, swallowing down her relief. At last! And surely asking to see a picture of Alex was a good sign? Wouldn’t he set eyes on his gorgeous black-eyed son and know in an instant that there could only be one possible father? ‘It’s … it’s in my handbag—downstairs in the staff cloakroom. Shall I go and get it?’

He was strangely reluctant to let her out of his sight. As if she might disappear off into the night and he would never see her again. But wouldn’t that be the ideal scenario? The question came out of nowhere, but Constantine pushed it away. He stared down into those deep grey eyes and inexplicably his mouth dried. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘But I’ll …’

Black brows were raised. ‘You’ll what?’

She had been about to say that she would be sacked if she were seen strolling through the hotel with one of the guests—but, come to think of it, it wasn’t as if she was planning to work here again. ‘People will talk,’ she said. ‘If you’re seen accompanying one of the waitresses to the staff cloakroom.’

‘So let them talk,’ he snapped. ‘I think it is a little late in the day for you to act concerned after your dramatic entrance into my suite!’ And he pulled open the door and stalked out, leaving Laura to follow while he spoke in rapid Greek to the two guards.

They rode down in the penthouse lift, which seemed to have shrunk in dimension since the last time she had been in it. Laura was acutely aware of his proximity and the way his powerful frame seemed to dominate the small space. She was close enough to see the silken gleam of his skin and to breathe in that heady masculine tang which was all his. Close enough to touch …

And Constantine knew that she was aware of him; he could sense it in the sudden shallowness of her breathing—the way a pulse began fluttering wildly beneath the fine skin at her temple. Did she desire him now, as women always did, and was anger responsible for the answering call in his own body? The sudden thick heat at his groin? The furious desire to open her legs and bring her right up against him, so that he could thrust deep into her body and spill out some of his rage? What was it about this plain little thing which should suddenly have him in such a torrent of longing?

He swallowed down the sudden unbearable dryness in his throat as the lift came to a halt and the door slid open on some subterranean level of the hotel he hadn’t known existed. Laura began to lead the way through a maze of corridors until she reached the women’s cloakroom.

‘Wait here,’ she said breathlessly.

But he reached out and levered her chin upwards with the tips of his fingers, feeling her tremble as he captured her troubled gaze with the implacable spotlight of his own.

‘Don’t run away, will you?’ he murmured, with silky menace.

Laura stilled. In the light of all the vicious accusations he had hurled at her, his touch should have repelled her—but it did no such thing. To her horror, it reminded her of what it was like to be touched by a man, and the hard, seeking certainty of this man’s particular touch.

With an effort she jerked her head away. ‘I wasn’t pl-planning to.’

‘Hurry up,’ he ordered, as the heat at his groin intensified—for he had seen the sudden darkening of her eyes and sensed her body’s instinctive desire for him. That in itself was nothing new—women always desired him—what perplexed him was the answering hunger which stirred in his blood.

Laura nodded. ‘I … I can’t stay in this uniform. I’d better change while I’m in there—so I may be a couple of minutes.’

‘I’ll wait,’ he ground out, but her words triggered an unwanted series of explicit and strangely powerful memories as the door closed behind her. Of the young woman who had shed her clothes with such unashamed pleasure—taking him into her pink and white body and gasping out her pleasure. Had that same woman conceived his child that night? he found himself asking, the question spinning round and round in his brain as he stared at the dingy wall of the staff corridor.

Laura took off her uniform and, leaving it neatly folded beside one of the laundry baskets, she pulled on her jeans, T-shirt and thin jumper—she’d experienced too many cold winters not to have learnt the benefits of layering. Then she picked up her handbag and waterproof jacket and walked outside, to where Constantine stood in exactly the same spot, like a daunting dark statue.

Beneath the harsh glare of the overhead light, she began delving around in her handbag until she pulled out the picture of Alex taken at school, just a few months ago—she handed it to him.

