The Greek Tycoon's Achilles Heel. Lucy Gordon

to her. Think how much easier you’ll find it to defeat him in future.’

      She was regarding him with her head on one side and an air of detached amusement, as though he was an interesting specimen laid out for her entertainment. A sudden frisson went through him. He didn’t understand why, and yet—

      ‘I think I can manage that without help,’ he observed.

      ‘Now, there’s a thought,’ she said, apparently much struck. ‘Have you noticed how weddings bring out the worst in people? I’m sure you aren’t usually as cynical and grumpy as now.’

      This was sheer impertinence, but instead of brushing her aside he felt an unusual inclination to spar with her.

      ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I’m usually worse.’

      ‘Impossible.’

      ‘Anyone who knows me will tell you that this is my “sweetness and light” mood.’

      ‘I don’t believe it. Instinct tells me that you’re a softie at heart. People cry on your shoulder, children flock to you, those in trouble turn to you first.’

      ‘I’ve done nothing to deserve that,’ he assured her fervently.

      The crowd was swirling around them, forcing them to move aside. As they left the temple, Lysandros observed, ‘I’m surprised Homer settled for an imitation Parthenon.’

      ‘Oh, he wanted the original,’ she agreed, ‘but between you and me—’ she lowered her voice dramatically ‘—it didn’t quite measure up to his standards, and he felt he could do better. So he built this to show them how it ought to have been done.’

      Before he could stop himself he gave a crack of laughter and several people stared at the sight of this famously dour man actually enjoying a joke. A society journalist passing by stared, then made a hasty note.

      She responded to his laughter with more of her own. He led her to where the drinks were being served and presented her with a glass of champagne, feeling that, just for once, it was good to be light-hearted. She had the power of making tension vanish, even if only briefly.

      The tables for the wedding feast were outside in the sun. The guests were taking their places, preparing for the moment when the newly married couple would appear.

      ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said.

      ‘Just a minute. You haven’t told me who you are.’

      She glanced back, regarding him with a curious smile. ‘No, I haven’t, have I? Perhaps I thought there would be no need. I’ll see you later.’

      Briefly she raised her champagne glass to him before hurrying away.

      ‘You’re a sly devil,’ said a deep voice behind him.

      A large bearded man stood there and with pleasure Lysandros recognised an old ally.

      ‘Georgios,’ he exclaimed. ‘I might have known you’d be where there was the best food.’

      ‘The best food, the best wine, the best women. Well, you’ve found that for yourself.’ He indicated the young woman’s retreating figure.

      ‘She’s charming,’ Lysandros said with a slight reserve. He didn’t choose to discuss her.

      ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll back off. I don’t aspire to Estelle Radnor’s daughter.’

      Lysandros tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to keep her to yourself. She’s a peach.’

      ‘You said Estelle Radnor’s daughter.’

      ‘Didn’t she tell you who she was?’

      ‘No,’ Lysandros said, tight-lipped. ‘She didn’t.’

      He moved away in Petra’s direction, appalled at the trap into which he’d fallen so easily. His comments about her mother had left him at a disadvantage, something not to be tolerated. She could have warned him and she hadn’t, which meant she was laughing at him.

      And most men would have been beguiled by her merriment, her way of looking askance, as though that was how she saw the whole world, slightly lopsided, and all the more fun for that.

      Fun. He barely knew the word, but something told him she knew it, loved it, even judged by it. And she was doubtless judging him now. His face hardened.

      It was too late to catch her; she’d reached the top table where the bride and groom would sit. Now there would be no chance for a while.

      A steward showed him to his place, also at the top table but just around the corner at right angles to her—close enough to see her perfectly, but not talk.

      She was absorbed in chatting to her companion. Suddenly she laughed, throwing back her head and letting her amusement soar up into the blue sky. It was as though sunshine had burst out all over the world. Unwillingly he conceded that she would be enchanting, if—if he’d been in a mood to be enchanted. Fortunately, he was more in control than that.

      Then she looked up and caught his eye. Clearly she knew that her little trick had been rumbled, for her teasing gaze said, Fooled you!

      He sent back a silent message of his own. Wait, that’s all. Just wait!

      She looked forward to it. Her smile told him that, causing a stirring deep within him that he had to conceal by fiercely blanking his face. People sitting close by drew back a little, wondering who had offended him.

      There was a distant cheer and applause broke out as Mr and Mrs Homer Lukas made their grand entrance.

      He was in his sixties, grey-haired and heavily built with an air of natural command. But as he and his bride swept into place it suited him to bend his head over her hand, kissing it devotedly. She seemed about to faint with joy at his tribute, or perhaps at the five million dollar diamond on her finger.

      The young woman who’d dared to tease Lysandros joined in the applause, and kissed her mother as Estelle sat down. The crowd settled to the meal.

      Of course he should never have mistaken her for an employee. Her air of being at home in this company ought to have warned him. And when she moved in to take close-up photographs both bride and groom posed at her command.

      Then she posed with the happy couple while a professional photographer took the shots. At this point Nikator butted in.

      ‘We must have some of us together,’ Lysandros could just hear him cry. ‘Brother and sister.’

      Having claimed a brother’s privilege, he snaked an arm about her waist and drew her close. She played up, but Lysandros spotted a fleeting look of exasperation on her face, and she freed herself as soon as possible, handing him back to Debra Farley like a nurse ridding herself of a pesky child.

      Not that he could blame Nikator for his preference. In that glamorous company this creature stood out, with her effortless simplicity and an air of naturalness that the others had lost long ago. Her dress was light blue silk, sleeveless, figure-hugging, without ornament. It was practically a proclamation, as though she were saying, I need no decoration. I, myself, am enough.

      No doubt about that.

      As the party began to break up he made his way over to her. She was waiting for him with an air of teasing expectancy.

      ‘I suppose that’ll teach me to be more careful next time,’ he said wryly.

      ‘You were a little incautious, weren’t you?’

      ‘You thought it was a big joke not to tell me who you were while I said those things about your mother.’

      ‘I didn’t force you to say them. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you take a joke?’

      ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t find it funny at all.’