Virgin’s Night with the Greek

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

‘She’s doing what?’

In response to the bombshell his younger sister had just dropped, Leonidas Stanhope sank into the chair behind his vast glass desk, his stomach tightening and his head already beginning to throb in a horribly familiar way.

‘She’s having herself painted,’ Daphne repeated dully in Greek as she stared out of the window at the view of London that stretched out far below in the late May sunshine. ‘In the nude. For Lazlo. As a birthday present, she said. He’s turning seventy next week.’

‘Seventy?’

‘I know,’ said Daphne. ‘I can only assume he’s a fan of Botox. I don’t know why she couldn’t simply have gift-wrapped a voucher for some more of that.’

‘That would have been far too subtle.’

As his sister muttered her agreement, Leo closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose even though he knew perfectly well it would alleviate precisely nothing. He’d been firefighting his mother’s scandals for years, ever since he’d become the head of the family following his father’s sudden death eleven years ago, when he was nineteen. Some were huge, some were minor, all were exhausting.

Was there to be no end to the drama the woman caused? She was approaching sixty. At what age would dignity kick in and give him a break? No time soon, by the sound of things.

With a sigh, he fought the urge to grind his teeth, pulled himself together and redirected his attention to this latest incident. ‘I thought she and Lazlo had parted ways.’

Daphne turned from the window to take a seat on the other side of the desk. ‘That was two months ago,’ she said despondently, flopping back against the leather the colour of whisky. ‘They’ve since reconciled. She told me she was missing the sex.’

Leo winced.

‘The portrait’s to be part of an exhibition by up-and-coming young British artists at the Tate Modern. In a fortnight. Three days before my wedding. Can you believe it?’

‘Unfortunately, I can,’ he said, stifling a sigh of exasperation. ‘All too easily. She’s so self-absorbed, I doubt the timing of it would even have crossed her mind. Or the appropriateness.’

‘It’ll hit the press,’ Daphne continued, her voice becoming increasingly tremulous as her dark eyes began to shimmer. ‘The tabloids will have a field day. And the photos… God. Everyone at our wedding will be talking about it and gawping at her. As if the outfit she’s planning on wearing isn’t bad enough. I mean, white. Really? I don’t think I can stand it, Leo. I don’t know what to do. How do we stop it? Ari has no metaphorical weight to throw around and you know what Mama thinks of him. He begged her to at least hold off for a few more weeks, but she just said she wasn’t being dictated to by a waiter and hung up on him.’

‘I can imagine,’ he muttered, jaw clenched.

‘So can you do something about it?’

Of course he could. Fixing problems and managing people was a large part of what he did, whether as CEO of the Stanhope Kallis banking and shipping empire or as the protective eldest sibling of a large, much-loved tribe.

But more to the point, he would do something because even if he was neither of those individuals, he could never have ignored the rawness in his sister’s voice. The tears and pain she was trying to suppress sliced at his chest like a knife, and a white-hot wave of frustrated anger surged through him.

Daphne had overcome so much to get to this point. Eight years ago, at the age of thirteen, she’d been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia. She’d subsequently spent more time in hospital than out of it. She’d had blood transfusions and battled infections. She’d undergone rounds of chemotherapy and radiotherapy and suffered all the grim side effects that went with that. The initial prognosis had not been good, but despite this she’d never lost her optimism. She’d smiled her way through the most gruelling of times.

And so even though she’d eventually beaten the odds and been in remission for three years now, the outlook as positive as it could be, and even though he’d never understand the attraction of romantic love with all the hideous emotion and chaos that seemed to inevitably come with it, Leo would allow absolutely nothing to overshadow a day no one had ever thought they’d see.

‘Leave it with me.’

CHAPTER ONE

Beneath the sparkling surface of the gorgeously cool water, Willow Jacobs reached the end of the granite-lined pool, executed a lazy tumble turn and emerged with barely a splash to set off on another leisurely length of crawl.

The water slipped over her body like liquid pain relief. The heat of the Greek early summer sun warmed her skin like a balm. With every stroke, the tension in her hands that spread up her arms and into her shoulders and back while she worked eased. With every kick, the twinges and aches that came from sitting in one position for too long dispersed like watercolours in the rain.

She’d been working on and off for nearly a month now, with only one five-day break, which hadn’t been much of a break, but she didn’t resent the ten-hour days in the slightest. How could she when she was producing the best painting of her life? From the moment she’d put pastel to paper, the lines had come swiftly and the form had taken shape organically, as if her hands and fingers required no conscious input on her part at all.

Willow knew the rare and precious alchemy didn’t stem from her environment, luxurious and comfortable though it was. Nor was it attributable to a sudden surge of talent because she already had that in abundance. It came entirely from her subject, who was as charmingly fascinating as she was utterly self-centred.