Constantine stared down at it in silence for a long moment. The child had black eyes and a faint olive tint to his skin, and the dark curls of his hair looked as if an attempt had been made to tame them especially for the photo—but already they were beginning to escape. He remembered his own hair being just as stubborn at such an age.

Narrowing his eyes, he studied the image more carefully. The child was smiling, yes—but there was an unmistakable wariness about that smile, and Constantine felt a sudden wild leap of protectiveness, mixed in with an innate sense of denial. As if the logical side of his mind refused to accept that he could start the evening by hosting a glittering party and then the evening would end with a paternity claim foisted on him out of the blue. That he should suddenly be a father. He shook his head.

‘He looks just like you!’ Laura blurted out, wanting him to say something—anything—to break this tense and awful silence.

An icy feeling chilled his skin. He had never felt quite so out of control as he now found himself—not since his mother had died and he had watched his father fall to pieces before his eyes, and had decided there and then that love did dangerous things to a man. ‘Does he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That proves nothing,’ he snarled as he thrust the photograph back into her hand. ‘For all I know this might just be a very clever scam.’

Laura swayed, unable to believe that he would think her so cold and calculating. So manipulative. So sexually free and easy. But why shouldn’t he think that? He didn’t know her—just as she didn’t know him. Though the more of himself he revealed, the more she was beginning to dislike him. Had he forgotten that she had gone into his arms an innocent, unable to resist the powerful sexual pull he had exerted?

‘B-but you knew that I was a virgin that night,’ she reminded him painfully.

He shrugged, as if her words meant nothing—but the concept of a woman’s purity was both potent and important to a man as traditional as Constantine. He forced himself to remember his incredulity that a young woman should so casually give her virginity to a man she knew she would never see again. Or had he been naïve? With her he had played the man he had never allowed himself to be—the itinerant traveller without a care in the world. What if her sweet and supposed ignorance of his wealth and his status had all been an act? Suppose she’d seen his yacht and started asking questions in between serving him tea and having dinner with him? Wouldn’t that make her eagerness to lose her innocence to a man who was little more than a stranger more understandable?

Constantine had spent his whole life being surrounded by people who wanted something from him—maybe this woman was no different.

‘You told me you were a virgin, but those could have simply been words. And, yes, I know that you gasped as I entered you,’ he said brutally, before pausing to add a final, painful boast. ‘But women always do—maybe it is something to do with my size, or my technique.’ He shrugged as her fingertips flew to her lips, hardening his heart against her obvious distress. ‘Maybe you thought that affecting purity would guarantee you some sort of future with the kind of man you were unlikely to meet again. That if I thought you were a virgin I would think more highly of you—rather than just as a woman who had casual sex with a man she’d just met.’

Laura felt ill. It was as if he had taken her memories of the past and ground them to dust beneath his heel. ‘Well, if you think that,’ she said, putting the photo back in her wallet with trembling fingers, ‘then there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

But Constantine moved closer, so close that she could feel his body heat, and she hated the thought that flashed through her mind without warning. This was the man who had planted a seed in her body … whose child had grown within her. The image was so overwhelming that it made her instinctively shudder. And wasn’t nature famously canny, if cruel—conditioning women to desire the biological father of their child, even if that man was utterly heartless? Laura swallowed, because now he was lowering his head towards her so that she was caught in the intense ebony blaze of his eyes. Surely he wasn’t going to …?

But he was.

He caught her against him, crushing her tiny frame against his and enfolding her within his powerful arms. She could feel the fierce hard heat of his body where it touched hers, and knew that she should cry out her protest—but she could no sooner stop this than she could have stopped the earth spinning around the sun.

His mouth came down to capture hers, and even though Laura was desperately inexperienced when it came to men she could sense the simmering anger which lay behind his kiss. This was a kiss which had more to do with anger than desire. But that didn’t stop her responding to it—didn’t stop her body flaring up with desire as if he had just ignited it with some hidden fuse. He despises me, was her last sane thought as the expert touch of his mouth made her lips part willingly beneath his.

