His bodyguard. Leon Andreakos always had a bodyguard in tow. He was a wealthy man. Very wealthy. Such men were a target. A target for thieves, kidnappers — and greedy, gold-digging women.
That's what Leon had thought her, Alanna knew. One more in the long line of beautiful women who used their beauty to get their greedy little fingers inside his wallet. Get him to shower his money on them.
Self-condemnation shadowed her eyes. Leon had been right about her in that — she'd been overwhelmed by his wealth, incredulous that he should lavish so much of it down upon her, to whom luxury had been totally unknown. After a lifetime of perpetual scrimping and saving, with barely enough for essentials, let alone anything else, she had gone wild as his mistress, she knew, lapping up the luxurious lifestyle with Leon like a kitten standing four-paw in a bowl of cream.
She had reveled in the clothes he’d bought her, the gifts he’d given her, the places he’d taken her to. Reveled in the whole wonderful, magical bliss of being the woman in Leon Andreakos's life, envied by all other women — yet he had chosen her, just ordinary her, had plucked her out of the hotel gift shop and selected her for his bed. And she had gone willingly, eagerly, helplessly, the thought of turning down his wonderful, magical invitation never even a possibility. Because what woman could possibly turn down Leon Andreakos?
r /> "Well?" Leon's harsh voice cut through her self-recrimination. Like some hideous mocking replay of the very first time he'd ever spoken to her in the hotel gift shop, Alanna was unable to reply, unable to force her voice to work. But she had to speak, say something, anything. Even though her limbs felt like water and her bones like soft wax.
"Nothing —" The word mumbled from her. She swallowed and said it again, clearer this time. "Nothing."
The memory of the last time he had spoken to her assailed her. The very last words he had said to her as he had barred her from his brother Nikos's funeral.
"Whore! Murdering whore!"
She stumbled past him, but a hand shot out, closing over her arm like a steel band, fingers digging into her flesh.
"Let me go!"
For one long, devastating, soul-consuming moment she stared into his night-dark eyes.
And in that one moment the present was ripped away, back, back into the past they had once had together.
Torment and bliss. Agony and ecstasy. All at the same time.
Oh Leon, Leon — how I loved you once! How I would have thrown myself at your feet! But you didn't want me — you didn't want me for anything except your bed. And you thought that all I wanted from you was your money….
His eyes seared into hers, and in that flash of fire she knew, with a hollowing of her insides, that it was not just his wealth that had overwhelmed her. It had been him — every inch of him, every pulse of his raw, potent sexuality that could melt her bones, pool her like honey in his arms with a single touch, a single kiss….
The memory of his very first kiss flared in her. He had come back to the gift shop the following evening….
He placed the scarf, loosely folded within the opened wrapping tissue, in front of her.
"Is it faulty?" she asked anxiously.
He gave a caustic smile — but not at her.
"The wrong color, so I was informed." There was a bite beneath the accent. He was annoyed; she could tell.
"Would you like to exchange it?" she offered. She tried to slow the sudden rapid beating of her heart that had happened the moment he'd walked back into the gift shop. Tried to stop her eyes from just gazing helplessly at him. She'd thought of him all night. Tossing and turning in the narrow bed in the poky flat in the dreary part of London that was all she could afford on her meager wages. His face kept appearing in front of her closed eyes, and she could not banish it. Did not want to. Wanted to keep thinking about it, thinking about him — dreaming about him.
Now he was here in the gift shop again, in the flesh, and her pulse was racing.
Suddenly, quite abruptly, it slewed to a halt. He picked up the scarf and reached forward. With a casual gesture he draped it around her neck, his fingers lifting her hair free.
She thought she would faint. Her eyes widened helplessly, her breath catching in a little gasp in her throat as she gazed at him.
He smiled down at her. The annoyance was gone. In its place amusement…and speculation.
"On you," he said, the husk in his voice melting her bones, "the color is perfect."
Then, still holding the ends of the scarf, he drew her forward and lowered his head….
His kiss was bliss, his mouth moving with slow appropriation over her lips. There wasn't breath left in her body.
As he let her go he went on smiling down at her.
"Come and have dinner with me," he said.