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

of tension in the air between them like live electricity, then, totally unexpectedly, he began to laugh.

      ‘You are astute, thespinis.’ Propped on one elbow, he gave her a long and leisurely assessment, missing nothing, making her feel naked under his agate gaze. ‘But my grammar—my pronunciation—are not perfect. I am sure there is room for improvement—with the right help.’

      Cressy was burning from head to foot, and it had nothing to do with the sun.

      She said, ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to find another tutor, kyrie. I’m not in the market.’

      ‘Life has taught me that most things are for sale, kyria—if the price is right.’

      There was real danger here. Every instinct she possessed was screaming it at her.

      She said coolly and clearly, ‘But I am not. And now I think I’d better go.’

      ‘As you wish.’ The powerful shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘But understand this. I take only what is freely given. Nothing more. And, in any case, you are the stranger within my gates, and you have eaten my bread, so you have nothing to fear.’

      He lifted himself lithely to his feet. ‘Now I am going to swim. Naturally, I hope you will still be here when I return, but the choice is yours, kyria.’

      For a moment he stood looking down at her. He said softly, ‘So beautiful, and such a sharp tongue. And yet so afraid of life. What a pity.’

      The damned nerve of him, Cressy seethed, watching him lope down the sand. Translating her natural caution into cowardice.

      And, for all his assurances, it was quite obvious that he was just another good-looking Greek on the make. She’d seen it happening at the hotel. Watched them targeting the single women, the divorcees, the ones with hunger in their eyes.

      Cressy had avoided their attentions by being busy and absorbed.

      But I should have known I couldn’t escape for ever, she thought angrily.

      Except that she could. Draco was swimming strongly away from the beach. She could see the darkness of his head against the glitter of the sea.

      All she had to do was grab her things, put on her shoes, and she would be free.

      Free to go back to the village and wait for the evening ferry, at any rate, she reminded herself with an inward groan. Where Draco would know exactly where to find her…

      She was caught in a trap of her own making, it seemed. And to sneak away as if she was genuinely scared appeared oddly demeaning anyway.

      It would certainly be more dignified to stay where she was. To treat any overtures he might make with cool and dismissive courtesy. And then return to the village in time for a meal at the taverna and her homeward boat trip exactly as she’d planned.

      Maybe Draco needed to learn that, for all his good looks and sexual charisma, not all tourists were pushovers.

      And he’d virtually guaranteed that she was safe with him, that traditional Greek hospitality would remain paramount, and, in a strange way, she believed him.

      Unless, of course, she chose differently. And there was no chance of that.

      So she would stay—for a while. Because she was in control of the situation.

      But only because he’s allowing you to be, niggled the small, irritating voice.

      Ignoring it, Cressy reapplied her sun cream, put on her dark glasses and reached for the book she’d brought with her.

      When Draco came back he’d find her composed and occupied, and not prepared to be involved in any more verbal tangles.

      Distance was the thing, she told herself. And this beach was quite big enough for both of them.

      She did not hear his return up the beach—he moved with the noiseless, feline grace of a panther—but she sensed that he was there, just the same. She kept her shoulder slightly turned and her eyes fixed rigidly on the printed page, a silent indication that the story was too gripping to brook interruption.

      At the same time she’d expected her signals to be ignored. That he’d at least make some comment about her decision to remain. But as the soundless minutes passed Cressy realised she might be mistaken.

      She ventured a swift sideways look, and saw with unreasoning annoyance that Draco was lying face down on his towel, his eyes closed, apparently fast asleep.

      She bit her lip, and turned her page with a snap.

      But it was all to no avail, she realised five minutes later. She simply couldn’t concentrate. She was far too conscious of the man stretched out beside her.

      She closed her book and studied him instead. She wondered how old he was. At least thirty, she surmised. Probably slightly more. He wore no jewellery—no medallions, earrings or other gifts from grateful ladies. Just an inexpensive wristwatch, she noted. And no wedding ring either, although that probably meant nothing. If part of his livelihood involved charming foreign woman holidaymakers, he would hardly want to advertise the fact that he was married.

      And she could just imagine his poor wife, she thought with asperity, staring up at the sky. Dressed in the ubiquitous black, cooking, cleaning and working in the fields and olive groves while her husband pursued his other interests on the beaches and beside the swimming pools on Alakos—and nice work if you could get it.

      ‘So what have you decided about me?’

      Cressy, starting violently, turned her head and found Draco watching her, his mouth twisted in amusement and all signs of slumber fled.

      There was no point in pretending or prevaricating. She said flatly, ‘I don’t have enough evidence to make a judgement.’

      His brows lifted. ‘What can I tell you?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Cressy shrugged. ‘After all, it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again. Let’s be content to remain strangers.’

      ‘That is truly what you want?’ His tone was curious.

      ‘I’ve just said so.’

      ‘Then why did you stare at me as if you were trying to see into my heart?’

      ‘Is that what I was doing?’ Cressy made a business of applying more sun cream to her legs. ‘I—I didn’t realise.’

      He shook his head reprovingly. ‘Another foolish lie, matia mou.’

      Cressy replaced the cap on the sun cream as if she was wringing someone’s neck.

      ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you want to play silly games. What do you do for a living, kyrie?’

      He lifted a shoulder. ‘A little of this. A little of that.’

      I can imagine. Aloud, she said, ‘That’s hardly an answer. I suppose the caique moored in the next cove is yours, and I’ve seen you dance, so I’d guess you’re primarily a fisherman but you also do hotel work entertaining the guests. Am I right?’

      ‘I said you were astute, thespinis,’ he murmured. ‘You read me as you would a balance sheet.’

      ‘It really wasn’t that difficult.’

      ‘Truly?’ There was slight mockery in his tone. ‘Now, shall I tell you about you, I wonder?’

      ‘There’s very little to say,’ Cressy said swiftly. ‘You already know what my work is.’

      ‘Ah.’ The dark eyes held hers steadily for a moment. ‘But I was not thinking of work.’ He got to his feet, dusting sand from his legs. ‘However, you have reminded me, thespinis, that I cannot enjoy the sun and your company any longer. I have to prepare for this evening’s performance.’ He slung his towel over his shoulder and picked up his rucksack.

      He smiled down at her. ‘Kalispera, matia mou.’

      ‘You