What the Greek Can't Resist. Майя Блейк

until today, and I only came because you insisted you couldn’t make it. What are you doing here, anyway?’

      ‘It was my fault. I insisted.’ Brianna, his beautiful soon-to-be sister-in-law spoke up. ‘I thought, as Lowell’s former employer, Sakis should be here. We tried to call you to let you know but your phone was off and the staff at Macdonald Hall said you’d checked out yesterday.’

      His jaw clenched harder at the reminder.

      He’d been running a fool’s errand, desperately trying to track down the woman who’d run out on him in the middle of the night. A day and a half, he’d driven up and down the damned countryside, searching for the Mini whose red paint was a poor match for the vibrant hair colour of the woman who’d made him lose his mind and forget his pain for a few blissful hours.

      Theos! How could he not have seen that it was all an illusion? They said sex made fools of men. They’d said nothing about the deadly blade of memory and the consequences of a desperate search for oblivion.

      Bringing his mind into focus, he lowered his gaze away from his brother’s blatant curiosity.

      ‘We’ve paid our respects, now can we get the hell out of here?’ he rasped.

      Sakis nodded at a few guests before he answered him. ‘Why, what’s the hurry?’

      ‘I have a seven o’clock meeting first thing in the morning, then I fly out to Miami.’

      Sakis frowned. ‘It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon, Ari.’

      His body didn’t know that because he’d been up all day and all night, searching...chasing a dream that didn’t exist.

      He was losing it. He needed to get out of there before he marched back into that tiny chapel and roared his fury at that red-headed witch inside.

      ‘I know what time it is. If you want to stay, feel free. I’ll send the chopper back to Macdonald Hall for you two.’ He couldn’t get out of here fast enough, although every single bone in his body wanted to confront the duplicitous widow and give her a hefty piece of his mind.

      With a nod at his brother and Brianna, he cut his way through the gawping crowd, uncaring that his face was set in a formidable scowl.

      From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red hair heading his way. Although anger rose up within him, it took a monumental effort not to turn his head and see if it was Perla.

      Clenching his fist, he stalked faster towards his limo, the need to be gone a fierce, urgent demand.

      ‘Arion, wait!’ Her husky voice was almost lost in the cacophony of the funeral spectacle. And it was a spectacle. Morgan Lowell’s starring role in his own death via a drug overdose had ensured the media would make a meal of his funeral, even with the scant facts they knew.

      Ari froze with one hand on the car door. Slowly, he sucked in a deep breath and turned to face her.

      The widow in black. How very apt.

      The widow whose bright, fiery red hair shone in the daylight with an unholy, tempting light, the same way it had gleamed temptingly across his pillow three nights ago.

      Against his will, his body stirred. Blood pounded through his veins, momentarily deafening him with the roar of arousal. Before he could stop himself, his gaze raked over her.

      Although her dress was funeral black, demure, almost plain to the point of drab, he wasn’t fooled. He knew what lay beneath, the hot curves and the treacherous thighs, the delight he would uncover should he...

      No. Never in a thousand years would he bring himself to touch her. They’d come together in a moment he’d thought was sacred, monumentally divine. Instead, it’d turned out to be a tawdry roll in the hay for her.

      ‘Hello...Arion. I’m guessing your surname is Pantelides.’ Green eyes searched his with wariness.

      ‘And I now know your full name is Perla Lowell. So tell me, what role are you playing here now? Because we both know the grieving widow routine is just a front, don’t we? Perhaps you’re silently amused because you have saucy underwear underneath that staid black?’

      She gasped, an expression that looked shockingly like deep hurt flashing across her face.

      Theos, how utterly convincing she was. But not convincing enough to make him forget he’d nearly lost his mind hanging on for dear life as she rode him with merciless enthusiasm a little over forty-eight hours ago.

      ‘How dare you?’ She finally found her voice, even though it shook with her words.

      ‘Very easily. I was the guy you were screwing when you should’ve been home mourning your husband. Now what the hell do you want?’

      Her complexion had paled but then her skin was translucent thanks to her colouring. And yes, his words had been cruel, deliberately so. But she’d sullied his own memory of what the date had meant to him for ever.

      And that he found hard to forgive.

      ‘I was going to apologise for the...um...small deception. And to thank you for your discretion. But I see I needn’t have bothered. You’re nothing but a vile, bitter man, one who sees nothing wrong in bringing further pain and anguish on an already difficult day. So if you were truly on your way out of here, I guess the only thing I have to say is good riddance.’

      Ari hardened his heart against the words. She was in the wrong here, not him. She was clearly deluded if she thought he had something to be ashamed of. Turning, he yanked the back door open.

      Before he slid in, he glanced at her one last time. ‘Have fun revelling in your role of grieving widow. But when the crowd is gone and you think of reprising your other role, be sure to stay away from Macdonald Hall. Before the hour’s out, I intend to supply the management with your name and ensure you’re never allowed to set foot in there again.’

      * * *

      Fugue state.

      Perla was sure that perfectly described her condition as she drifted through the wake, shaking hands, accepting condolences and agreeing that yes, Morgan had been a lovely man and a generous husband. On occasion, she even smiled at a distant uncle or great-aunt’s fond anecdote.

      The part of her that had reeled at Ari Pantelides’s scathing condemnation an hour ago had long been suppressed under a blanket of fierce denial with Do Not Disturb signs hammered all over it.

      At the time, she’d barely been able to contain the belief that he thought her some kind of scarlet woman or a trollop who frequented bars in the hope of landing a hot body for the night.

      She audibly choked at the thought.

      Mrs Clinton, who’d faithfully stuck by her side once they’d returned to the house she’d shared with Morgan and now shared with his parents, gave her a firm rub on the back. ‘You’re almost there, dear girl. Give it another half hour and I’ll start dropping heavy hints that you should be left alone. Enough is enough.’

      She glanced at the old dear’s face. Perla had never confided the true state of her marriage with Mrs Clinton, or anyone for that matter. The very thought of it made humiliation rise like a tide inside her.

      But she’d long suspected that the older woman somehow knew. Seeing the sympathy in her old rheumy eyes, Perla felt tears well up in hers.

      Suddenly, as if the bough had broken, she couldn’t stop the tide of hot, gulping tears that rose from deep inside.

      ‘Oh, my dear.’ Warm arms hugged her, providing the solace she’d been so cruelly denied throughout her marriage. The solace she’d imagined she’d found in a luxury penthouse suite three days ago, but had turned out to be another cruel illusion.

      ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...I didn’t mean to...’

      ‘Nonsense! You have every right to do whatever you want on a day like this. Propriety be damned.’

      Hysterical