‘Paparazzi,’ he muttered by way of explanation as the car slid to a halt outside a glitzy-looking building. ‘They won’t be allowed in the club so just smile and don’t speak.’
‘What is it about Greek men that keeps them well and truly stuck in the Stone Age? I’m always being told not to speak.’ Alesia reached for her bag, hoping that she could manage to walk as far as the door of the nightclub without twisting her ankle. ‘Someone ought to tell you that these days women are supposed to have a voice.’
Sebastien caught her arm and prevented her from leaving the car. ‘Carlo will open the door. It prevents the press getting too close,’ he said smoothly. ‘And, for your information, I have a totally modern outlook when it comes to the role of women. You can speak whenever you choose. But not to the press.’
Totally modern?
Alesia gaped at him, wondering if he truly knew himself at all. This was a man who told her how to wear her hair and how to dress and who clearly saw her prime role as being to satisfy his rampant sexual needs. And he thought he was modern?
Before she could enlighten him as to the true meaning of the word, the car door opened and she was ushered into the nightclub amidst an explosion of flashbulbs and photographers yelling for her to look this way and that.
One photographer came in too close and was instantly blocked by two of Sebastien’s security team.
Alesia glanced around her in confusion and astonishment. ‘I can’t think why they’re suddenly so interested in me,’ she muttered and Sebastien flashed her a seductive smile that seriously threatened her ability to walk in a straight line.
‘Because I married you, agape mou,’ he drawled lazily, ‘and our two families have been at war for three generations. Newspaper editors the world over are loving it and so are the gossip magazines. Photographs of us will sell for a small fortune.’
People would pay for photographs of them?
Why? She was just an ordinary girl dressed up in designer clothes!
Casting a shimmering glance in her direction, Sebastien lifted an eyebrow. ‘How did your grandfather manage to keep you hidden from the media for all those years, tell me that?’
Alesia dragged her fascinated gaze away from the banks of photographers jolting for her attention. ‘I—er—I led a very private life,’ she muttered vaguely, wondering again why anyone would be remotely interested in staring at a photograph of her. The outfit was nice, but still…
Alesia allowed herself to be ushered into the sleek, ultramodern club and gazed around in awe. The club was crowded with beautiful people and she realized suddenly that her impossibly tiny skirt didn’t look remotely out of place in this setting.
‘This place is crowded with people wearing nothing but underwear.’ She raised her voice to be heard above the music and Sebastien raised a dark eyebrow in response to her comment and then gave a reluctant smile.
‘Dancing is hot work.’
Watching the gyrations on the dance floor, Alesia opened her mouth to confess that she’d never been to a nightclub in her life before and then realized that such a confession would betray far too much about her.
Evidently he believed her to be a real party animal: a rich, pampered heiress who spent her entire life shopping and then modelling the results. This was supposed to be her natural habitat.
She stared around in fascination, drinking it all in. She’d never been anywhere like this.
Coloured lights swirled and flashed, various effects shimmered and smoked and through it all the pounding, pulsing beat of the music tempted more and more people on to the exotically lit dance floor.
Alesia felt a thrill of excitement that she couldn’t quite identify. Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to be on that dance floor. She wanted to let her body move to the compelling, hypnotic rhythm. She wanted to enjoy herself.
She turned to Sebastien, her eyes bright and her lips parted. ‘I want to dance.’
And dance and dance…
Night-black eyes clashed with hers and his hard mouth lifted in mockery. ‘With or without the shoes?’
She didn’t care. She just wanted to move.
‘I’ll start with shoes and then we’ll see—’ Aware that they were still attracting a significant degree of interest, she glanced around with a frown. ‘Do people never stop staring?’
‘You are the granddaughter of one of the richest men in the world,’ he drawled, casting a cynical glance over his broad shoulder. ‘Like me, you must be used to it. People always stare. You know that.’
She bit her lip and tried to look casual and confident, as though being the object of everyone’s attention was an everyday occurrence.