He’d made the right decision, he knew. He wasn’t about to question it any further. It would be, he knew, electric. Kat Jones was so utterly different from his usual choice of woman. True, that meant that his affair with her would be highly restricted—but, however brief, it would be enjoyable. He looked forward to seeing her wary antagonism towards him change to something very different …
For a moment he considered getting in touch with her now, but decided against it. He had things to go through from his Dublin meeting that he wanted to be shot of first. He strolled to the sideboard, slipping his cufflinks and dropping them on to its surface, following suit with his watch, turning up his shirt-cuffs. He picked up the first report and lowered himself down on the sofa to read it. A minute later the doorbell sounded. That would be the suite butler, bringing his coffee. Absently he pressed the console to open the door for him, his eyes swiftly perusing the words in front of him.
He heard the door open, but paid no attention. The man knew his business, and knew not to disturb hotel guests. Then something—instinct, or the faint catch of body scent—made him whip his head round.
Kat Jones had walked into his suite.
She stood very still. Her heart was pounding. Adrenaline surging in her body. Crackling through her like overloaded static.
Mike was outside in the street—he’d been dogging her footsteps all day, trailing her on his motorbike. Keeping the sick fear churning inside her. Now he was waiting outside the hotel. Not close enough to draw the attention of the doorman. Close enough to make sure she saw him. Saw him lift a finger to his own cheek and draw it down, slowly, deliberately. Smiling at her.
She got the message. Right in her terror centre.
Now, as she walked into Angelos Petrakos’s suite, she felt as if a garrotte were strangling her.
I’ve got to get that job back.
Angelos Petrakos got to his feet. She saw him, but it was as if he was underwater, or behind glass, very far away.
‘Kat.’
She heard her name. Heard the deep, accented voice. Heard it and felt it do things to her. Things that didn’t matter. Not now, when all that mattered was why she was here.
‘I was not expecting you,’ he said. His tone was even, but his expression was veiled.
‘I—I wanted to see you.’ How she got the words out she didn’t know. They came out as a low husk. It was all she could manage through her stricken throat.
A hollow was opening up in her stomach. Her eyes had gone to him immediately as he’d stood up, taking in his jacketless state, seeing the white shirt taut across his lean chest, the strong column of his throat framed by his open collar, the muscled sinews of his bare forearms and his turned-back cuffs. Then her eyes had shifted upwards to the strong-featured face, the sable hair, the narrowed, night-dark eyes. Something shifted in them as her eyes went to him, but their expression was still veiled.
‘Indeed?’ It was all he said. His face was a mask, but behind it she was having the same impact on him now as she’d had that first evening—those extraordinary luminous eyes, the high cheekbones, the mobile mouth, and that incredible wand-slim body. Even though, he registered, there was far less of it on show this time. Her outfit was not an evening dress. Instead, he registered, it was some kind of day-dress, grey, and buttoned all the way down to her knees, with long sleeves and white cuffs.
It should have looked demure, as it was designed to. Instead …
He snapped his mind away. What was Kat Jones doing here? Even as he framed the question he supplied the answer. One that told him when a woman showed up at this time of night there was only one reason why …
Emotion knifed through him, but he put it on hold. Waiting. Watching.
The sound of the door chime made her jump, but Angelos simply pressed the console again. This time it was, indeed, the suite butler. He batted not an impassive eyelid to see a woman present, merely fetched another cup and saucer from the sideboard and added it to the tray. Kat was grateful for his presence—it bought her precious time in which to try and compose herself, dissipate the appalling tension stringing her out. She set her clutch bag down on the sideboard, flexing her stiff, clenched fingers. She tried to steady her breathing, loosen the garrotte around her throat, drain out the hideous sick feeling permeating her.
There was silence while the butler did his business, then departed.
‘Coffee, Kat?’ said Angelos.
His voice was smooth. There was something in it she did not recognise. She shook her head, watching while Angelos Petrakos poured his own black coffee.
‘Perhaps you’d prefer something stronger? A liqueur, perhaps?’ He indicated a tray on the sideboard, with a variety of bottles on it. ‘I may,’ he said ruminatively, ‘take a cognac myself.’
Again she shook her head jerkily, watching, heart slugging heavily, while he set down his coffee cup beside the tray and poured himself a measure of brandy, swirling it contemplatively in the rounded glass as his eyes rested on her.
They were completely shuttered. She couldn’t tell anything about how he was thinking. What he was thinking. She stared at him, eyes distended. Do it! Say it! You’ve got to!
‘Mr Petrakos …’ Her voice was breathy. Husky. ‘I—I wanted … wanted … to—to apologise to you …’
She had taken him by surprise. He had not been expecting this. Apologies and Kat Jones were not things he would associate together. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. The emotion he had first experienced on seeing her in his suite like this intensified.
She stumbled on, words halting, her voice still with that husky breathiness. ‘Over dinner the other night, I was … I was
… out of order. It was because … because I’m not used to places like this.’ She gestured jerkily with her hand around the suite. ‘Flash places. Fancy restaurants. It made me … nervous. Maybe I came across as … rude …’