Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess. Trish Morey

      ‘You were not around to consult, Harriet mou,’ he pointed out, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. ‘Besides, I was certain you would refuse.’

      ‘How right you were,’ she said stormily, and relapsed into another simmering silence. At the same time, she took her first proper look at him.

      Little wonder she hadn’t recognised him immediately, she thought in bewilderment. Because there wasn’t a scrap of torn denim or a paint stain in sight. The charcoal suit he was wearing might not be new, but it was unmistakably elegant. His white shirt was crisp, his tie was silk, and his shoes, amazingly, were polished. He even appeared—dear God—to be wearing socks.

      His hair was still too long, at least by Gregory Flint’s exacting standards, but it had been trimmed, and he was immaculately shaven. During those few unpleasant seconds when she’d been in his arms, she’d been aware of a faint, beguiling hint of expensive cologne.

      In fact she had to admit that he scrubbed up quite well, she thought reluctantly, then realised that he was watching her in turn, his smile widening as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking.

      Embarrassment prompted her into waspishness. ‘So where did you get the clothes—some upmarket charity shop?’

      ‘I thought you would be pleased,’ he said, ‘to find me correctly dressed for my part. As you are too, Harriet mou,’ he added dryly. ‘For once you have decided to abandon your usual camouflage and look like a woman.’

      She managed to turn her instinctive gasp into a deep breath. She said stonily, ‘May I remind you that we have a strictly business arrangement, and therefore sexist remarks are neither required nor appreciated?’

      His tone was silky. ‘But sometimes irresistible, nonetheless. And now shall we continue to explore the grounds? They are very beautiful.’

      ‘Is that what it’s all about—this unexpected visit?’ She swung to face him again. ‘To assess the estate, and see what extra pickings there might be? Because, if so, you’ll be disappointed, Mr Zandros. You get your exhibition and some money in your pocket, but nothing more. The pre-nuptial agreement I’ve had drawn up gives you no other claim.’

      He remained annoyingly unfazed. ‘I cannot wait to read this fascinating document,’ he said softly. ‘However, I came here solely out of curiosity, Harriet mou. I wished to see for myself what there could be about this place that would make you to risk so much for its possession.’ He gestured around him. ‘Can this really be all that constitutes happiness for you?’

      ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said defiantly. ‘Besides, it’s none of your business.’

      ‘I think you made it my business when you asked me to marry you.’

      ‘Well, we’re not likely to agree about that,’ Harriet said coldly. ‘As a matter of interest, just how long are you planning to stay?’

      ‘I leave in the morning. I have work to do for the exhibition.’ He paused. ‘Does that reassure you?’

      ‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘So, let me make something clear. This will be your first and last visit to this house. When you go tomorrow, you do not come back—on any pretext.’

      ‘I think that is a decision for your grandfather to make,’ Roan said with equal iciness. ‘You do not rule here yet, Harriet mou. Maybe you should remember that.’ He paused, his dark gaze sweeping over her with something like contempt in its depths. ‘And now I find I would prefer to continue my tour of this garden alone. Your company does nothing for the beauty of the landscape.’

      And he walked away, leaving her staring after him, open-mouthed, as she searched for a riposte that would reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, and failed dismally to find one.

      Harriet did not return to the house immediately. She told herself that she needed to regain some measure of composure before she faced her grandfather’s hawk gaze again, and responded to the inevitable inquisition.

      Yet it wasn’t Gregory Flint, or his possible reaction to recent events, which occupied the forefront of her mind as she made a long slow circuit of the lawns. And for once the gardens she knew and loved were not having their usual soothing effect.

      Because Roan Zandros was getting in the way. How dared he look at her—speak to her like that? she asked herself furiously, defensively, especially when he’d had the unmitigated gall to appear at Gracemead uninvited and unwanted—a blatant intruder in her private and beloved world.

      Well, she would have to teach him, and pretty damn quick, that his interference was unwarranted and unappreciated. Maybe a clause in the contract was needed, actually forbidding his return to Gracemead under any pretext.

      He had to learn his place in their arrangement, and cosy visits were not on the agenda. Not now, and definitely not in the future.

      She found her grandfather in the drawing room pouring sherry. He turned and looked at her, brows raised enquiringly. ‘You’re alone?’

      ‘Why, yes.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I turned out to be not much of a guide, so Roan’s conducting his own tour.’

      He handed her a glass of her favourite fino, and gestured her to take a seat on the sofa facing his armchair. ‘You and your fiancé haven’t quarrelled already, I hope.’

      ‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. Too swiftly?

      ‘Because it occurred to me that you were a little taken aback to find him here,’ Gregory Flint went on. ‘I hope it wasn’t the subject of a disagreement between you.’

      Harriet shrugged, trying for rueful amusement. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you, darling?’

      ‘I try not to, my dear.’

      ‘Well, to be honest, I was a little miffed when I realised he’d stolen my thunder.’ Harriet turned it into a faintly wistful confession. ‘And I so much wanted to be the one to break the news to you about our engagement.’

      ‘I’m quite sure you did.’ There was a dry note in his voice, which did not escape her.

      ‘Not that it really matters,’ she added hastily. ‘Just as long as you approve of my choice.’

      ‘Let’s say that I find him a most interesting young man,’ Mr Flint said after a pause. ‘He tells me you met through his work.’

      The exact nature of the encounter still had the power to make her grind her teeth, and her smile was taut. ‘We did indeed,’ she said. ‘And it made an unforgettable impression on me.’

      ‘So I gather.’ He leaned back in his armchair. ‘You feel, then, that he has real talent?’

      ‘Yes.’ At least she could be totally honest about that. ‘Yes, I do. He has this amazing use of colour—and emotion.’

      ‘And will that earn him sufficient money to support a wife—and a family?’

      Well, he’d slipped that in under the wire, Harriet thought, her heartbeat quickening. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be giving up my career.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But has it occurred to you that your future husband might have his own ideas?’

      Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’

      ‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.

      ‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’

      He