Not only was the raven-haired, sloe-eyed Selene Stanhope exquisitely beautiful and in possession of a spectacular body that belied her age and the six children she’d borne, she was also a Greek socialite who’d lived an adventurous, glitzy life. When she wasn’t grumbling about her eldest son, about how disappointingly staid and repressed he was, about how it was his sole mission in life to pop up and spoil her fun, she liked to reminisce. At length. The stories she regaled made her sparkle and glow, and it was this inner radiance that gave the portrait such unique luminescence and vibrancy.

In that respect, it was a shame the it was nearly finished, Willow reflected as she bumped up against the wall and turned again. She could sit and listen to Selene’s exploits for ever. Parties that culminated in literal swinging from the chandeliers. Holidays on private Caribbean islands in the company of glamorous celebrities. The clothes, the extravagance, the men…

The tales were enviably bold, colourful and passionate. Bittersweet, too, since they brought back memories of Willow’s own mother, who’d died a decade ago and had been the polar opposite. And while she could see they might prove a challenge to an apparently stiff upper-lipped and emotionally barren son, they offered a tantalising glimpse into an exotic aristocratic world that a solidly middle-class, permanently broke Willow would never inhabit.

On the other hand, completion of the painting meant payment. It meant framing and packaging and shipping the piece to an exhibition that she could never have dreamed of being able to contribute to.

Having her work on such prominent and illustrious display would bridge the gap between struggling artist and success. It would bring in more, perhaps even better commissions, which would establish an exciting career she adored and provide the versatility she needed to be able to manage the endometriosis that had such a massive impact on how she lived her life.

So while her time at the villa in Kifissia was coming to an end, it was a cause for celebration rather than regret. She’d always be grateful to Selene for expressing an interest in her over the canapés at the London event at which she’d been waitressing to supplement her income, and taking a chance on her. Thanks to her current client’s openness and connections, Willow’s future stretched out before her, brighter and more hopeful than ever before. Barring some catastrophe, it was secure. After years of upheaval, of learning how to manage the monthly agony while trying to break into the tightly knit art world and make a living, everything was finally coming together.

As the significance of this sank in properly for the first time, relief surged through her, so immense that it quickened her pulse and tightened her lungs. Her head spun and her limbs went weak. Dizzy, losing her buoyancy, Willow mistimed her breath and inhaled a lungful of pool water. She spluttered. Coughed. Flailed. She dipped beneath the surface for a moment but was just about pop up again and regain control of the situation when she was suddenly buffeted by a wave, grabbed from behind and hauled against something hard.

Shock and panic slammed into her. Adrenalin flooded her system. Instinctively, she squirmed and lashed out, splashing and struggling, kicking and fighting for breath. But the band of steel clamped around her middle was impossible to shift.

‘Let me go,’ she gasped, her heart thundering as whoever it was trapping her in a vice began towing her towards the side.

‘Keep still,’ murmured a deep masculine voice in her ear in faintly accented English. ‘I’ve got you.’

But she hadn’t needed getting. She’d been fine. ‘Release me this instant,’ she panted, shivering and breathless and scrabbling frantically to get free.

‘Stop struggling. You’re making things worse.’

‘I’m making things worse?’

‘I’m trying to save you from drowning.’

‘I wasn’t drowning.’

‘You’re lucky I arrived when I did.’

Lucky? Hah! ‘Let. Me. Go.’

With a grind of her teeth, Willow pummelled at his forearm, but to her outrage and continued alarm the mule-headed dolt ignored her. He didn’t relax his grip on her even an inch, no matter how hard she tried to jab an elbow into his side or kick a heel into his groin. In fact, his arm seemed to tighten, ironically stealing the breath from her lungs in a way that inhaling water hadn’t.

But perhaps he had a point about the thrashing around. It was achieving nothing other than a sapping of energy that she’d be better off saving for dry land. If she temporarily yielded to his superior physical strength and let him get on with this wholly unnecessary rescue mission of his it would be over infinitely more quickly and that could only be good.

Ceding to logic and giving up the fight for the sake of her strength and her sanity, Willow let herself go limp against him and almost instantly received a growly ‘That’s better’ in response.

But as he carried her along with what felt like broad, confident strokes she wasn’t sure that it was. Breathing might be becoming easier, but it was beginning to occur to her that she’d never been this up close and personal to a man before. At least, not moulded to one back to front as she was now.

Obviously she’d been kissed—she was twenty-four, after all—but that was as far she’d ever gone. With her condition, sex could be excruciating she’d read, and quite frankly, she had enough pain in her life without choosing to suffer further. Not only did the thought of it terrify her, she also feared things becoming awkward and having to explain. She dreaded being ridiculed, pitied, called uptight and frigid. And despite the kissing—some of which had been very nice—she’d never met anyone for whom she wanted to make that sacrifice and take that risk.

But were all chests this hard? All forearms this unforgiving? Because he’d altered his hold on her, her bottom was no longer bumping up against him, thank goodness, but now, with her head resting on his shoulder and his breath fanning her face, she was sort of lying on him—a man she didn’t know and hadn’t even seen—and it was unsettling to say the least.

