Face grim, Anastasios reached for his scotch, taking a deep sip and letting it assault him as it travelled, his eyes closed for a moment against the tide of pain Konstantinos’s betrayal had wrought.
The only saving grace was that Maggie was not aware of Konstantinos’s betrayals. His infidelity would have killed her. She’d been so loyal to him, and loved him so completely. To know that her husband had made a habit of sleeping with other women? Of even fathering children with them? Was that why he’d left Phoebe Whittaker such a sum? He knew that Konstantinos had paid for his daughter with Annie Westbourne to attend school, and her general living expenses. Had he wanted to furnish Phoebe Whittaker’s child with the same luxuries? Had a child been born to his father and Phoebe?
His grip tightened on the scotch and the full force of his anger barreled towards the woman across the restaurant. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t owed their family anything, but given that his father was no longer here to feel the wrath of Anastasios, Phoebe Whittaker was the next best thing.
Soon, he was the only customer in the restaurant, and she the last waitress. He leaned forward with interest, watching as she smothered another yawn. It was easy to imagine why she was so tired. If she made a habit out of seducing older men, it was also likely she’d been kept busy all night. Was that why she worked here? To meet wealthy clients and seduce them in the hope of landing some kind of payoff?
A muscle ticked in his cheek, the thought of his father with this woman unpalatable on many levels, not least because he couldn’t look at her without feeling the stirring of interest, a wave of arousal that was pure biological instinct, in defiance of his judgement. If he hadn’t come here for this purpose, if he’d simply walked into the restaurant and met her, would he have wanted to make her his?
Undoubtedly.
What man wouldn’t?
Shifting a little in his seat, he felt the evidence of his desire straining against his pants and if anything, it made him angrier with her.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
Sir.It only compounded his problem.
“Another.” He lifted his glass into the air, eyes narrowing as he saw the flicker of disappointment in her gaze. Had she been hoping he’d say something else? “And one for you, if you’ll join me.”
The invitation surprised them both, but he was far more adept at concealing his reactions.
“Oh.” Her teeth pressed into her soft lower lip, drawing his fascinated gaze lower. “That’s very kind, but I can’t. I have to pack up.”
“Ten minutes won’t kill you.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Join me.” The last was uttered as a command and her eyes flew wide.
“I—,”
“You won’t regret it.”
Her eyes darkened, somehow, so they were as dark as the essence of the night sky.
“I’m not in the habit of drinking with customers,” she said softly.
It was an objection he presumed she made as part of her routine. After all, he had evidence to the contrary.
“Make an exception.”
Her throat shifted delicately as she swallowed and then cast a glance over her shoulder.
“A coffee,” she said after a pause. “I don’t drink.”
He lifted his shoulders to conceal a familiar sense of triumph. After all, Anastasios Xenakis was used to winning, at all things.
She moved back into the bar, pouring him another measure of scotch and making herself a short shot of coffee, before coming back to the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and his desire for her was, frankly, disgusting. He wasn’t someone to fetishize his father’s mistress.
When she sat, it was a little uncertainly. She wore her wariness like a cloak. With him? Or in general? That didn’t seem right, for a woman who was intent on seducing her way to wealth. He frowned as a flicker of doubt ignited in his gut—a doubt which he ignored. His father had bequeathed her over a million pounds. That wasn’t a gift you left a waitress as a tip.
He had planned to confront Phoebe ever since learning of her existence, but a simple conversation now seemed difficult to construct. Uncertainty was utterly foreign to Anastasios; he pushed it aside.
“What is your name?”
He found his breath held. Even though he’d seen a photo of her, he found himself hoping there’d been a mistake.
“Phoebe.” There was a hesitation. “And yours?”
Thinking quickly, he offered the diminutive of his name. His father had only ever referred to him as Anastasios, so there was no risk of her having heard of him. “Tasso.”