His hands were tight around her waist and her own were splayed over the hard chest, where she could feel the rapid thundering of his heart. And through the kiss Laura made a little sound of disbelief—wondering how she could respond with such melting pleasure to a man who clearly viewed her with utter contempt.

The sound seemed to startle him, for just as suddenly as he had taken her in his arms he let her go, so that she had to steady herself against the wall as she stared up at him.

‘Wh-what was that all about?’ she breathed.

What, indeed? With an effort, Constantine controlled his ragged breathing and stared at her, shaking his head as if to deny the intensity of that kiss. It had been all about desire, he told himself fiercely—a powerful desire which was no respecter of circumstance or status. And how extraordinary that he should feel such overwhelming lust for this washed-out little waitress. Inappropriate, too—when to do so would surely weaken his case against her preposterous claim.

He looked down at her, his heart pounding so powerfully in his chest and his groin so hard with need that for a moment he couldn’t think straight. ‘You will need to get a DNA test done as quickly as possible,’ he grated.

Laura’s eyes widened in distress. ‘But … But …’

‘But what?’ he cut in scornfully, and gave a short laugh as the aftermath of the kiss faded and reality flashed in like a sharp knife. ‘Did you really think that I was going to acknowledge the boy as a Karantinos heir—giving him access to one of the world’s greatest fortunes—simply because you say so and because the boy bears a passing resemblance to me?’

‘But you—’

‘Yes, he looks Greek,’ he finished witheringly. ‘But for all I know you might be one of those women who turn on for Greek men.’ He gave a blistering smile as his gaze raked over her kiss-swollen lips. ‘I think you’ve just demonstrated that to both our satisfaction.’

Laura slumped back against the wall and stared up at him. Was that why he had kissed her—to make her look morally loose? And then to follow it up with a cold-blooded demand that she prove Alex was his child? ‘Why, you … you bastard!’ she gasped.

Constantine reflected that women were remarkably unimaginative when it came to insults. And didn’t they realise that they were the ones who put themselves into situations which gave men ammunition to criticise them?

But inside he was hurting for reasons he wasn’t even close to understanding—a state of being so rare for him that it made him want to hurt back, and badly.

‘I should be careful about my choice of words, if I were you, Laura,’ he informed her coldly. ‘It isn’t my parentage which is in doubt. If tests prove that the boy is mine, then I will take responsibility—but first you’re going to have to prove it.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT do you mean, he wants a DNA test?’

Laura stared at her sister, trying to snap out of the terrible sense of weariness which seemed to have settled over her like a dank cloud. After leaving the Granchester last night she had spent a few restless hours in a cheap London hotel before catching the first train back to Milmouth—her mind still spinning with all the hurtful things Constantine had said to her. On the plus side, she had arrived back in time to take Alex to school, but now she was back in the shop, Sarah having coped with the morning rush of customers. This quiet spell meant that Laura was now forced to face Sarah’s furious interrogation.

She shrugged her shoulders listlessly—she had gone through every emotion from anger and indignation through to sheer humiliation and had worn herself out with them. ‘It’s fairly self-explanatory, isn’t it? He wants a DNA test done. He wants proof that Alex is his son.’

‘Did you show him the photo?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘And?’

There was a pause while Laura thought about how best to put it, strangely reluctant to repeat Constantine’s wounding words. Was it her own hurt pride which stopped her from telling her sister how much he clearly despised her and all she stood for? ‘He said that although Alex looked Greek he couldn’t possibly risk acknowledging an heir to such a vast fortune as his without proof.’

‘The bastard!’

And even though she’d hurled exactly the same word at him last night, Laura now found herself in the bizarre position of putting forward a contrary point of view. One that she had been thinking about during her early morning train journey. ‘I can see his point,’ she said carefully. ‘I mean, he doesn’t know that he’s the only possible contender who could be Alex’s father, does he?’

‘Didn’t you tell him?’

‘No.’ His anger had been too palpable; the mood between them too volatile. Why, he’d even accused her of using her virginity as a bargaining tool. ‘And even if I had he might not have believed me. Why should he?’

