Greek Mavericks: Winning The Enigmatic Greek. Tara Pammi

      It was the wrong thing to say. Why hadn’t she just come out with an emphatic no?

      ‘No worries. You’re about the same size and height as me,’ said Megan, looking her up and down. ‘You can borrow something from me. Say yes, Keeley. You’ve been working so hard that you deserve a little downtime. And it would be my pleasure to lend you something.’

      The two female guests were clearly on a mission to get her to change her mind and inwardly Keeley began to fume. She knew they were just trying to be kind, but she didn’t want their kindness. It made her feel patronised but, even worse, it made her feel vulnerable. They thought they were giving her a treat but in reality they were pushing her closer to Ariston and that was a place she didn’t want to be. But she could hardly give them the reason for her resistance, could she? She couldn’t really tell them she was worried she would end up in bed with her boss! And in the end, opposition was pointless because it was five against one and there was no way she could get out of it.

      You’re having dinner with them, that’s all, she reminded herself as she stood beneath the cool jets of the shower later that afternoon. All she had to do was put on a borrowed dress and try to be pleasant. She could leave whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.

      Which was how she found herself walking towards the starlit terrace that evening, wearing the only dress of Megan’s which fitted her and which was the last type of outfit she would normally have worn. It was too delicate. Too feminine. Too...revealing. In soft, blush pink, the low-cut bodice showcased her breasts and the silky fabric clung to her hips in precisely the way she didn’t want it to. And she wasn’t blind. Or stupid. She saw the way Ariston looked at her when she walked out onto the candlelit terrace. Saw the instinctive narrowing of his eyes, which set off an answering tightening in her breasts.

      Her throat was so dry that she knocked back half a glass of champagne too quickly and it went straight to her head. It soothed her frazzled nerves but it also had the unwanted side effect of softening her reaction to her Greek boss, because naturally she found herself seated next to him. She told herself she wasn’t going to be affected by him. That he was a callous manipulator who had no regard for her feelings. But somehow her thoughts weren’t making it to her body. Her body didn’t seem to be behaving itself at all.

      She could feel it in the heavy rush of blood to her breasts and in her restlessness whenever Ariston subjected her to that cool stare, which he seemed to do far more than was necessary. And if that weren’t bad enough, she was having difficulty adjusting to this unexpected social outing. She hadn’t been to a dinner party this fancy for a long time and she’d never really done so on her own terms before. She’d only ever been invited because of her mother, and this was different. She was no longer watching out of the corner of her eye in case her mum did something outrageous, anxiously wondering if she could get her home without making a fool of herself. This time people seemed to be interested in her and she didn’t want them to be. What could she say about herself—other than that she’d done a series of menial jobs, because they were the only ones she could get after a fractured education which had led to zero qualifications?

      She spent the evening blocking questions—something she’d learnt to do over the years—so that whenever she was asked something personal, she turned it around and moved the subject swiftly onto something else. She had become highly accomplished in the art of evasion but tonight it seemed to be having entirely the wrong effect. Was her elusiveness the reason why Santino began to monopolise her for the second part of the evening, while Rachel’s pinched face seemed to indicate she was regretting her impetuous decision to have her join them? Keeley felt like standing up and announcing that she wasn’t remotely interested in the Italian businessman—that there was only one man around the table who had her attention and she was having to fight very hard not to be mesmerised by him. Because tonight Ariston looked amazing—very traditional and heart-stoppingly masculine. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck revealing a silky triangle of olive skin, and his tapered dark trousers emphasised his long legs and the powerful shafts of his thighs.

      And all the while he was watching her, his blue gaze burning into her so intently that the breath caught in her throat and she was barely able to eat. Course after course of delicious food was placed in front of her, but Keeley could do little more than push it around her plate. Were the other guests amused by her lack of appetite—not realising the cause of it—especially as she seemed almost to be bursting out of Megan’s dress? Did they think she was one of those women who never ate in public but enjoyed secret binges with the biscuit packet whenever she was alone?

      ‘Enjoying yourself, Keeley?’ asked Ariston softly.

      ‘Very much,’ she said, not caring if he heard the lie in her voice. Because what else could she say? That she could feel ripples of awareness whispering over her skin whenever he looked at her? That she found his hard and rugged profile the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen and she wanted nothing more than to just sit and stare at it?

      She broke the mould of her Cinderella evening by excusing herself long before midnight. As soon as the clock struck eleven she stood up and politely thanked them for a lovely dinner. Somehow she maintained her high-headed posture as she walked away from the terrace but as soon as she was out of sight, she began to run. Along the path leading to the beach she ran, straight past her cottage and down to the shoreline, glad she was wearing her practical sandals underneath the long dress. And glad too that the waves were pounding against the sand so that the heavy sound drummed out the beating of her thudding heart. Picking up the hem of her dress, she stood back, careful not to let the seawater touch the delicate fabric as she stared out at the moon-dappled water.

      She remembered how she’d felt when the supermarket had sacked her just before she’d flown to Lasia, when she’d been swamped by the sense of having no real place in the world. She could feel it now—because she hadn’t really been part of that glamorous table, had she? She’d been the outsider who had been dressed up for the occasion in a stranger’s dress. Had Ariston known how alienated she’d felt—or was he too busy reeling her in with his potent sexuality to care? Didn’t he realise that what was probably just a game to him meant so much more to someone like her who didn’t have his tight circle of friends, or wealth, to fall back on?

      She felt stupid tears stinging her eyes and wondered if they had been caused by self-pity. Because if they were she was going to have to lose them—and quickly. Count your blessings, she told herself fiercely as she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Just be glad you’ve been strong enough to resist someone who could never be anything more than a one-night stand.

      But as she turned to walk back towards her cottage she saw a figure walking towards her—a man she recognised in a heartbeat, even from this distance. How could she fail to recognise him when his image was burned so powerfully onto her mind that she could picture him at the slightest provocation? His shadowy figure was powerful as he moved and the glint of moonlight in his eyes and the paleness of his silk shirt captured her imagination. She felt her skin prickle with instinctive excitement, which was quickly followed by a cold wash of dismay as he approached, because she’d tried to do the right thing. She’d done everything in her power to stay away from him. So why the hell was he here?

      ‘Ariston,’ she said steadily. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I was worried about you. You left dinner so abruptly and I watched as you took the path to your cottage.’ His eyes narrowed as they swept over her. ‘Only no light came on.’

      ‘You were spying on me?’

      ‘Not really. I’m your employer.’ His voice sounded deep above the soft lapping of the waves. ‘I was merely concerned for your welfare.’

      Her eyes met his. ‘Is that so?’

      There was a pause. ‘Yes. No,’ he negated and suddenly his voice had grown harsh. ‘Actually, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell it is. All I know is that I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.’

      Keeley saw the sudden change in him. The tension which stiffened his body, which she suspected mirrored the tension