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

would be tempting, she thought with detachment, to allow Draco to arrive and find her burned to a crisp, and consequently unavailable, but she could not risk the damage to her skin.

      The sky above Myros was cloudlessly blue, the sun relentlessly hot, and the swimming pool beside her deliciously cool. If only she could relax and enjoy it…

      But that was impossible.

      She found herself stealing another glance at her watch, and swore under her breath. He would be here only too soon. She didn’t have to mark the passage of every minute until then.

      She’d arrived the previous day, leaving rain and a chill, unseasonal breeze in England.

      Her father, immersed in the letters he was writing to various companies offering his services as a consultant, had wished her an almost casual goodbye.

      At one time she would have been wounded by his self-absorption. Now she had her own immediate problems to deal with.

      The resident nurse, a Miss Clayton, was a kind, sensible woman, and Cressy had liked her at once. But it was clear she had a struggle on her hands to induce James Fielding to rest.

      ‘It’s not just a question of medication,’ she’d told Cressy as they shook hands. ‘He needs to relax more.’

      Don’t we all? thought Cressy, with irony, reaching for the iced lemonade on the table beside her. She might be in the equivalent of Eden, but she was like a cat on hot bricks just the same.

      However disapproving Mr Nixon might be, there had been nothing wrong with his travel arrangements. It had been VIP treatment all the way.

      The villa was just as beautiful as she’d imagined, with large airy rooms and exquisitely tiled floors, and a magical view of the sea from every window. And although it was luxurious, it wasn’t stridently so. The furniture tended to be on the heavy, old-fashioned side, suggesting it had been passed down over several generations, and Cressy found it charming.

      And the service was faultless, she thought. Courteous and unobtrusive.

      If Vassilis, Draco’s elderly major-domo, had reservations about his employer’s choice of guest, he gave no sign of it.

      She knew now what building work Draco had found it necessary to supervise, because she was living in it.

      It was a guest bungalow, completely separate from the villa itself, with its own garden and pool, tucked away in a corner of the grounds.

      It had a large living room, where her meals were served, a bathroom, with a big sunken tub as well as a conventional shower, and a huge bedroom, with walls painted in pale gold and a king-size bed with an ivory cover, draped in matching filmy curtains.

      The perfect love nest, she’d thought, lips twisting, as Vassilis had shown her round it. All that was lacking was the perfect love.

      But at least she was the first one to stay there. She hadn’t had to spend her first sleepless night speculating on the women who’d occupied this bed before her. Her successor could worry about that.

      Pain knifed at her, but she couldn’t let that matter. She had to keep reminding herself of the tenuous nature of her position. Accustom herself to the idea that she had no permanent role in Draco’s life.

      And perhaps by the time it ended she would have learned to live with the pain.

      In the distance, she heard the sound of a helicopter. She scrambled off the cushioned lounger and stood, staring upwards, her hand shading her eyes, her heart thumping against her ribcage.

      It came in low enough for her to be aware of a figure—a face looking down at her—then descended towards the pad on the far side of the main house.

      She took a deep, steadying breath, and thought, He’s here.

      And now, as Vassilis had tactfully indicated, she must wait to be summoned.

      Fright and excitement warred inside her for control. After a moment, she resumed her place on the lounger. She didn’t want to be found standing beside the pool as if she was planning to drown herself.

      She picked up the magazine she’d been glancing through and tried to concentrate on it as the minutes dragged by.

      It was over an hour later when Vassilis’s upright figure appeared in the gap in the high flowering hedge that divided the bungalow from the rest of the grounds.

      He said in his careful English, ‘Mr Viannis presents his compliments to you, madam, and asks if you will dine with him this evening. He suggests ten o’clock.’

      Six hours to go, Cressy thought. Draco was playing it cool. Whereas she might well become a nervous wreck.

      Aloud, she said sedately, ‘Please thank Mr Viannis, and tell him I’d be delighted.’ She paused. ‘Am I to join him at the main house?’

      ‘Yes, madam. I shall conduct you there.’ He made her a small half-bow, and turned away.

      Well, what had she expected? she asked herself with self-derision as she went back to her magazine. That Draco was going to rush to her side and smother her with kisses?

      She was being taught her place, she thought, in one unequivocal lesson.

      But, she told herself forlornly, she would have preferred the kisses.

      She spent a lot of time that evening deciding what to wear. In the end she chose a cream silk shift, with boot-lace straps and a deeply slashed neckline that skimmed the inner curves of her breasts. The minimum of underwear and a pair of cream strappy sandals with high heels completed the outfit.

      Dressing the part, she thought, as she brushed her hair to fall in a silky curtain on her shoulders. But wasn’t that what he was paying for?

      She noticed that Vassilis kept his eyes discreetly lowered when he came to collect her.

      It was a warm, sultry night, and the cicadas were busy as she walked through the garden. There were lights on inside the villa, and on the terrace which surrounded it.

      One massive pair of sliding glass doors stood open, leading, she knew, to the saloni, and Vassilis paused outside, indicating politely that she should precede him into the lamplit room.

      Lifting her chin, she obeyed, aware of him closing the doors behind her. Shutting her in.

      He was standing at a side table, pouring himself a drink. He was wearing jeans, and a dark polo shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the shadowing of hair on his chest, and for a brief moment her heart lifted as she saw the lover she’d first met.

      Then he turned and studied her, the firm mouth unsmiling, and she knew she was mistaken.

      He said softly, ‘So, here you are.’

      ‘As you see,’ she said, masking her real emotions with flippancy. ‘Stripped, bathed, and brought to your tent.’

      His tone was flat. ‘You are not amusing.’ He pointed to the cloudy liquid in his glass. ‘I am drinking ouzo. May I get you some?’

      ‘I’d prefer plain water.’

      He gave her a cynical look. ‘How abstemious of you, agapi mou,’ he drawled. ‘You don’t feel that alcohol might dull the edge of your coming ordeal?’

      ‘Is that how you regard it?’

      Draco shrugged. ‘I want you very badly.’ The dark eyes met hers in a frankly sensual challenge. ‘And I am not in the mood to make allowances.’

      Her throat tightened. She was aware that her skin was tingling, her entire body stirring with irresistible excitement under its thin silken covering.

      Faint colour rose in her face, but she didn’t look away.

      She said, ‘I’ll take the risk.’

      He lifted a sceptical brow, then turned back to the table, dropping ice cubes into a tumbler and filling it with water.

      When