Sarah frowned. ‘Laura—I don’t believe this! You’re not defending him, are you?’

‘Of course I’m not,’ replied Laura stiffly.

But the truth was far more complex. She could see Constantine’s point—even though it hurt her to the core that he should think her capable of having lots of partners and just wanting to foist paternity on the richest candidate. The way she had acted the day she’d met him had been uncharacteristic behaviour she’d never repeated—but Constantine wasn’t to know that, was he?

‘For all he knows, there might have been a long line of Greek lovers in my life,’ she told her sister fiercely, blinking furiously to stop the rogue tears from pricking at her eyes.

‘What? All of them sailing their yachts into Milmouth?’ questioned Sarah sarcastically. ‘I didn’t realise our town was twinned with Athens!’

‘Very funny,’ said Laura as she pulled on her apron.

But at least Sarah’s acerbic comments had helped focus her mind, and she went on the internet at lunchtime—cursing the dyslexia which made her progress slow as she laboriously pored over websites which offered information about DNA-testing. Sitting in the cramped little corner of the sitting room where they kept the computer, she studied it until she was certain she knew all the facts—and she was startled by the sudden sound of her cellphone ringing. She used it mainly for emergencies—only a few people had the number—and this was one she didn’t recognise.

But the voice she did. Instantly.

‘Laura?’

Briefly, she closed her eyes. Away from the cruel spotlight of his eyes, it was all too easy to let the honeyed gravel of Constantine’s faintly accented voice wash over her. It tugged at her senses, whispering over her suddenly goose-bumpy skin, reminding her of just how good a man’s kiss could make a woman’s starved senses feel.

Appalled at the inappropriate path of her thoughts—especially when he was forcing Alex to go through the indignity of a DNA test—Laura sat up straight and glared at the computer screen. Get real, she told herself furiously.

‘Hello, Constantine.’

‘Ah, you recognised my voice,’ he observed softly.

‘Funny that, isn’t it? Yet, strange as it may seem, there aren’t scores of Greek men growling down the telephone at me.’

Detecting a distinctively spiky note in her voice, Constantine frowned. Was she daring to be sarcastic—to him? And under such circumstances, too? ‘You know why I’m calling?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will agree to the DNA test?’

Laura gripped the phone tightly. What choice did she have? ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good.’ Leaning back in the sumptuous leather of his chair, Constantine surveyed the broad spectrum of the glittering London skyline. ‘I’ve been making some enquiries and I can either arrange for you to have it done at my lawyer’s office here in London—or he tells me that he can arrange for you to use somewhere closer to you, if that’s more convenient.’

She heard an unexpected note of silky persuasion in his voice, and suddenly Laura was glad that she had done her research, glad that she wasn’t just going to accept what the powerful and autocratic Greek was telling her. What it was in his best interests to tell her.

‘I’m not using a lawyer’s office,’ she said quietly.

There was a disbelieving pause. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I believe that doing so carries all kinds of legal implications,’ she said. ‘This test is being done to establish paternity to your satisfaction; it is not a custody claim. So I’m doing the test at home on a purely need-to-know basis.’

Another pause, longer this time. Constantine had not been expecting her to query his wishes—to be honest, he had expected her simply to accept his agenda. Because people always did; they bowed to the dominance of his will. So just who did this mousy little waitress think she was to dare to oppose his wishes? He lowered his voice. ‘And if I object?’

‘You aren’t in any position to object!’ she declared, refusing to let that silky tone intimidate her. ‘You’re the one who wants this damned test—who is going to force me to take a swab from my seven-year-old son’s mouth. Have you thought what I’m going to tell him? How I’m going to explain that to a seven-year-old boy?’

‘And didn’t you think through any of this before you came to me?’ he flared back.

The terrible truth was that she hadn’t thought through all the repercussions—instead she had been swept along by feelings which had been too primitive to allow any room for reason. She had felt an overpowering sense of injustice—because Constantine might be about to marry another woman and have a family with her without realising that he had another son who might know nothing but penury and spend his life living in the shadows. And she had thought he would recognise her—remember the night they had spent together with surely a bit of fondness. And then, in true fairy-tale fashion, she had imagined him acknowledging his son with a certain amount of Greek pride.

