The Greek Tycoon's Reluctant Bride
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She breathed in the tang of brine mixed with the clean scent of a woodsy aftershave. After a second’s hesitation she felt the pockets, but they were empty. Her lips curved in a reluctant smile; she had no doubt this was intentional. Demos Atrikes was going to find her, not the other way round.
And did she want to be found? Pushing the question as well as the unformed answer away, she left her bedroom.
Downstairs the housekeeper, Melina, was arranging a display of purple asters in a vase in the foyer. She gave Althea a sorrowful look and shook her head. ‘What have you done to make your papa so cross?’
Althea smiled thinly. ‘Nothing more than usual.’
Melina frowned, turning back to the flowers. ‘You were a good girl once,’ she said, which was her standard protest.
‘People change,’ Althea replied, with a deliberately wicked little laugh, and Melina’s frown deepened.
‘You need to be good to him. He works hard for you.’
‘And for himself,’ Althea replied, but she softened this reply by kissing the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. ‘Don’t fuss at me this early in the day, Melina.’
Melina sighed, and Althea moved past her into the kitchen. She liked Melina, yet she’d long ago recognised how much the housekeeper was capable of. These mild, ineffectual protests were the extent of her involvement in the family’s affairs.
Althea paused on the threshold of the dining room. Her father sat rigidly at the head of the table, a teacup halfway to his lips. He didn’t turn as he said, ‘Althea. Are you joining me for breakfast?’
She hadn’t eaten a meal with him in months. ‘No, I’m going out.’
Spiros bristled. ‘Where, may I ask?’
‘Shopping.’
‘You need more clothes?’ He turned slightly, and Althea saw his eyebrows rise haughtily. He was a banker and a millionaire, but he had always been tight-fisted.
‘As a matter of fact, no. But my friend seems to think she does, and I’m going with her.’ Althea made to leave.
‘When will you return?’
She turned back and saw the faint look of bewilderment on her father’s face, as if he couldn’t understand how they had come to this, descended to this. When she was little he’d taken her to the seaside, bought her ice creams, tucked her in bed. He looked at her now as if he wanted to know why that adorable little girl had become this defiant young woman. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask the question.
And Althea would never bring herself to answer it.
That confused, saddened look had used to soften her, but now it only disgusted her, moved her to contempt rather than compassion.
She shook her head, her eyes hard.
‘Later.’ Without another word she left the townhouse.
The sunlight sparkled on the placid water of the marina at Mikrolimano as humble fishing boats and luxurious yachts bobbed next to each other against a vista of whitewashed apartments and shops.
It was morning, but the sun was hot on the deck of Edward Jameson’s yacht as Demos stretched his legs out and took a sip of strong black coffee. ‘Tell me what you know of Spiros Paranoussis.’
Across the table Edward Jameson cut his fried egg into precise squares. Even though he spent half a year on his yacht in various European harbours, he still insisted on a full English breakfast to start his morning. Now he looked up, raising his eyebrows. Underneath shaggy white brows his pale blue eyes glinted shrewdly, full of easy humour.
‘Spiros Paranoussis? Why should I know anything of him at all?’
Demos smiled and shrugged. ‘Because I know enough to know he’s a banker in Athens, and you know everyone in finance in this city—as well as in most others in Europe.’
Edward smiled faintly and inclined his head. ‘Spiros Paranoussis…’ he mused. ‘Yes, he’s a banker. Second generation, current CEO of Attica Finance. Solid businessman, although rather uninspired. He hasn’t made much money, but he’s kept what he has.’
Demos nodded thoughtfully, his gaze on the expanse of blue-green sea that stretched to a cloudless horizon. He took another sip of coffee, aware of Edward’s speculative gaze.
The older man had been a mentor to him for twenty years, ever since Demos had loitered longingly by his yacht, eager, desperate for work. Jameson had employed him, and later helped him win a scholarship to study marine architecture. He would have given him much more, but Demos had refused. He would pay his own way, earn his own money, provide for his own family. And so he had, for as long as he’d been allowed.
‘As far as I know,’ Edward remarked mildly, ‘he is not the kind of man to be interested in yachts.’
Demos smiled. ‘No?’
Edward waited, too shrewd and too polite to ask Demos directly why he was fishing for information about Paranoussis.
‘And his family?’ Demos asked after a moment. ‘What do you know about them?’
Edward’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. ‘His wife died ten years ago, or round about that. He has one daughter. I met her once or twice, back when she was a child. Pretty girl, quiet and well-behaved. Although from what I’ve heard she’s now a bit of a liability.’
‘How so?’
Edward shrugged. ‘Wild, reckless, always getting herself in the tabloids.’
Demos nodded thoughtfully. In some ways he was surprised he hadn’t seen or heard of Althea before last night. He undoubtedly frequented Athens’s nightspots, although in general he preferred more discreet venues. He didn’t read the tabloids, however, and he realised with a wry grimace that he was probably considered too old for Althea’s crowd.
‘How old would the daughter be now?’
‘Twenty-two? Twenty-three?’ Edward leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. ‘Why do you ask, Demos? What is your interest in her?’