The Greek's Secret Son. Julia James

voice. ‘It reminded me of when my mother died—’

      She broke off again, and Anatole could hear the half-sob in her voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because it seemed the only thing to say. ‘Was your mother’s death recent?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, it was nearly two years ago, but it brought it all back. She had MS—all the time I was growing up, really—and after my father was killed I looked after her. That’s why I became a care worker. I had the experience, and anyway there wasn’t much else I could do, and a live-in post was essential because I don’t have a place of my own yet—’

      She broke off, suddenly horribly aware that she was saying all these personal things to a complete stranger.

      She swallowed. ‘I’m just going to my agency’s offices now—to get a new assignment, somewhere to go tonight.’ Her voice changed. ‘That’s it—just there!’

      She pointed to an unprepossessing office block and Anatole drew up alongside it. She got out, tried the front door. It did not open. He stepped out beside her, seeing the notice that said ‘Closed’.

      ‘What now?’ he heard himself saying in a tight voice.

      Tia turned to stare at him, trying to mask the dismay in her face. ‘Oh, I’ll find a cheap hotel for tonight. There’s probably one close by I can walk to.’

      Anatole doubted that—especially with her broken suitcase.

      His eyes rested on her. She looked lost and helpless. And very, very lovely.

      As before, sudden decision took him. There was a voice in his head telling him he was mad, behaving like an idiot, but he ignored it. Instead, he smiled suddenly.

      ‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Look, you can’t move that broken suitcase a metre, let alone trail around looking for a mythical cheap hotel in London! So here’s what I propose. Why not stay the night at my flat? I won’t be there,’ he added immediately, because instantly panic had filled her blue eyes, ‘so you’ll have the run of it. Then you can buy yourself a new suitcase in the morning and head to your agency.’ He smiled. ‘How would that be?’

      She was staring at him as though she dared not believe what he was saying. ‘Are you sure?’ That disbelief was in her voice, but her panic was ebbing away.

      ‘I wouldn’t offer otherwise,’ Anatole replied.

      ‘It’s incredibly kind of you,’ she answered, her voice sounding husky, her eyes dropping away from his. ‘I’m being a total pain to you—’

      ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘So, do you accept?’

      He smiled again—the deliberate smile that he used when he wanted people to do what he wanted. It worked this time too. Tremulously she nodded.

      Refusing to pay any attention to the voice in his head telling him he was an insane idiot to make such an offer to a complete stranger, however lovely, Anatole helped her back into the car and set off again, heading into Mayfair, where his flat was.

      He glanced at her. She was sitting very still, hands in her lap, looking out through the windscreen, not at him. She still looked as if she could not believe this was really happening.

      He took the next step in making it real for her. For him as well.

      ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly? I’m Anatole Kyrgiakis.’

      It was odd to say his own name, because he usually didn’t have to, and certainly when he did he expected his surname, at least, to be recognised instantly. Possibly followed by a quick glance to ascertain that he meant the Kyrgiakis family. This time, however, his name drew no reaction other than her turning her head to look at him as he spoke.

      ‘Tia Saunders,’ she responded shyly.

      ‘Hello, Tia,’ Anatole said in a low voice, with a flickering smile.

      He saw a flush of colour in her cheeks, then had to pay attention to the traffic again. He let her be as he drove on, needing to concentrate now and wanting her to feel a little more relaxed about what was happening. But she was still clearly tense as he pulled up outside his elegant Georgian town house and guided her indoors, carrying her broken suitcase.

      The greeting from the concierge at the desk in the wide hallway seemed to make her shrink against him, and as they entered his top-floor apartment she gave a gasp.

      ‘I can’t stay here!’ she exclaimed, dismay in her voice. ‘I might mess something up!’

      Her eyes raced around, taking in a long white sofa, covered in silk cushions, a thick dove-grey carpet that matched the lavish drapes at the wide windows. It was like something out of a movie—absolutely immaculate and obviously incredibly expensive.

      Anatole gave a laugh. ‘Just don’t spill coffee on anything,’ he said.

      She shook her head violently. ‘Please, don’t even say that!’ she cried, aghast at the very thought.

      His expression changed. She seemed genuinely worried. He walked up to her. Found himself taking her hand with his free one even without realising it. Patting it reassuringly.

      ‘Speaking of coffee... I could murder a cup! What about you?’

      She nodded, swallowing. ‘Th...thank you,’ she stammered.

      ‘Good. I’ll get the machine going. But let me show you to your room first—and, look, why not take a shower, freshen up? You must have had a gruelling night, from what you’ve said.’

      He relinquished her hand, hefted up the broken suitcase again, mentally deciding he’d get a new one delivered by the concierge within the hour, and carried it through to one of the guest bedrooms.

      She followed after him, still glancing about her with an air of combined nervousness and wide-eyed amazement at her surroundings, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life. Which, he realised, she probably never had.

      An unusual sense of satisfaction darted within him. It was a good feeling to give this impoverished, waiflike girl, who’d clearly had a pretty sad time of it—both parents dead and a poorly paid job involving distressing end-of-life care—a brief taste of luxury. He found himself wanting her to enjoy it.

      Setting down the suitcase, which immediately sprang open again, he pointed out the en suite bathroom, then with another smile left her to it, heading for the kitchen.

      Five minutes later the coffee was brewing and he was sprawled on the sofa, checking his emails—trying very, very hard not to let his mind wander to his unexpected guest taking her shower...

      He wondered just how far her charms extended beyond her lovely face. He suspected a lot further. She was slender—he’d seen that instantly—but it hadn’t made her flat-chested. No, indeed, Even though she was wearing cheap, unflattering clothes, he’d seen the soft swell of her breasts beneath. And she was petite—much more so than the women he usually selected for himself.

      Maybe that was because of his own height—over six foot—or maybe it was because the kind of women he went out with tended to be self-assured, self-confident high-achieving females who were his counterparts in many ways, striding through the world knowing their own worth, very sure of themselves and their attractions.

      Women like Romola.

      His expression changed. Before Tia had plunged in front of his car he’d made the decision to cut Romola out of his life—so why not do that right now? He’d text her to say he couldn’t see her tonight after all, that something had come up, and that it was unlikely he’d be back in London any time soon, Say that perhaps they should both accept their time together had run its course...

      With a ruthlessness that he could easily exercise whenever he felt himself targeted by a woman wanting more of him than he cared to give, he sent the text, softening the blow with the despatch of a diamond bracelet as a farewell gift as a sop to Romola’s considerable ego.