Bought By The Greek Tycoon. JACQUELINE BAIRD

      CHAPTER THREE

      JEMMA parked her small estate car in a resident’s parking space outside her own front door and, picking up her purse and a carrier bag full of garden vegetables from the passenger seat, got out of the car. Straightening up, she stretched her shoulders, her eyes sweeping over the small strip of front garden, which was a mass of colour in the June sun, and sighed contentedly. It had been a long drive to Eastbourne and back, but worth the travel.

      She had had a great day; she had helped Sid, her father-in-law, in the garden, and enjoyed a wonderful lunch prepared by his wife Mavis. Then all three of them had taken a walk on the beach, and finally visited Alan’s grave. Afterwards they had returned to the house and had tea.

      Jemma, her stomach full and her spirit restored by the kindness of Alan’s parents, had rationalised on the journey back to London the guilty memories that had kept her awake for hours the night before. Then she’d firmly pushed them back into the darkest corner of her mind, where they belonged.

      Luke Devetzi had been a horrendous mistake, brought about by depression and too much wine, and for someone like herself, who had no head for alcohol and rarely drank more than the occasional glass of wine, it wasn’t surprising she had acted so out of character—to the point of practically hallucinating.

      Totally oblivious to the sleek black car parked twenty yards up the street, Jemma searched in her purse for her door key, happy to be back to the house in Bayswater that she and Alan had bought when they married. She unlocked the door and walked into the hall. Placing the carrier bag on the floor, she turned to close the door behind her and let out a strangled yelp.

      ‘May I come in?’ Before she could catch her breath and respond, Luke Devetzi was in her hallway with the door closed behind him. ‘You and I need to talk, Jemma.’ One dark brow lifted wickedly. ‘Or perhaps I should call you Mimie?’

      Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, stunned by his totally unexpected appearance in her home. Then shock and a fast rising temper made her blush furiously. ‘I don’t want you to call me anything; just get the hell out of my house,’ she snapped angrily.

      ‘Such temper! You do surprise me—after all, what could be more natural when two old friends meet up again unexpectedly than to have a nice chat, as you English say?’ he drawled with cynical amusement.

      With a terrific effort of self-control, Jemma forced herself to think clearly. She wished she had never met Luke Devetzi, and she certainly didn’t want to talk to him. All she really wanted to do was throw him out. But one look at the grim determination on his attractive face and common sense told her he was far too big and strong, there was no chance of throwing him anywhere…

      He was casually dressed in a tan leather jacket, that fell smoothly from broad, powerful shoulders, and a white sports shirt, open at the neck, contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and the beginning of dark curling chest hair. The jacket was open, and a hide belt supported pleated trousers that hugged lean hips, powerful thighs and long legs. But there was nothing casual about his stance—with his legs slightly splayed, looming over her, he was awesomely male and decidedly threatening.

      Refusing to be intimidated in her own home, Jemma stiffened her spine. Tilting her head back, her amber eyes clashed with steel-grey, and she wondered how she had ever thought that Luke’s eyes were the same blue as her beloved Alan’s had been. She shivered slightly and squashed the unsettling memory. Keep cool, keep calm, she told herself. This was her stepsister’s boyfriend and he was nothing to do with her.

      ‘I don’t know how you found out where I live, and I don’t appreciate you bursting into my home. I have nothing to say to you, and I would like you to leave.’

      ‘Jan told me—in fact she was quite informative—and I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jemma, but I have no intention of leaving until you have answered a few questions,’ Luke said smoothly.

      Her flash of temper had revealed that she was not as immune to him as she would have him believe. His eyes narrowed speculatively on her beautiful face and then roamed lower over her luscious body. Her shining mass of hair had been caught by a yellow ribbon at the nape of her elegant neck to fall in a long silken banner down her back. She was wearing a buttercup coloured cropped top that clung lovingly to her high breasts, and she was obviously braless, the sweet nipples that tormented his night dreams more often than he cared to admit clearly outlined by the fine cotton. A tempting strip of smooth flesh was revealed as the top barely met the white trousers that clung to her slim hips and legs. On her feet she wore flat sandals, with her cute pink toes on display again. He was definitely a breast and leg man—so when had he developed a foot fetish? Luke wondered wryly as his whole body tensed in an effort to control his over-active libido.

      He looked up and saw the flicker of something very like fear in the golden eyes that met his. Jemma Barnes had good reason to be afraid; she had lied to him about her name, and lied to him about her marriage. He had taken Jan to lunch a few hours ago, to tactfully let her know that he thought of her only as an old friend. She had taken it remarkably well, especially when he’d offered to invest in her agency, and during the conversation that followed, with some subtle questioning, he had discovered from her that Jemma’s passion was plants and that for the past two years she had apparently lived the life of a nun. So either Jemma was a great liar, or a great actress, or both.

      Trust Jan to open her big mouth, Jemma thought, the silence lengthening as they stared at each other, the tension stretching between them an almost tangible thing. It was Jemma who looked away first.

      ‘In that case,’ she said, as she bent down and picked up the bag of vegetables to avoid his too intent gaze. ‘You’d better follow me into the kitchen. You can tell me what you have to say while I put these away.’ And she walked along the hall, past the stairs, to the back of the house and the kitchen.

      She didn’t want Luke in her living room—she didn’t want him in her house—but the kitchen was suitably impersonal, she figured. Skirting the centrally placed breakfast table, she placed the bag on the bench beneath the window.

      The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she sensed Luke’s presence behind her. Perhaps the small kitchen had not been such a good idea, she thought as she withdrew the vegetables from the carrier bag. The fridge was on the opposite wall, and reluctantly she turned around, a lettuce in her hand, and came face to face with Luke again.

      ‘Excuse me—I need the fridge,’ she said politely.

      ‘You and me both,’ Luke said with dry self-mockery, gleaming grey eyes inviting her to share his humour.

      But Jemma was not impressed by the double entendre. He was only inches away, and she felt at a distinct disadvantage with his great body towering over her. Instinctively she took a step back, and came to a halt against the bench. With nowhere to go, she ignored his innuendo and glanced up at him. ‘Then let me pass and I’ll get you a cold drink,’ she said coolly, with a sarcastic tilt of one delicate brow.

      He was too close, his glittering silver gaze too knowing, and suddenly the evocative scent of his cologne reminded her of another time, another place—the close confines of a yacht’s cabin. She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. No—she wasn’t going there…

      ‘I don’t want a cold drink, Jemma,’ Luke refused, determined to be reasonable even though his baser instincts were telling him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. ‘What I want is to discuss the possibility of breaking the trust on the house you own in Zante so my grandfather can buy it. Plus, I want an explanation as to why you told me you were married when we met on the island a year ago.’ He paused, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. ‘And I want you, of course…but not necessarily in that order.’ He smiled and took the lettuce from her suddenly nerveless fingers and placed it on the bench behind her, then rested his hands on the bench at either side of her shapely body, effectively trapping her.

      Keep calm, keep cool. Jemma silently repeated her mantra, but without much success as fear fuelled her temper and she responded angrily. ‘Not in any order. There’s no question of breaking my aunt’s