Marriage Of Convenience: The Andreou Marriage Arrangement / The Replacement Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN

in silent self-castigation. He wasn’t wasting any time.

      So make the call. The sooner she dealt with him, the better.

      He picked up on the third ring. ‘Andreou.’

      ‘Alesha,’ she informed him matter-of-factly.

      ‘Have you eaten?’

      ‘I’m about to.’ It would take only minutes to assemble a salad and enjoy her solitary meal. ‘Why?’

      ‘I’ll collect you in ten minutes.’

      Who does he think he is? Don’t go there.

      ‘If you’re issuing an invitation,’ she managed silkily, ‘it’s polite to request, not demand.’

      ‘I’ll make a note of it.’

      Was there a smidgen of mild amusement apparent in his response?

      ‘Ten minutes.’ He cut the connection, and left her silently fuming and on the verge of calling back to insist she meet him at a nominated venue.

      Except it would seem petty, and not the action of a woman in control. Or one determined to treat this meeting with prosaic common sense.

      There was the need to change. Comfortable well-worn jeans, a casual top, her dark hair caught in a careless knot and anchored there with a large clip, bare feet, and no make-up didn’t comprise fitting attire in which to dine out.

      There was a part of her that felt inclined to slip her feet into trainers, collect her car keys, wallet, and leave.

      Except her absence wouldn’t achieve a thing.

      So, get over it, she admonished silently as she changed into tailored trousers and a buttoned blouse. She added a dash of colour to her lips, fixed her hair, then selected a fashionable jacket and slid her feet into killer heels.

      Her intercom buzzed as she collected a clutch purse, and she picked up, clarified Loukas Andreou’s image on the security monitor, then uttered a brisk—‘I’m on my way down.’

      His height and breadth of shoulder seemed vaguely intimidating, his hard, strong-boned facial features arresting in the early evening light. Black tailored trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and a black butter-soft leather jacket lent a casual sophisticated look…one she knew to be deceiving, given the power he wielded in the business arena.

      ‘Loukas.’ Her greeting was polite, almost formal as dark eyes seared her own, and for a moment she experienced the strangest feeling that time stood still. Then it was gone.

      ‘Shall we get this over and done with?’

      Was that a faint edge of humour apparent, or simply a trick of the light? She couldn’t be sure in the brief instant before he stood to one side and indicated the black Aston Martin parked in the forecourt.

      She walked at his side to the car, aware of his close proximity as he opened the passenger door and saw her seated before crossing to slip in behind the wheel.

      There was an unwanted sense of nervousness she strove hard to hide as he fired the engine and eased the powerful car onto the road.

      A shared meal, during which she’d state her perspective, negotiate…and hopefully resolve the terms of Dimitri’s will to their mutual satisfaction.

      In a short space of time Loukas drew the Aston Martin to a halt at the entrance to the Ritz-Carlton hotel and organized valet parking.

      Pleasant choice, Alesha approved, having dined in the restaurant on a few occasions.

      Except once inside the foyer Loukas indicated the lift.

      ‘My suite will afford us some privacy.’

      Her nerve-ends coiled in painful protest at the thought of being alone with him. ‘I’d prefer the restaurant.’

      ‘And risk public scrutiny?’ he elaborated quietly. ‘Possibly be overheard or photographed discussing a private matter?’

      The fact that he was right didn’t help much. Speculation would run rife soon enough when Loukas Andreou’s continued presence in Sydney was noted. Especially when his extensive shareholding in Karsouli became known.

      There was little she could do but acquiesce, albeit with some reluctance, duly observed, she noted as she bore Loukas’ slightly hooded gaze as they rode the lift to his designated floor.

      You can do this, a silent voice bade as she watched Loukas swipe a card and usher her into his suite. Loukas had her late father’s trust. Otherwise Dimitri would never have structured his will the way he had.

       Would he?

      Dear God, how would she know…for sure?

      With both parents gone, she had become very selective in whom she chose to confide in. Not even Lacey, a dear friend from childhood, knew everything about her first marriage. Some details were too personal…too hurtful to divulge.

      ‘Relax,’ Loukas drawled. ‘I’m not about to hit on you.’

      Alesha directed him a level look. ‘I would deal with it if you did.’ Hadn’t she trained hard to effectively do so?

      He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it onto the large king-size bed, then he undid the cuffs on his shirt and turned them back twice, revealing muscular forearms sprinkled with dark hair.

      ‘Can I take your jacket?’

      ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

      ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ He indicated a comfortable chair. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

      ‘Can we pass on the social niceties and go straight to the matter at hand?’

      He regarded her carefully for several long seconds, and she glimpsed a muscle tighten at the edge of his jaw.

      ‘By all means,’ he concurred with deliberate indolence. ‘Then we’ll eat.’

      Alesha was so tempted to vent. Anger had built to a point where throwing a hissy fit would at least relieve some of her angst. Yet, conversely, it was probably exactly what he expected of her.

      ‘The terms of my father’s will are unconscionable.’

      He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘Apropos the marriage clause?’

      ‘You agree with it?’ Her eyes widened measurably. ‘What manner of man are you?’

      ‘One who prefers to embark on marriage with an honest foundation at its base.’

      The look she gave him should have shrivelled him on the spot. Except it had no effect whatsoever.

      ‘Oh…please. Let’s not forget the primary focus.’

      ‘Karsouli?’

      Alesha allowed herself a faintly bitter smile. ‘Dimitri’s trump card.’

      Loukas offered a thoughtful look. ‘Perhaps.’

      She stilled, suddenly alert. ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘Dimitri made a few errors in financial judgement in recent months.’

      Her shock was real and barely masked. ‘I don’t believe you.’

      ‘The global economic climate worked against him, so too did his failing health.’

      Failing health? ‘He was killed in a car accident.’

      Loukas’ gaze didn’t waver. ‘Your father risked heart failure unless he agreed to undergo heart transplant surgery. He refused, and bartered a deal with me to safeguard Karsouli.’ He waited a beat. ‘And you.’

      No. The word echoed as a silent scream, and the blood chilled in her veins.

      Oh, dear God.

      ‘Karsouli