And it was about you, too, wasn’t it? prompted the uncomfortable voice of her conscience. Aren’t you forgetting to put that into the equation? You were unreasonably jealous of the woman you thought was going to share his life—even though you had no right to be. And your actions

helped contribute to the fact that the supermodel stormed out of the hotel suite, didn’t they?

‘Or did you think I was just going to roll over like a pussycat and sign you a big, fat cheque?’ he persisted.

She had been about to admit her hastiness and lack of forethought, but his hateful remark made her bite it back. What an unremittingly cruel man he could be. Perhaps she had opened a whole can of worms, and Alex might be about to discover what kind of man his father really was. ‘I—I’ll organise the test,’ she said shakily.

Constantine heard the faint tremble in her voice, and unwillingly he frowned. He remembered the photo of the little boy with the stubborn curls and the wariness which had peeped out from his black eyes. Could he really put the child through the worry of a test? Had she not proved herself by now? Because surely if she had been bluffing then she would not have dared sustain such a fiction for so long. And the fact that he had been trying to block from his mind now came slamming into focus—that little boy was his little boy.

‘Forget the test,’ he said suddenly.

Staring out at Milmouth high street, where the hazy sunshine spilling onto the cobbled streets seemed to mock at her dark mood, Laura froze. ‘F-forget it?’ she questioned incredulously. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said slowly.

Laura’s lips parted—she was scarcely able to believe what she’d just heard. Constantine magnanimously telling her that the test was unnecessary when he was the one who had insisted on it in the first place—like a teacher at school deciding to let her off a hastily handed-out detention. He has all the power, she realised bitterly. And she still wasn’t clear what the motives were for his sudden about-face.

‘But you said you wanted proof.’

‘I no longer need it. I believe you,’ he said unexpectedly.

‘You believe that he’s your son?’

‘Yes.’ There was a long silence as Constantine acknowledged the power of the single word of admission which would now change his whole life—whether he liked it or not. ‘Yes, I believe he’s my son,’ he said heavily, as if the full statement would reinforce that fact to both of them. He had known it the moment he had stared at the photo and seen those disobedient curls—and on some subliminal level he had accepted it even before that. Because some instinct had told him to—an instinct he had not understood at the time and probably never would.

‘But … why?’ Her confused words cut into the turmoil of his thoughts. ‘Why now, after all you said? All you accused me of?’

Constantine curled his hand into a tight fist and stared at it. All he had said had been rooted in denial; he hadn’t wanted to believe her. He had been reluctant to accept the enormity of the possible consequences if what she said had been true. But suddenly he allowed himself to see that this news could have all kinds of benefits—and perhaps it had dropped into his life at just the right time. A solution had begun to form in his mind—as perfect a solution as such circumstances would allow. All he needed was to convince her to go along with it.

The determination which had driven him to rebuild one of the most powerful companies in his native Greece now emerged in a different form. A form which could be used to tackle a private life which had suddenly become complicated. Constantine’s mouth hardened, and so did his groin as he remembered the way she had let him kiss her in that scruffy little hotel corridor last night. Of course she would go along with his wishes! She wasn’t exactly the kind of woman who was going to turn down a golden opportunity if it fell into her lap, now, was she?

For a moment he was tempted to put his proposition to her there and then—until he was reminded that she had shown signs of stubbornness. Better to have her as a captive audience and to tell her face to face. Better to allow his lips and his body to persuade her if his words couldn’t.

‘Your co-operation has convinced me that you are telling the truth,’ he said silkily. ‘A woman like you would be unlikely to pit herself against an adversary like me if she was lying.’

The unexpected reprieve made Laura blink her eyes rapidly. ‘Th-thank you,’ she said, after taking a moment to compose herself—though when she thought about it afterwards she realised that she had completely missed the sting behind his words.

