A Passionate Night With The Greek. Kim Lawrence

tongues and gold-diggers. She’ll need to be protected...’

      ‘From what you say she seems pretty well able to protect herself,’ Zach inserted drily.

      ‘Oh, she’s clearly got spirit, but it takes more than spirit. She needs to be taught how things operate,’ her grandfather continued. ‘And I’m stuck in here, which is why I’m—’

      Zach, who had listened with growing unease at the direction of this, cut in quickly. ‘I’d love to help but that sounds pretty much like a full-time job to me.’

      His mentor gave a deep sigh that made Zach’s teeth clench; the smile that accompanied it was a nice blend of understanding and sadness. ‘And you have every right to refuse.’ Another sigh. ‘You owe me nothing. Please don’t run away with the idea I’m calling in a debt. I will discharge myself and—’

      Zach lowered his shoulders. He knew when he was beaten.

      ‘You know, sometimes I forget it was me that saved your life.’

      The first lesson you learnt on the streets was to look after number one, the second was walk, or preferably run, away from trouble. Zach’s problem was bullies. He hated them, and seeing those knife-wielding thugs surrounding the foolish old guy who was refusing to hand over his wallet had produced a red-mist moment that had led him to run towards danger and not away from it.

      Zach believed nothing positive could be achieved by reflecting on the past, but if he had, his objective view would have been that there hadn’t been anything remotely brave about his actions. Though stupid had flashed through his head at the first cut that had slipped between his ribs.

      He might have saved the older man’s life, but Alekis had given him a life and until this point asked for very little in return.

      He watched, an expression of wry resignation twisting his lips, as the man’s air of weary defeat melted away in a beat of his damaged heart.

      The elderly Greek’s smile oozed smug satisfaction. ‘If you’re sure?’

      ‘Don’t push it,’ Zach growled out, torn between exasperation that he had been so expertly manipulated and amusement.

      ‘It is important to control the flow of information when the news does leak. I know I can rely on you for that. The media will be all over her like a rash. We must be ready; she must be ready. Go away!’

      The loud addition was directed to an unwary nurse who, to give her her due, stood her ground.

      ‘I’ll leave him to you. Good luck,’ Zach added as he rose to his feet. ‘You can email me the necessary,’ he added before the exhausted-looking patient could react to his intention. ‘Just give me her details and I’ll do the rest, and in the meantime you get some rest.’

      * * *

      Kat danced around her small office and punched the air in triumph, before controlling the fizz of excitement still bubbling in her veins enough to retrieve the letter that she had tossed in the air after she had read it.

      She read it again now, anxious that she hadn’t misinterpreted it. That really would be awful. The tension that had slipped into her shoulders fell away as she came to the end.

      It really did say what she’d thought, but what puckered her smooth brow into a slight frown was what it didn’t say. There was a time she was expected to be there, at the address of the law firm, but no clue as to who was looking forward to meeting her.

      She shrugged. Presumably a representative of one of the individuals or businesses known for their philanthropy to whom she had pitched her appeal—or wasted her time with, as some of her less optimistic-minded colleagues and volunteers had put it. Fighting against the negativity, she’d pointed out that she wasn’t expecting any one person or organisation to step into the breach, but if she could persuade a handful to make some sort of donation it could mean a stay of execution for the refuge once the local authority funding was pulled the coming month.

      Who knew? This could be the first of many.

      There was a short tap on the door before Sue, with her nose stud, stuck her orange-streaked head around the door. ‘Oh, God!’ She sighed when she saw Kat’s face. ‘I know that look.’

      ‘What look?’

      The older woman stepped inside the room and, after closing the door, said, ‘Your “campaign for a good cause” face.’

      Kat blinked. ‘Do I have a...?’

      ‘Oh, you sure do, and I love—we all love—that you’re a fighter, but there comes a time...’ She sighed again, her skinny shoulders lifting before they fell. ‘You’ve got to be a realist, love,’ she told Kat earnestly. ‘This place...’ Her expansive gesture took in the small office with its cardboard-box system of filing—there always seemed to be something better to spend the limited resources on than office furniture. ‘It’s a lost cause. I’ve got an interview Monday. Just giving you the heads-up that I’ll need the morning off.’

      Kat was unable to hide her shock; her face fell. ‘You’re looking for another job?’ If Sue, who was as upbeat as she was hard-working, had already given in... Am I the only one who hasn’t?

      ‘Too right I am, and I suggest you do too. There’s always bills to pay and in my case mouths to feed. I care about this place too, you know, Kat.’

      Kat felt a stab of contrition that her reaction might be read as judgement. ‘I know that.’ But the point was she didn’t know what it was to be like Sue, a single parent bringing up five children and holding down two jobs.

      On the brink of sharing the good news, she pulled back and moderated her response. She didn’t want to raise hopes if nothing came of this.

      ‘I know you think I’m mad, but I really think there’s a realistic prospect someone out there cares.’

      The other woman grinned. ‘I know you do, and I really hope life never knocks that starry-eyed optimism out of you.’

      ‘It hasn’t so far,’ Kat retorted. ‘And Monday’s fine. I’ll cover... Good luck.’

      She waited until the other woman had left before she sat down at her desk—actually, it was a table with one wobbly leg—and thought about who she might be meeting. Whoever it was didn’t hang around. The meeting was scheduled for the following morning and the letter had been sent recorded delivery.

      Well, she could cross the two off her list who had already sent a sympathetic but negative response, so who did that leave?

      But then, did the identity of the potential donor actually matter? What mattered was that someone out there was interested enough for a meeting. So there was no beacon of light at the end of a tunnel but there was a definite flicker. Her small chin lifted in an attitude of determination. Whoever it turned out to be, she would sell her cause to them. Because the alternative was not something she wanted to contemplate—failure.

      So for the rest of the day she resisted the temptation to share her news with the rest of her gloomy-looking colleagues. Not until she knew what was on offer, or maybe she just didn’t want to have anyone dampen her enthusiasm with a bucket of cold-water realism? Either way there was no one to turn to for advice when she searched her wardrobe for something appropriate that evening.

      There wasn’t a lot to search. Her wardrobe was what designers called capsule, though maybe capsule was being generous.

      It wasn’t that she didn’t love clothes and fashion, it was just that her budget was tight and in the past used up by impulse bargain buys, which inevitably sat in her wardrobe untouched and were eventually donated to a charity chop.

      After a mega charity shop clear-out at the beginning of the summer and an unseasonal resolution to avoid sale racks, she had adopted a pared-down wardrobe. There had been the one slip. She looked at it now, hanging beside the eminently practical items. She rubbed the