To her relief, they reached the edge of the pool within moments. The minute the band of steel around her waist loosened, Willow bobbed away and grabbed onto the side. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she swiped the water from her eyes then turned to face her supposed rescuer, fully prepared to demand to know who he was and what he thought he was doing.

But at the sight of him the words dried up on her tongue. Her pulse skipped a beat and her lungs constricted all over again. He had eyes the colour of raw umber, olive skin that was testament to his Greek heritage and a bone structure that would have made Michelangelo weep. His dark hair was plastered to his head, but she knew from the photos she’d been shown it was lamp-black and ochre streaked. He was very handsome and very stern. Exactly as his mother had described.

And as she recalled Selene’s myriad complaints about her eldest son, the tales of control and power he apparently liked to wield over her whenever the opportunity arose and the frequent comments about how much he’d disapprove of the portrait if he knew of its existence, all Willow could think as her heart beat a fraction faster than normal and wariness wound through her, was: What fun was he planning to spoil here?

*

While an obviously simmering Willow turned to paddle towards the steps, Leo shook the water from his hair then hauled himself out of the pool in one powerful move, still recovering from the events of the past five minutes.

He’d arrived at the villa in one of Athens’s most exclusive and expensive suburbs a quarter of an hour ago, burning up with the frustration that came with his failure to date to fulfil his promise to his sister. The moment Daphne had left his office yesterday afternoon he’d swung into action. But the director of the Tate Modern had not responded as he’d expected to his demand the exhibition be cancelled and, unsurprisingly, neither Lazlo nor his mother were taking his calls. Appealing directly to the artist herself had been his only remaining option, which was why he’d commandeered the family jet and flown over from London this morning.

Having located Selene in the drawing room and furnished her with the reason for his visit, he’d ascertained Willow’s whereabouts, then stalked the length of the space and out onto the terrace. A flash of movement had had him heading for the pool. En route, he’d clocked a book and a long drink on the table beside the lounger over which a towel lay draped, and had cynically thought that in the month she’d been here allegedly working, his mother’s portraitist had made herself extremely comfortable at the luxurious, fully staffed villa.

Briefly, he’d wondered whether the offer he’d put together to get rid of her and the picture would be enough or whether she’d spot an opportunity and force him to double it. But then he’d seen her suddenly stop midlength, thrash about and sink beneath the surface of the water, and the innate instinct to save someone in trouble had overridden any suspicion about what she was and what she might be up to.

Leo didn’t regret his actions in the slightest, however much Willow had protested she hadn’t needed his help. He might be ruthless in business and intent on neutralising the threat she posed to Daphne’s happiness, but he drew the line at letting her drown in order to achieve that goal. And thanks to a swimming gala years ago, during which his youngest sister, Olympia, had fainted in the pool and no one but him had noticed her sink to the bottom, he knew that it was better to be safe than sorry.

What he did regret however, was that he was now dripping wet and bereft of the shoes he’d toed off and the jacket he’d stripped from his torso in his haste to dive in to the rescue. With his shirt plastered to his chest and his trousers clinging to his thighs, the image he currently presented was about as far from the cool control and unassailable authority he preferred to exude as it was possible to get.

But at least he had height and breadth in his favour, he thought grimly, as he pulled off his socks and bent to pick up his jacket. Clamped to his chest as he’d carried her to safety, Willow had felt considerably smaller than him. Somehow delicate, despite the kicking. And, once she’d finally relaxed against him, very supple and very soft.

Not that her body was of any interest to him, of course. Her curves, which were barely contained by the tiny black bikini she wore, were generous and her legs were tanned and shapely, but he’d never been distracted by a woman and he wasn’t about to be now. He wasn’t his mother, after all, ruled by whim, by emotion, by carnality. He wasn’t self-centred and thoughtless, scandalous and embarrassing.

Not these days, at least.

As a youth, he’d lived a pretty hedonistic and carefree existence, taking for granted his family’s wealth and privilege that meant he could pursue his love of sailing with the best boats and finest kit, and believing himself invincible. But ever since his father’s fatal heart attack, which had catapulted him sooner than anyone had anticipated into the role he’d been destined to fill—for which he had not been ready—he’d been a model of strength and restraint. These days, he was focused and driven. With the occasional exception that generally involved obstreperous family members, he was used to being obeyed. He was accustomed to having his demands carried out and he got results.

So he didn’t think it a disappointment when Willow towelled herself off and slipped on a silky pink robe that hid her body from view. He easily wiped from his memory the feel of her bottom bumping up against him as he’d towed her to the side and the satiny softness of her skin beneath his fingers. He had no further reason to find himself so close to her that he could make out flecks of amber in the emerald-green depths of her eyes. Her toenails—each painted a different colour—offended his need for order, so he simply wouldn’t look at them, and that went for the many earrings and the twinkling nose stud she wore, too.

The only thing that mattered was that he accomplished his mission to ensure his sister’s wedding went off without a hitch. And that he would do, right here, right now, whatever it took.