His suit was dark and accentuated every inch of masculine perfection. His shoulders were wide, his frame powerful and athletic and he wore his looks with the ease and assurance of a man who’d been born with the entire silver cutlery set in his mouth.
He’d never known poverty and he’d never known hardship.
How could he ever understand what had driven her to this moment? A flash of panic suddenly assailed her. What if he backed out of their agreement? The man was every bit as ruthless and money-mad as her grandfather. She’d been naïve and stupid to trust him. She should have checked. She should have rung the bank—
She turned to him, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest as she contemplated the various scenarios, all of them awful.
‘Has the money been transferred to my account?’ The question flew from her lips unbidden and she immediately clamped her mouth shut and wished it unsaid as spectacular dark eyes fixed on hers with unconcealed disdain.
‘Even as we speak,’ he drawled softly, his firm mouth tightening into a grim line. ‘I’m surprised you’re not begging to miss the reception so that you can go and spend, spend, spend.’
Feeling relief wash over her she relaxed slightly, telling herself that his opinion of her really didn’t matter. All that mattered was her mother. And anyway, Sebastien Fiorukis was hardly in a position to criticize her for wanting money. She glanced down at the gold watch that nestled in the dark hairs of his wrist. The watch alone was probably worth more than she spent in a year.
‘And my grandfather’s company?’
‘Now belongs to me,’ he said dryly, reaching for his glass, ‘along with a substantial quantity of debts and enough labour-relation problems to ensure that my time is fully occupied for the foreseeable future. I’m afraid it’s going to delay our honeymoon, pethi mou.’
Honeymoon?
Her eyes flew to his, startled. She hadn’t thought any further than the wedding day. She certainly hadn’t contemplated the fact that he might be planning a honeymoon. Panic knotted deep in her stomach. ‘I—I didn’t think we’d be having a honeymoon—’
‘Honeymoons are for lovers,’ he slotted in with a grim smile, ‘which is what we are supposed to be. But at the moment I haven’t got time for a wife. So there’s no honeymoon.’
Alesia closed her eyes briefly and breathed a sigh of relief. A honeymoon would have been unbearable. As it was, hopefully he’d be too busy to spend any time with her. They could lead separate lives.
Alesia sucked in a breath and forced herself to relax. It would be fine, she assured herself. They barely needed to see each other. This was her life now. She really had to try and adapt.
Her eyes scanned the enormous garden that was the setting for the reception, taking in the glitz and the glamour. Guests had flown in from all over the globe to witness the wedding of Sebastien Fiorukis and everywhere she looked there were elegant women and rich, confident men.
Alesia bit her lip and dug her short, unmanicured nails into her palms.
Could they see through her? Did they realize that, despite being the ‘Philipos heiress’, she didn’t move in these circles and never had? What would they say if they knew that normally she dressed in jeans and waited on tables to earn extra money? What would they say if they knew she didn’t have a penny to her name?
Except that now, she reminded herself as she lifted her glass to her lips, she did have a penny to her name. Thanks to her new husband, she was now an extremely wealthy woman. On paper. In reality the money was already spent. She’d set up an agreement with the bank so that the money was automatically transferred into her mother’s medical fund.
‘What are you planning, I wonder,’ Sebastien purred, surveying her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘You look alarmingly like a woman who is plotting.’
Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘I—I’m not plotting—’
‘No? Then you’ll be the first member of your sex who isn’t.’
Before she could think of a suitable reply, he lifted a hand to her head and removed the elaborate clip with a decisive movement.
She gave a gasp of surprise and protest as her blonde hair unwound itself, slid down and settled over her shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I paid for you,’ he said succinctly, his eyes fastened to her hair with undisguised masculine interest, ‘and you were very expensive, agape mou. I therefore have the right to use you in any way I see fit.’
Alesia almost choked with outrage. ‘You don’t own me—’
‘Oh, yes, I do.’ He leaned towards her. ‘I do own you, Alesia. Every single delectable part of you. I own your long silky hair and those amazing eyes that can almost convince me you’re innocent even though I know you’re a conniving, greedy little gold-digger. I own that fabulous body which you’ve doubtless used on countless occasions to persuade men to part with their money. I own the lot, Alesia. The deal we both signed was nothing short of a purchase on my part.’