The Greek Tycoon's Achilles Heel. Lucy Gordon

daughter,’ Petra said with wry good humour.

      ‘It’s too late for that. They already know. You’ve got to look young and innocent or they’ll wonder how old I am. Really, darling, you might try to do me credit.’

      ‘I’m sorry. Shall I go and change?’

      ‘Yes, do it quickly. And take your hair down.’

      ‘All right, I’ll change. Have a wonderful day.’

      She kissed her mother and felt herself embraced as warmly as though there’d never been an argument. Which, in a sense, was true. Having got her own way, Estelle had forgotten it had ever happened.

      As she left the room Petra was smiling, thinking it lucky that she had a sense of humour. Thirty-two years as Estelle Radnor’s daughter had had certain advantages, but they had also demanded reserves of patience.

      Back in her room, she reversed the changes, donning the elegantly simple blue silk dress she’d worn before and brushing her hair free so that it fell gloriously about her shoulders. Then she went out into the grounds where the crowds were gathering and plunged into introductions. She smiled and said the right things, but part of her attention was elsewhere, scanning the men to see if Lysandros Demetriou had arrived.

      The hour they had spent together, long ago, now felt like a dream, but he’d always held her interest. She’d followed his career as far as she could, gathering the sparse details of his life that seeped out. He was unmarried and, since his father’s death had made him the boss of Demetriou Shipbuilding, he lived alone. That was all the world was allowed to know.

      Occasionally she saw a photograph that she could just identify as the man she’d met in Las Vegas. These days his face looked fearsome, but now another face came into her mind, a naïve, disillusioned young lover, tortured out of his mind, crying, ‘She made me trust her,’ as though that was the worst crime in the world.

      The recent pictures showed a man on whom harshness had settled early. It was hard to realise that he was the same person who’d clung to her on that high roof, seeking refuge, not from the physical danger he’d freely courted, but from the demons that howled in his head.

      What had become of that need and despair? Had he yielded to the desire to destroy everything, including his own heart?

      What would he say to her if they met now?

      Petra was no green girl. Nor was she a prude. In the years since then she’d been married, divorced, and enjoyed male company to the full. But that encounter, short but searingly intense, lived in her mind, her heart and her senses. The awareness of an overwhelming presence was with her still, and so was the disappointment she’d felt when he’d parted from her with only the lightest touch of the lips.

      Now the thought of meeting Lysandros Demetriou again gave her a frisson of pleasurable curiosity and excitement. But strangely there was also a touch of nervousness. He’d loomed so large in her imagination that she feared lest the reality disappoint her.

      Then she saw him.

      She was standing on the slope, watching the advancing crowd, and even among so many it was easy to discern him. It wasn’t just that he was taller than most men; it was the same intense quality that had struck her so forcefully the first time, and which now seemed to sing over the distance.

      The pictures hadn’t done him justice, she realised. The boy had grown into a handsome man whose stern features, full of pride and aloofness, would have drawn eyes anywhere. In Las Vegas she’d seen him mostly in poor light. Now she could make out that his eyes were dark and deep-set, as though even there he was holding part of himself back.

      Nikator had said no woman would be with him, and that was true. Lysandros Demetriou walked alone. Even in that milling crowd he gave the impression that nobody could get anywhere near him. Occasionally someone tried to claim his attention. He replied briefly and passed on.

      The photographer in Petra smiled. Here was a man whose picture would be worth taking, and if that displeased him at first he would surely forgive her, for the sake of their old acquaintance.

      She took a picture, then another. Smiling, she began to walk down until she was only a few feet in front of him. He glanced up, noticed the camera and scowled.

      ‘Put that away,’ he said.

      ‘But—’

      ‘And get out of my sight.’

      Before she could speak again he’d passed on. Petra was left alone, her smile fading as she realised that he’d looked right through her without a hint of recognition.

      There was nothing to do but move on with the crowd and take her place in the temple. She tried to shrug and reason with herself. So he hadn’t recognised her! So what? It had been years ago and she’d changed a lot.

      But, she thought wryly, she could dismiss any fantasies about memories reaching over time. Instead, it might be the chance to have a little fun.

      Yes, fun would be good. Fun would punish him!

      The music started as the bride made her entrance, magnificently attired in fawn satin, looking nowhere near fifty, her true age.

      Petra joined the other photographers, and forgot everything except what she was meant to be doing. It was an ability that had carried her through some difficult times in her life.

      Lysandros was seated in the front row. He frowned at her as if trying to work something out, then turned his attention to the ceremony.

      The vows were spoken in Greek. The bride had learned her part well, but there was just one moment when she hesitated. Quickly, Petra moved beside her, murmured something in Greek and stepped back. Lysandros, watching, frowned again.

      Then the bride and groom were moving slowly away, smiling at the crowd, two wealthy, powerful people, revelling in having acquired each other. Everyone began to leave the temple.

      ‘Lysandros, my friend, how good to see you.’

      He turned and saw Nikator advancing on him, arms outstretched as though welcoming a long-lost friend. Assuming a smile, he returned the greeting. With a flourish Nikator introduced his companion, Debra Farley. Lysandros acted suitably impressed. This continued until everyone felt that enough time had elapsed, and then the couple moved on.

      Lysandros took a long breath of relief at having got that out of the way.

      A slight choke made him turn and see the young woman with the luscious fair hair. She was laughing as though he’d just performed for her entertainment, and he was suddenly gripped by a rising tension, neither pleasure nor pain but a mysterious combination of both, as though the world had shifted on its axis and nothing would ever be the same again.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘YOU did that very convincingly,’ Petra said. ‘You should get an Oscar.’

      She’d spoken in Greek and he replied in the same language.

      ‘I wasn’t as convincing as all that if you saw through me.

      ’ ‘Oh, I automatically disbelieve everyone,’ she said in a teasing voice. ‘It saves a lot of time.’

      He gave a polite smile. ‘How wise. You’re used to this kind of event, then? Do you work for Homer?’ He indicated her camera.

      ‘No, I’ve only recently met him.’

      ‘What do you think of him?’

      ‘I’ve never seen a man so in love.’ She shook her head, as if suggesting that this passed all understanding.

      ‘Yes, it’s a pity,’ he said.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You don’t think the bride’s in love with him, surely? To her, he’s a decoration to flaunt in her buttonhole, in addition to the diamonds he’s showered on her. The best of her career is over so she scoops