The Greek's Secret Son. Julia James

had such a lavish, luxurious shower.

      By the time she stepped out, her hair wrapped up in a fleecy towel, another huge bath sheet wrapped around her, she felt reborn. She still hadn’t really got her head around what was happening because it all just seemed like a fairytale—swept off by a prince who took her breath away.

      He’s just so gorgeous! So incredibly gorgeous! And he’s being so kind! He could just as easily have left me on the pavement with my broken suitcase. Driven away and not cared!

      But he hadn’t driven away—he’d brought her here, and how could she possibly have said no? In all her confined, unexciting life, dedicated to caring for her poor mother and for others, when had anything like this ever happened except in her daydreams?

      She lifted her chin, staring at her reflection, resolve in her eyes. Whatever was happening, she was going to seize this moment!

      She whirled about, yanking off the turban towel, letting her damp hair tumble down, then rapidly sorting through her clothes, desperate to find something—anything—that was more worthy of the occasion than her ancient jeans and baggy top. Of course she had nothing at all that was remotely suitable, but at least she had something that was an improvement. She might never hope to be able to look like a fairytale princess, but she’d do her damnedest!

      As she walked back into that pristine, palatial lounge her eyes went straight to the darkly sprawling figure relaxed on the white sofa. Dear Lord, but he was unutterably gorgeous!

      He’d shed his formal business jacket and loosened his tie, undone his top button and turned up his cuffs. And through her veins came that same devastating rush she’d felt before, weakening her limbs, making her dizzy with its impact.

      He rose to his feet. ‘There you are.’ He smiled. ‘Come and sit down and have your coffee.’

      He nodded to where he’d set out a plate of pastries, extracted from the freezer and microwaved by his own fair hand into tempting, fragrant warmth. Two had already been consumed, but there were plenty left.

      ‘Are you on a diet?’ he asked convivially. ‘Or can I tempt you?’

      Anatole watched with a sense of familiarity as the colour rushed into her face and then out again. Maybe he shouldn’t have used the word ‘tempt’. He had the damnedest feeling that it wasn’t the thought of the pastries that were making her colour up like that.

      Snap!

      Because if she was experiencing temptation, then he knew for sure that he was as well. And with good reason...

      She’d changed her clothes and, although they were still clearly cheap and high street, they were a definite improvement. She’d put on a skirt—a floaty cotton one, in Indian print—and topped it with a turquoise tee shirt that gave her a whole lot more figure than the baggy jumper she’d had on previously. On top of that, her freshly washed hair was loose now, still damp, but curling in a tousled mane around her shoulders. The redness had finally gone from her eyes, and her skin was clear and unblemished. Her lips rosy, tender...

      Still the ingénue, definitely...but no longer a sad waif.

      With an expression of intense self-consciousness on her face, she gingerly sat herself down on the sofa, slanting her slender legs. He saw her hands were shaking slightly as she took the coffee he’d poured with a low murmur of thanks.

      She drank it thirstily, hoping it would steady her wildly jangling nerves, and her eyes jumped again to Anatole to drink in the gorgeous reality of his presence. Her eyes met his and she realised he was watching her, a smile playing around his mouth. It was a smile that sent little quivers shimmering through her and made her breath shallow.

      ‘Have a pastry,’ he said, pushing the plate towards her.

      Their warm, yeasty cinnamon scent caught at her, reminding her that she’d not had a chance to eat all day. She took one, grabbing a thick, richly patterned paper napkin as she did so, terrified of dropping buttery flakes on the pristine upholstery or the carpet.

      Anatole watched her polish off the pastry, letting his eyes drift over the sweet perfection of her heart-shaped face, the cerulean eyes, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curls of her fair hair.

      She is breathtakingly lovely—and she is taking my breath away just looking at her...

      He glanced at his watch. It was coming up to seven, though the evenings were still light. They could drink champagne on his roof terrace. But first...best to order dinner.

      He reached for his laptop, brought up the website for the service he used when dining in, then tilted the screen towards her. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, ‘and see what you’d like for dinner. I’m going to order in.’

      Immediately—predictably—she shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please—not for me. I’m absolutely fine just eating these pastries.’

      ‘Yes, well, I’m not,’ he rejoined affably. ‘Come on—take a look. What sort of food do you like best? And do not,’ he added sternly, ‘say pizza! Or Indian. Or Chinese. I’m talking gourmet food here—take your pick.’

      Wide-eyed, Tia stared at the long page of menu options on the screen. She couldn’t understand most of them. She swallowed.

      ‘Will you let me choose for you?’ Anatole asked, realising her dilemma.

      She nodded gratefully.

      ‘Anything you’re allergic to?’ he asked.

      She shook her head, but all the same he chose relatively safe options—no shellfish, no nuts. A midnight dash to A&E was not the way he wanted this evening to end.

      And you’re not going to let it end the way you’re thinking right now either! his conscience admonished him sternly.

      Not even when he was leaning towards her, and she towards him, so they could both read the screen, and he could catch the fresh scent of her body. All he would have to do to touch her would be to lift his hand, let it slide through those softly drying curls, splay his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw that sweet, tender mouth to his...

      He straightened abruptly, busying himself with putting the order through, then closing his laptop. Time to fetch the champagne.

      He returned a few moments later, with a bottle at the perfect temperature from his thermostatically controlled wine store and two flutes dangling from his hand. He crossed to the picture window, sliding it open.

      ‘Come and see the view,’ he said invitingly.

      Tia got to her feet, following him out on to a roofline terrace with a stone balustrade along it. She was still in a daze. Was he really intending to have dinner with her? Drink champagne with her? Her heart was beating faster, she knew, just at the very thought of it.

      As she stepped out the warm evening air enveloped her. Sunshine was still catching the tops of the trees visible in the park beyond. Nor was that the only greenery visible—copious large stone pots adorned the terrace, lush with plants, creating a little oasis.

      ‘Oh, it’s so lovely!’ she exclaimed spontaneously, her face lighting up.

      Anatole smiled, feeling a kick go through him at her visible pleasure, at how it made her eyes shine, and set down the champagne and flutes on a little ironwork table flanked by two chairs.

      ‘A private green haven,’ he said. ‘Cities aren’t my favourite places, so when I’m forced to be in them—which is all too often, alas—I like to be as green as I can. It’s one of the reasons,’ he went on, ‘that I like penthouse apartments—they come with roof terraces.’

      He paused to open the champagne with a soft pop of the cork, then handed her one of the empty flutes.

      ‘Keep it slightly tilted,’ he instructed as he poured it half full, letting the liquid foam, but not too much. Then he filled his own glass and lifted it to her, looking down at her. She really was petite, he found himself thinking again. And for some reason