Bought For The Greek's Bed. Julia James

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      Bought For The Greek’s Bed

      Julia James

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      VICKY could hear her heels clacking on the marble floor of the vast atrium as she headed towards the reception desk, which was an island in the middle of an ocean of gleaming white and metallic grey. The whole interior screamed modernity—ironic, really, Vicky found herself thinking, as the man who ran this whole mega-corporate shebang was as antediluvian as a dinosaur. A big, vicious dinosaur that ripped your throat out with its talons, tore you limb from limb, and then went on its way, searching for other prey to dismember.

      Walking into this dinosaur’s cavern now made it all come rushing back. In her head she could again hear that deep, dangerously accented voice, carving into her with a cold, vicious fury that had stripped the flesh from her bones with savage economy. She could hear the words, too, ugly and foul, not caring how they slayed her, his fathomless eyes pools of loathing and—worse than loathing—contempt. Then, having verbally dismembered her, he had simply walked out of her life

      She had not seen him since. And yet today, this morning, right now, she was going to walk up to that reception desk she could see coming closer and closer, walk up to that svelte, immaculate female sitting there watching her approach, and ask to see him.

      She felt her throat spasm.

      I can’t do this! I can’t.

      Protest sliced in her head. But her nervous feet kept on walking, ringing on the marble. She had to do it. She’d tried everything else, and this was the only avenue left. Letters had been returned, all phone calls blocked, all e-mails deleted unread.

      Theo Theakis had absolutely no intention of letting her get close enough to ask him for what she wanted.

      Even as she replayed the thought in her mind, she felt a spurt of anger.

      I shouldn’t damn well have to go and ask him! It’s not his to hand out or withhold. It’s mine. Mine.

      To her grim chagrin, however, the law did not see it that way. What she wanted was not, as her lawyer had sympathetically but regretfully informed her, hers to have, let alone dispose of.

      ‘It requires Mr Theakis’s consent,’ her lawyer had repeated.

      Her face darkened now as she closed in on the reception desk.

      He’s going to give me his damn consent, or I’m going to—

      ‘May I help you?’

      The receptionist’s voice was light and impersonal. But her eyes had flicked over Vicky’s outfit, and Vicky got the instant feeling that she had been classified precisely according to the cost of it. Well, her clothes at least should pass muster in these palatial corporate surroundings. Her suit might be well over a year out of date fashion-wise, but its designer label status was obvious to anyone with an eye for couture. Not that she herself had such an eye, but the world she’d once moved in—albeit so briefly—had been ruthlessly observant in that respect. And now this rare remnant of that vast wardrobe she had once had at her indifferent disposal was finally coming in useful. It was getting her the attentive focus of someone who was standing in the way of what she wanted.

      ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, striving to keep her voice just as light and impersonal. It was hard, though, given the mixture of apprehension and anger that was biting away inside her. But, whatever the strength of her feelings about her situation, there wasn’t the slightest point showing them now.

      So she simply stood there, as poised as she could, knowing that the pale ice-blue dress and jacket she was wearing was perfectly cut, and that the thin silver necklace went with it flawlessly, as did her high-heeled shoes and handbag, which were both colour co-ordinated. Her hair, newly washed and styled—albeit by herself, not a top hairdresser—flicked neatly out at the ends, and was drawn off her forehead by a hairband the exact colour as the rest of her outfit. Her make-up was minimal and restrained, and the scent she was wearing was a classic fragrance she’d got as a free sample in a department store a while ago.

      She looked, she knew, expensive, classic, English and—oh, dear God, please—sufficiently appropriate to get past this hurdle.

      Right, time to do it—now.

      In a deliberately poised voice, she spoke.

      ‘I’d like to see Mr Theakis,’ she said. She made her tones slightly more cultured than she usually bothered to do. But this was England, and these things counted. She gave the name as though it were something she did every day, as a matter of course. As if, equally as a matter of course, her giving it were not in the slightest exceptional and would always meet with compliance.

      Was it going to happen now? She must not let any uncertainty show in her face.

      ‘Whom shall I say?’ the receptionist enquired. Vicky could tell that she was staying neutral at this point, but that she had conceded that it was indeed possible that this designer-dressed female might actually be someone allowed that level of access. Might even, unlikely though it was, given the restraint of her appearance, be a female granted the privilege of personal intimacy with Theo Theakis. But Vicky also knew, feeling another bite of her tightly leashed anger at having to be here at all, that she did not look nearly voluptuously delectable enough to be one of his legion of mistresses.

      Vicky gave a small, poised smile.

      ‘Mrs Theakis,’ she said.

      Theo Theakis sat back in his leather executive chair and felt his blood pressure spike. The phone he’d just picked up and discarded lay on the vast expanse of mahogany desk in front of him, as if it were contaminated.

      And so it was.

      She was here, downstairs, in this very building. His building. His London HQ. She had walked into his company, his territory, daring to do so! His eyes narrowed. Was she mad? Daring to come near him again after he’d thrown her from him like a diseased rag? She must be mad to be so stupid as to come within a hundred miles of him!

      Or just shameless?

      His face darkened. Shame was not a word she knew. Nor disgrace. Nor guilt.

      No, she neither knew or felt any of those things. She’d done what she had done and had flaunted it, even thrown it in his face, and had felt nothing—nothing at all about it. No hesitation, no compunction, no remorse.

      And now she had the effrontery to turn up and ask to see him. As though she had any right to do so. That woman had no rights to anything—let alone what he knew she was here for.

      And certainly no right—his eyes flashed with a dangerous, dark anger that went deep to the heart of him—no right at all, to call herself what she still did…

      His wife.

      Vicky sat on one of the dark grey leather sofas that were arranged neatly around a smoked glass table. In front of her, laid out with pristine precision, were the day’s leading newspapers in half a dozen languages. Including Greek. With a fragment of her brain that was still functioning normally she started