Julia James - From Dirt to Diamonds

Dark, hard eyes looked down at her. Thea pulled back against the stone wall.

Shock. Panic. Fear ran through her. And—far more powerful than any of those—loathing. Black, virulent loathing.

Something moved in his eyes. Then he spoke.

‘Still the street rat,’ said Angelos Petrakos.

Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s.

‘Upstairs,’ he said. His voice was terse.

She raised delicate eyebrows. ‘Whatever for?’

‘It’s in your interest,’ he said.

Nothing more. He didn’t need it. And he knew she knew that. Oh, yes, he knew she knew, all right …

Loathing flashed in her eyes, but for all that she turned and walked towards the staircase. He let her go up first, let his eyes take in the graceful line of her body.

She was casually dressed, but the dress was cashmere, and the boots the finest soft leather. She wore the outfit with an elegance that might have been natural but which he knew was not.

It was all only an illusion. And now he would be stripping the illusion from her, exposing the lie.

JULIA JAMESlives in England with her family. Mills & Boon ®were the first ‘grown-up’ books she read as a teenager, alongside Georgette Heyer and Daphne du Maurier, and she’s been reading them ever since. Julia adores the English and Celtic countryside, in all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean—’The most perfect landscape after England’!—and considers both ideal settings for romance stories. In between writing she enjoys walking, gardening, needlework, baking extremely gooey cakes and trying to stay fit!

From Dirt to Diamonds

Julia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ANGELOS PETRAKOS eased his broad shoulders in the wide-backed dining chair and reached a long-fingered hand for his wineglass. He took a mouthful of the extremely expensive vintage, savouring it. His glance flicked around the crowded, fashionable Knightsbridge restaurant, momentarily diverted from his host, with whom he was in discussion about a particular joint venture with Petrakos International.

Immediately he was aware of female eyes assessing him.

A mordant look gave a dark glint to his obsidian eyes. How much of their interest was in him and how much in his position as head of a multinational conglomerate with a range of businesses in its highly profitable portfolio?

It was a distinction his widowed father had been incapable of making. So astute in business, in building the Petrakos empire, yet his father had been targeted by one financially predatory female after another, and the youthful Angelos had been repelled by it. He’d hated to see his vulnerable father exploited, lured into loaning them money, making investments in their business affairs, or promoting their careers with his wealth and contacts. Angelos had learnt his lesson well, and so, however alluring the woman, however tempting it was to have an affair with her, he was ruthless in keeping business and pleasure scrupulously separate.

Such self-control could be irksome, but his rule was inflexible and absolute—he never allowed any beautiful and ambitious woman to take advantage of his interest in them. It was simpler and safer that way.

His gaze continued its swift sweep of the restaurant, ignoring the attempts to catch his eye, while his attention remained still attuned to what his host was saying about the complex financial structure of the deal he was proposing. Then, abruptly, his grip on his wineglass tightened. His gaze honed down between the heads of other diners to the far side of the room, to a table set against the opposite wall.

A woman, sitting in profile to him.

He stilled completely. Then slowly, very slowly, he lowered his wineglass to the table. His gaze had not moved an iota. His eyes were hard as steel. For one long, measureless moment he held his gaze immobile. Then, abruptly cutting across whatever his host had been saying, he said, ‘Excuse me one moment.’ His voice was terse. As hard as his eyes.

He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet, discarding his napkin on the table. Then, with a lithe, powerful tread, he headed across the restaurant.

Towards his target.

Thea lifted her glass, smiling across at her dinner partner, and took a delicate sip of her flavoured mineral water. Even though Giles was enjoying a fine vintage Chablis, she never drank alcohol herself. It was not just empty calories—it was dangerous. For a second so brief she did not register it by time the flicker of a shadow feinted over her skin. Then Giles spoke, dispelling it.

‘Thea …’

His voice was tentative. She smiled reassuringly, despite the nerves which ate her inside. Please let him say it …

She had worked so hard, so long for this moment, and now what she hungered for so much was almost within her reach.

‘Thea—’ Giles said again, his voice sounding more determined now.

And again Thea found herself willing him to continue. Please let him say it! Please!

But even as the words begged in her head she saw him pause.

A shadow fell over the table.

It was curious, Angelos found himself thinking with an abstract part of his mind, just how swiftly he had recognised her. It had been, after all, nearly five years. Yet she had been instantly identifiable in the first second his eyes had lighted on her just now. The same abstract portion of his brain felt a flicker of emotion. He dispelled it swiftly.

Of course he had recognised her. He would know her anywhere. There could be no hiding place for her.

Now, as he reached the table she was sitting at, he could just what she had done to herself. It was, he acknowledged, remarkable. His gaze rested on her. Seeing, for the moment, what she wanted the world to see.

A stunningly beautiful female. A woman to catch the breath of any man.

But then she always had been that. But not like this. Not with sleek, pale, perfect hair—styled immaculately, drawn off her face into a sculpted chignon at the nape of her neck—her make-up so subtle that it was as if she were wearing none, the shimmer of pearls at her earlobes, her couture dress the colour of champagne in tailored silk, high-cut, long-sleeved.

Almost, he laughed. Harsh, unhumorous. To see her like this—chic, elegant, soignée … A thousand miles from the way she had once looked. Five long years from that. Five long years in which to create the transformation his outward eye now saw. The illusion.

More than an illusion. A lie.

His shadow fell across her. She turned her head. And in the one microsecond that it took he saw the shock—far more than shock!—detonate in her eyes. Then it was gone. Almost he admired her. Admired her for slamming down the visor over her face, the blankness—the flawless, perfect lack of any sign whatsoever of recognition, of acknowledgement of his identity.