Constantine was aware that this was the moment to choose—when she was both vulnerable and grateful. ‘We’ll need to discuss some kind of way forward,’ he said smoothly. ‘Obviously, if I am the child’s father, then there are a great many possibilities available to us all in the future.’

Laura felt a conflicting mixture of fear and hope. She didn’t like to ask what he meant in case she came over as greedy, or grasping—but her senses had been put on alert. His sudden mood-switch from anger and accusation to honeyed reasonableness was unsettling—she felt like a starving dog, about to leap on a tasty-looking piece of meat, only to discover that it was a mangy old stick. What did he want?

‘Such as?’ she questioned cautiously.

‘I don’t really think it’s the kind of discussion we should be conducting on the phone do you, mikros minera?’ His voice deepened. ‘So why don’t we meet somewhere and talk it over like two sensible adults?’

It didn’t seem to matter how many times she swallowed—Laura just couldn’t lose the parchment-dryness which seemed to be constricting her throat. Why did she feel as if she was being lured into some trap—as if Constantine Karantinos was taking her down some path to an unknown and not particularly welcome destination? She snatched a glance at her watch. She was already ten minutes over her lunch break, and Sarah would go mad if she was much longer.

‘Okay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’ll meet you. Where and when?’

‘As soon as possible,’ he clipped out. ‘Let’s say tomorrow night. I can come there—’

‘No!’ The word came out in a burst before she steadied her voice. ‘Not here. Not yet. People will talk.’

‘Why will they talk?’ he bit back, more used to his presence at a woman’s side being flaunted.

Laura stared out of the window to where she could see the distant glimmer of the sea. Did he have no idea about a small town like this and the ongoing mystery of Alex’s paternity? Her night with the handsome Greek had been clandestine enough, and no one had known about it. Previously innocent and still relatively naïve, her pregnancy had come as a complete shock. If Laura’s mother had still been alive, it might all have been different—she would have been there to support her and help her face the rest of the world.

As it was, Laura had felt completely on her own—not wanting to burden her young sister with any of her fears about the future. She had been proud and defiant from the moment she’d started to show right up to the moment she’d brought her baby home from the hospital.

Alex had been so very cute, and Laura so tight-lipped about his parentage, that people had given up asking who his father was—even if they still sometimes wondered.

But imagine if a man as commanding and as striking as Constantine should suddenly show up in Milmouth! His black hair and golden-olive skin were exactly the same physical characteristics which marked her son out at school. Why, she might as well take out a front-page advertisement in the Milmouth Gazette! People would talk and word might reach Alex—and whatever Alex was going to be told it needed to be carefully thought out beforehand. Oh, what was she going to tell her beloved son?

‘Because people always talk,’ she said flatly. ‘And I don’t want my son hearing speculative gossip.’

Constantine frowned. ‘Where, then? London?’

‘London’s not easy for me to get to.’

‘I can send a car for you.’

How easily practical problems could be solved when you had money, thought Laura. But a Greek billionaire’s limousine was just as striking as its owner. ‘No, honestly—there’s no need for that. I’ll meet you in Colinwood—it’s our nearest big town.’

Constantine waved away the secretary who had appeared at the door of his vast office, carrying a bundle of papers. ‘And is there a good restaurant there?’

She thought about what Colinwood had to offer. ‘There’s a hotel called the Grapevine, which is supposed to have a good restaurant, but I won’t be eating because I like to have tea with my … my son,’ she said. And besides, if the evening turned out to be really uncomfortable then she’d be trapped, wouldn’t she? Forced to sit enduring food she didn’t really want to eat and growing silent every time the waiter appeared. ‘I’ll meet you in the bar at nine.’

‘Very well,’ he said softly, and put the phone down—feeling slightly perplexed that she had not instantly fallen in with his wishes as he had expected her to do. As women always did.

Laura sat in silence for a moment after the connection was broken, and then ran back down to the empty shop, blurting out her news before her sister had a chance to berate her for being late.