Greek Tycoon, Waitress Wife. Julia James

anguished memory of her father’s final days. Glad, too, to get away from everyone’s sympathy, not to mention the kindly meant offers of financial help that she could never accept. Here, in this vast city, she was all but anonymous, and she welcomed it.

      Yet London was a bleak place, certainly when finances were as straitened as hers were. Just keeping her head above water was hard, but it had to be done—at least until the summer was over and she could go home again to Marchester and resume the life she knew, painful though it would be without her father. Casual jobs here, at least, were plentiful, but it was relentless and grinding, and in three months she’d had no time off for herself and no money to spare for anything beyond necessities.

      There was another aspect to working in London she didn’t like either. The hassle she got. That was what had cost her the first job she’d lost. She’d been working in a tapas bar and a customer had slid his hand up her skirt. Shocked and appalled, she had hit his hand away violently. The man had complained about her and Carrie had been sacked. The woman at the job agency had been unsympathetic.

      ‘With your looks you should be used to it—and used to handling it,’ she’d said dismissively.

      But she wasn’t, thought Carrie miserably. No one behaved like that in the world she was used to, nor had any interest in doing so. Their minds were focussed on other matters. It was hard to be subjected to that kind of treatment, or even just to be looked at the way men did here—so blatantly. So sleazily.

      It wasn’t sleazy when that incredible guy looked at you—

      Memory flushed through her again hotly. No, sleazy had not been the word. Not in the slightest. The way that man had looked at her had made her feel—

      Breathless.

      She felt the tightness in her chest again as she recalled the way his eyes had held hers. He really had been amazing! The sort of fantasy man a girl could dream about. He was probably rich, too, because all the guests at the gallery had been—or at least well-heeled. He’d had a very rich look indeed about him. There’d been something about him, something more than just his fantastic dark looks and what had obviously been a hand-made suit and a silk tie—a sort of assurance, arrogance, even, as if he were one of the princes of the world…

      She gave a twist of her mouth. Whatever he was, he belonged to the London that she didn’t! The one she only saw from the other side of the bar or the table or through the door, where the likes of her served the likes of him, and remained anonymous and unobtrusive.

      Dejection hit her again, and she quickened her pace, unconsciously hunching her shoulders, feeling bleak and lonely. Though she saved money and got exercise by walking, there was still a good long way back to the poky bedsit in Paddington that was all she could afford.

      Suddenly she stopped. A car door had just opened in front of her, enough to block her path and require her to veer around it. Then, as she gathered her wits to do just that, a voice spoke.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      Carrie’s head turned. The voice—deep, and with an accent she did not register—came from the interior of the car. As she looked at the speaker her eyes widened involuntarily. It was the incredible-looking man from the gallery, whose girlfriend’s dress she’d soaked. Apprehension stabbed at her. Was he going to demand money for the dress? She didn’t have anywhere near enough on her, even just for cleaning it. And if he told her she had to replace it she would be completely stuck. The prospect was so daunting that she just froze.

      The man was getting out of the car, and she stepped back hurriedly. He seemed taller than she remembered—and even more incredible looking. She couldn’t help reacting to it, even though it was the stupidest thing in the world to do.

      ‘Is—is it about the dress?’ she blurted, gripping her bag by its shoulder strap out of sheer tension.

      A frown pleated his brow momentarily. It made him look even more forbidding than the dark, severely tailored bespoke suit and his air of wealth and power did.

      ‘Your girlfriend’s dress? The one I spilt the juice over?’ Carrie continued.

      The man ignored her question. ‘Why are you not still at the gallery?’ he demanded.

      Carrie swallowed. It seemed more like an accusation than a question, and she could only say, ‘I got dismissed.’

      The man said something in a language she did not recognise. He looked foreign, she registered belatedly. That dark tanned skin and the darker eyes.

      ‘You were fired?’ he demanded. Again, it sounded like an accusation.

      Carrie could only nod, and clutch her bag more tightly.

      ‘I’m really sorry about the dress. Mr Bartlett said he’d use my wages to dry clean it, so I hope it will be all right.’

      The man made an impatient gesture with his hand.

      ‘The dress is taken care of,’ he said. ‘But tell me—do you want your job back? If you do I shall arrange it. What happened was clearly an accident.’

      Carrie felt her cheeks heat with acute embarrassment.

      ‘No—please,’ she said. ‘I mean—thank you—thank you for offering. And I’m really very sorry about the dress. I really am,’ she finished quickly. Then she made to start walking again.

      Her elbow was taken.

      ‘Allow me,’ said the man, ‘to offer you a lift to wherever you are going.’ His voice had changed somehow. She didn’t know how. It seemed smooth—not abrasive, the way it had been before. Then the import of what he’d said registered. Carrie could only stare at him—feel his hand on her elbow like a burning brand.

      ‘A lift?’ she echoed stupidly. ‘No—no, thank you. I’m fine walking.’

      Something flickered in the man’s eyes. If she hadn’t known better she would have said it was surprise.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ he said. The smoothness was still there, but underpinned now by something else. ‘Please—allow me. I insist. After all, it is the least I can do to make amends for you losing your job.’

      Carrie’s eyes widened even more. ‘But it wasn’t anything to do with you!’

      ‘Had I been quicker off the mark I could have steadied your tray,’ said the man, in the same smooth voice. ‘Now, where would you like to be driven?’

      The hold on her elbow had tightened imperceptibly, and Carrie felt herself being inexorably guided towards the open door of the car.

      ‘No—please, it’s not at all necessary.’ Nor, she knew with strong female instinct, would his girlfriend welcome the presence of the waitress who’d ruined her dress.

      ‘Please do not delay me further. The car is causing an obstruction.’ The voice was still smooth, but now in its place was something like impatience.

      Carrie looked, and realised that cars were backing up, unable to get by easily. Without realising how, she found herself being handed into the car, looking apprehensively for the brunette. But she wasn’t there.

      ‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ She’d gone back to blurting.

      The man lowered himself lithely into the seat next to her, and reached for his seat belt with a fluid movement. He cast a frowning look at Carrie.

      ‘Girlfriend?’

      ‘The one I spilt the juice over—’

      His eyes cleared. ‘She is not my girlfriend.’ He said the word as if it were deeply alien to him.

      Something lifted in Carrie. Something she knew was quite pointless, but it did all the same. That chic brunette hadn’t been his girlfriend.

      And it wouldn’t matter if she was, anyway! Good grief, what do you think this is? Some kind of pick-up? For some reason the man feels a sense of obligation that