Her Greek Groom: The Tycoon's Mistress / Smokescreen Marriage / His Forbidden Bride. Sara Craven

body aching for him—longing for him. She felt bereft—like a child crying unheard for comfort.

      Perhaps he’d decided to cut his losses and shut her out of his life altogether. That was the thought that tortured her every waking moment.

      She told herself that she was concerned for her father. Because if Draco had really decided to finish their relationship, it did not follow that he would write off her father’s debts.

      But in her heart she knew it would never be as simple as that. That she was using her father’s problems as a barrier—as self-protection against a hurt that might tear her in pieces. Against feelings she dared not examine too closely in case they destroyed her.

      ‘Cressy, dear.’ Her aunt’s voice reached her from some far distance. ‘I think it’s time we went, and let James rest.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ She rose, reaching for her bag, aware that Lady Kenny was watching her with a faint frown.

      ‘Coffee, I think,’ Sir Robert said when they were in the corridor.

      In the hospital cafeteria, he joined the queue at the counter while Cressy and Barbara Kenny found a corner table.

      ‘It doesn’t get any better, does it?’ Lady Kenny said abruptly. ‘Poor James is like a dog with a bone. He won’t let go.’

      Cressy shook her head. ‘And he gets so agitated when he talks about her. I know it’s not good for him. What he’ll be like when he gets home…’

      ‘I wonder if that’s such a good thing.’ Her aunt played with her wedding ring. ‘Whether he wouldn’t be better living somewhere with no memories. But he’ll have the nurse to keep an eye on him, and dear Berry, so we must hope for the best.’ She gave Cressy a searching glance. ‘Now tell me about this new job of yours.’

      ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Cressy hedged. ‘I’m not even sure it’s happening.’

      ‘I gather it’s connected with the Standard Trust Bank,’ Lady Kenny went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And that the head of the bank—some Greek tycoon—has made himself personally responsible for your father’s debts. Isn’t that a little unusual?’

      Cressy shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I haven’t really thought about it.’

      ‘Even when he insisted on conducting the negotiations with you personally?’ Her aunt’s tone was acerbic. ‘And when you’d only just come back from Greece?’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Cressy, I’m not a fool. Are you involved with this man?’

      Cressy bit her lip. ‘Not in the way that you think, Aunt Bar.’

      Which was no more than the truth, she thought unhappily. No one would believe the complexities of her relationship with Draco.

      ‘I have a short-term contract,’ she continued, ‘which necessitates my working abroad. After what he’s done for Dad, I could hardly refuse. And I can look after myself,’ she added, infusing her tone with brightness.

      Lady Kenny snorted. ‘Oh, really? Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re all eyes and cheekbones.’ She leaned forward. ‘Darling, men like Draco Viannis are not philanthropists. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Your uncle and I are both worried sick. And if your father would come down to earth for a few minutes, I know he’d put a stop to it.’

      ‘It’s for three months,’ Cressy said quietly. ‘If I go at all.’ She swallowed. ‘Mr Viannis may be having second thoughts.’

      ‘I can’t vouch for this coffee.’ Sir Robert deposited a tray on the table and sat down, fixing his niece with a penetrating look. ‘Now then, Cressy, I want a word about this Viannis chap. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

      They were both so kind, Cressy thought as she drove home later, and so anxious about her. And she knew she’d done nothing to set their minds at rest.

      But what could she say—what reassurance could she possibly give? Especially when she herself felt as if she was operating in some kind of vacuum.

      There was a strange car, large, powerful and glossy, parked in front of the house, and Berry was waiting to open the door for her.

      ‘You’ve a visitor, Miss Cressy. I’ve shown him into the drawing room.’

      Cressy’s heart thudded, and her throat tightened painfully as she walked towards the drawing room. Ever since her last encounter with Draco she hadn’t been inside the room, unsure if she could handle the memories it would evoke. In fact, she’d made a point of using her father’s study instead.

      Now she had to face him there. Brave whatever he had to tell her.

      Swallowing, she twisted the handle and went in.

      The anticlimax when she found herself confronted by a stranger was almost ludicrous.

      Except that she did know him, she realised after a stunned moment. It was Paul Nixon, who worked as Draco’s PA. She’d seen him briefly in London.

      She felt sick. Draco wasn’t even going to break their agreement in person.

      ‘Miss Fielding. I’m sorry I didn’t make an appointment, but Mr Viannis called from New York last night to say he’ll be returning to Myros next week and wishes you to meet him there. And that doesn’t leave much time.’

      She felt as if she’d been reprieved from a death sentence, and was ashamed of the relief and joy that flooded through her.

      She said quietly, ‘I understand. Won’t you sit down? Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

      ‘Your housekeeper already did that, ma’am.’ He delved into a briefcase. ‘I have a file here, with your itinerary. You’ll fly first class to Athens, and transfer to Myros by helicopter. Also details of the personal allowance that you’ll receive while you remain Mr Viannis’s—companion, and the final settlement he is prepared to make.’

      Caught on the raw, Cressy took the folder he handed her.

      ‘What a lot of paperwork,’ she said coolly, hiding her hurt. ‘All to get a man into bed with a woman.’

      Paul Nixon’s solemn face reddened uncomfortably and he gave Cressy an austere look. ‘The details of Mr Viannis’s private life are no business of mine, Miss Fielding. I’m just here to do a job.’

      ‘You do it well,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice.’

      He looked more po-faced than ever. ‘You’ll also be requested to sign a contract of confidentiality,’ he went on. ‘Guaranteeing that no details of your time with Mr Viannis will ever be made public.’

      ‘In case I write a kiss-and-tell story for the tabloids?’ Cressy asked with disbelief. ‘My God, I’m the last person in the world who’d want to go public.’

      ‘I’m sure that’s how you feel now, ma’am. But things can change, and Mr Viannis would not wish any future marriage he might contract to be compromised by unwelcome revelations.’

      She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach, but she recovered and managed a taut smile. ‘In other words, hell hath no fury, Mr Nixon. Tell your boss I’ll sign his guarantee.’

      She took the pen he handed her, and wrote her name where indicated.

      Then she showed him to the door, wished him a pleasant drive back to London, and returned to the drawing room.

      The folder was lying on the coffee table. The next three months of her life all spelled out for her in clauses, sub-clauses and settlements.

      She picked it up, weighed it speculatively for a moment, then, with a small choking cry, threw it across the room as hard as she could. It hit the wall and fell, disgorging its contents on to the carpet.

      And then she burst into tears.

      Cressy