Holy guacamole.
This guy was, without a doubt, the most beautiful specimen of masculinity she’d ever seen in her life. Easily six and a half feet and leanly muscled, he wore a charcoal black suit with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, no tie. His face was angular and symmetrical, his features stone like, his eyes the colour of burnt butter, his hair thick and dark and a little long at the nape, so it brushed the collar of his jacket.
She didn’t want to stop looking at him but the plates were heavy. Besides which, the longer she looked, the more she became aware of something disconcerting in his appearance, something almost too handsome, something unnervingly beautiful.
With a small shiver, she turned away, walking with quiet efficiency through the restaurant, oblivious to the caramel eyes that followed her, to the appraising look they gave as she went.
In the kitchen, she scraped the plates and placed them on the side of the sink, for the attention of Jason, their dishwasher.
They were short staffed that night, but things had slowed down enough, so it didn’t make sense that Mr Ridiculously Handsome was waiting at the register when she emerged. Looking around, strangely hopeful someone else would seat him, his eyes landed on hers and a frissonof danger ran down her spine. She had no option but to help him.
With a pulse that was strangely thready and a tummy turning itself inside out, she moved to stand behind the register, pasting a bright smile on her face, completely unaware of the way it transformed her from a woman of beauty to someone almost magical seeming. Her eyes glittered and two dimples scored deep grooves in her cheeks.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like a table.”
“For one?”
“As you see.” There was something derisive in his response so she almost startled, but years of enduring her father’s verbal abuse had left her toughened—or at least with the appearance of it.
“This way.” She gestured towards the table that had just been vacated, by the window, but the man stood his ground.
“No. I’d prefer to sit there.” He nodded towards a different table, across the restaurant. It was more private, less on display.
“Fine,” she smiled again but this time, it failed to reach her eyes, then took a menu from besides the register. “If you’ll follow me,” she invited, a strange sensation settling between her shoulder blades as she guided him to the table he’d requested.
“Would you like to look at our wine list?”
“Yes.” No word of thanks. Somehow, that suited him.
She handed the wine list to him and without sitting down, he opened it, took a cursory inspection then ordered a glass of the most expensive wine.
“I’ll let you have a look at the menu and be back in a moment to take your order.”
She left because standing close to him was somewhat unpalatable, or perhaps, more correctly, unnerving, and yet, even when she was no longer within his physical proximity, she felt him following her as she continued to work. His eyes lingered on her when she placed the wine glass on his table, and as she served other guests, then, when she came to take his dinner order, which he placed in a matter-of-fact fashion.
There was something about him that called to her, too, so even when distracted by work, she found her eyes flicking towards his table, only to jerk away again quickly when she realized he was watching her.
Being flirted with by customers was nothing new, but this was different. He wasn’t flirting. If anything, he was looking at her as though she were a puzzle he wanted to figure out, or— her breath caught. Or as though he didn’t like her. There was enmity in the depths of his fascinating eyes, and she had no idea why.
You’re being silly, Phoebe, she counselled herself. After all, they didn’t know each other—why should he look at her with anything akin to dislike? Nonetheless, she let out a small sigh of relief when one of her colleagues cleared his dinner plate and offered dessert and coffee, so Phoebe didn’t have to be up close and personal with him again.
To her chagrin, he ordered a scotch, and reclined back in the chair, eyes fixed on her. The restaurant thinned of diners, and she looked to closing time with relief.
Despite the fact she told herself she was unnerved by him, Phoebe’s eyes moved to the stranger on repeat and against her will, as though she couldn’t control herself. Every time she looked at him, their eyes would meet and a buzzof excitement and anticipation would spread through her.
Phoebe fumbled as she carried a tray of coffee cups into the kitchen, almost dropping them, her cheeks flaming as she disappeared from view. Would this day never end?
* * *
It was all tooeasy to recognize what his father had seen in her. As he’d seen from the photograph, she was not simply beautiful. There were, after all, many beautiful women in the world, so much so they were a dime a dozen. To tempt a man like Konstantinos, there had to be something more, and now, Anastasios saw it.
She was compellingly desirable, with her shimmering dark hair and pouting lips, eyes that were almost black, with thick, long lashes and high cheekbones and dimples deep in either cheek when she smiled at customers. Her build was slim and athletic, and she couldn’t have been taller than five and a half feet, her diminutive presence only adding to her physical appeal because it inspired a sort of protector vibe, an ancient, primal caveman urge.
Yes, he could imagine his father being captivated by her. But what had Phoebe Whittaker seen in an eighty four year old man?
The answer to that was all too easy to comprehend. For though Konstantinos had been fiercely intelligent and astute, he was also wealthy beyond most people’s imaginings. It was the kind of wealth that would stop most people in their tracks to contemplate. Several private jets, islands, mansions around the world, entrée to any palace in the world as an esteemed guest—it was a whole other way of living. Tempting? Undoubtedly, for anyone. And for a young waitress with chipped nails, from the Australian outback?