Powerful Greek, Housekeeper Wife. Robyn Donald

      Hot colour washed up from her naked breasts as she grabbed at the discarded smock and wrapped it around her, only to see her bra slither onto the floor. ‘I was—I’m checking the place over,’ she muttered. She dragged in a jagged breath and demanded, ‘Why are you here?’

      ‘I’m staying here,’ he said icily.

      ‘You are?’ she blurted, heart pounding so heavily in her chest she was afraid he might hear it. Indignation sharpened her tone. ‘Well, you’re not due for another five hours!’

      Black brows lifted. For a disturbing few seconds he let his unreadable gaze roam her face, then he stooped, picked up the bra and held it out to her, skin-coloured cotton dangling from a long-fingered olive hand.

      ‘Th-thank you.’ She snatched the offending scrap of material and tried to regain some shred of dignity. ‘Please go.’

      The black lashes drooping over those exotic eyes couldn’t hide a glitter that sent a shameful shiver through Iona.

      Nothing of that gleam of awareness showed in his tone when he drawled, ‘Gladly.’

      Humiliated, she turned away. Not that there was any refuge—the mirrored walls revealed every inch of her shrinking, exposed skin to his scathing survey.

      For a taut, hugely embarrassing second it seemed he was going to stand there and watch her dress.

      She said harshly, ‘Go now!’

      ‘My pleasure,’ he bit out, and left with the lithe, silent menace of a predator.

      Weak from shock and relief, Iona slammed and locked the door behind him, then seized the wet bra and struggled back into it. Her bones felt like rubber and she had to draw several difficult breaths before the colour returned to her skin and she could think clearly.

      From the moment they’d met, Lukas Michelakis had had that effect on her—he literally took her breath away.

      Charisma, she thought wildly. Presence, impact—whatever the term, Luke possessed it in spades. Eighteen months previously it had been the first thing she’d noticed when he’d strode towards her across pristine sands in Tahiti—that, and the authority with which he’d ordered her off, telling her the beach was private.

      Luke—here in New Zealand. He was the man she and Angie had cheerfully referred to as the unknown plutocrat.

      This penthouse had to be possessed by a demon, and it had set her up nicely. It was probably laughing its evil head off.

      She’d just scrambled back into her smock when the doorbell pealed again.

      Oh, at last—Angie…

      And no sign of Luke as she hurtled out and opened the door. But instead of the calm presence of her cousin, she was confronted by a harried apartment maid holding a bag.

      ‘The linen from the laundry,’ she informed Iona, eyes widening as she looked past her.

      Bracing herself, Iona turned. Tall and tigerish, darkly dominating, Luke paced silently towards them.

      ‘I’ll show you the rooms to be made up,’ Iona said swiftly. Holding her shoulders so stiffly they protested, she almost frog-marched the maid down the corridor towards the three bedrooms.

      ‘Who’s the guy?’ the other woman hissed just before Iona left.

      ‘A guest of the owner,’ Iona said crisply.

      ‘He can be my guest any time he likes,’ the girl growled, then giggled.

      Iona left the room, unconsciously walking quietly. To no avail; a grim-faced Luke appeared and said curtly, ‘I need to talk to you. Come with me.’

      Her spine tingled, every nerve in her body sending out a red alert. Ignoring a foolhardy impulse to announce that she didn’t take orders from him, she assembled the tatters of her composure and looked up to meet his hooded, intent gaze.

      A dangerous move, she thought in dismay when her body suffused with heat.

      It took every scrap of control she could produce to steady her voice. ‘I’m sorry the bedrooms aren’t made up, but the laundry managed to lose the sheets. They’ve just arrived.’

      A negligent shrug of broad shoulders informed her he wasn’t interested. He said, ‘I can still see a sticky trail of something on your skin. You’d better finish cleaning up, then I want to see you on the terrace.’ He paused, his expression unreadable, before drawling, ‘I can lend you a shirt if you want one.’

      Once—in Tahiti—he’d slung his shirt around her when her shoulders started to burn in the sun, and its removal had led to an erotic interlude that came surging back into her mind only too vividly.

      Of course he knew. Colour burned across her cheekbones, and he lifted an arrogant eyebrow, his eyes narrowing in sardonic challenge.

      ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Iona said, before swinging on her heel and heading back into the powder room. She locked the door behind her, leaned back against it and bit her lip.

      Arrogant? Forcing herself to move, she wiped off the detergent.

      Arrogant was far too insipid a word to describe Luke Michelakis. She ran her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to restore its sleekness, and listed words much better suited to the man—words like cynical, dominating, and intimidating…

      It was a satisfying exercise, but she couldn’t concentrate on it. Different, infinitely dangerous words refused to budge from her brain.

       Sexy. Magnetic. Compelling.

      And those words were why eighteen months previously on a hot, deserted beach in Tahiti she’d made the craziest decision in her life. One look at Luke Michelakis had told her he was just what she needed—a man vibrant with charisma, his personality vital enough to rescue her from the emotional desolation that had followed the death of her fiancé, followed soon afterwards by the car crash that took both her parents.

      Instinct had whispered that this magnetic Greek would know exactly how to bring her back to life. He’d know how to make a woman scream in rapture—and in his arms, in his bed, she’d feel safe as well as pleasured.

      That same perverse instinct had also been sure that because he was handsome and arrogantly sure of himself, he wouldn’t want anything more than an affair.

      Instinct—while perfectly correct—hadn’t known the half of it, Iona thought grimly. Luke had not only introduced her to a sensual intensity she’d never imagined, he’d converted what should have been a very temporary fling into an experience that had changed her life. In his arms she’d learned just how wonderful a superb lover could make a woman feel.

      And that erotic discovery had backfired big time, bringing bitter guilt. Gavin had died to save her life; she’d mourned him so deeply she’d been hovering on the edge of depression, yet somehow in ten days and nights of passion Luke took not just her body but a piece of her heart. Disgusted with herself, she’d fled Tahiti, determined to banish all memories of the time she’d spent there.

      It hadn’t worked, and now here Luke was in New Zealand. Of all the wretched coincidences!

      It should comfort her that once she got out of this penthouse they wouldn’t see each other again. Except that his appearance—so unexpected, so embarrassing—had lit fires she’d thought long smothered.

      Iona rinsed out her bra, wrung it free of surplus water and put it back on again. Her body heat would soon have it dry. The smock still clung, and she was acutely aware of her breasts beneath it, of skin so sensitive the material seemed to drag against it, of heat burgeoning deep inside her. She took a deep breath before walking steadily out into the hall with her head held high and what felt like a herd of buffaloes rampaging through her stomach.

      The hall was empty, but not for long. Silently, his handsome face grim, Luke came