Robyn Donald - Powerful Greek, Housekeeper Wife

As she scurried around, assembling a kit that would keep a three-year-old girl interested, questions raced through Iona’s mind. Was little Chloe his daughter? If so, she thought sickly, he must have been married or in a relationship when he’d made love to her in Tahiti.

It should have been a relief to be able to despise him. It certainly explained his antagonism; did he think she’d tell his wife he’d been unfaithful?

Never!

But it seemed unlikely that the mother of his child was with him; if she were, she’d be the one looking after her daughter.

By the time the taxi arrived Iona was ready. She’d had to forego breakfast and a much-needed cup of tea, but her large carry-all had enough in it to keep even a demanding child busy for a day. Stomach clenching, she walked out of the penthouse lift, disconcerted to find Luke in the doorway.

Like a lion lying in wait for an antelope.

Dismayed, Iona ignored the treacherous heat burning along her cheekbones while she replied to his greeting.

A narrowed tawny-gold gaze took in her clothes—cotton trousers that that reached halfway down her calves, a bright T-shirt, sandals. One black brow climbed.

‘Practical,’ he observed cooly, ‘if a little informal.’

‘New Zealanders are noted for their informality,’ she returned in her most professional tone.

‘I recall that very well.’

A lazily sensual note beneath the words raised the tiny hairs on the back of Iona’s neck and sent a forbidden, ruthlessly exciting response shivering through her. Damn him, she thought furiously as flashbacks of the time they’d spent together surged back, drugging and potent.

Blurting the first thing that came to her mind, she asked, ‘When am I going to meet my charge for the day?’

‘Right now,’ he said crisply, and reached out.

For a startled moment Iona thought he intended to take her arm.

A primitive, protective reaction twisted her backwards, but his hand closed around the handles of her bag and he said softly, lethally, ‘You are quite safe. If you want me to touch you again you will have to ask me to do so.’

Iona stiffened. OK, so until she’d fled Tahiti probably no one had ever turned Luke Michelakis down, but she’d never promised him anything; right from the start they’d both known that what they shared was nothing stronger or more permanent than a holiday romance.

She’d just ended it a little sooner than either had expected.

Which didn’t give him any right to be offended.

But then the adored only son of a powerful Greek patriarch would certainly be spoilt. Especially one who looked like some beautiful, vengeful god from ancient times.

And there was the spectre of the child’s absent mother…

Choosing to ignore his terse statement, she relinquished the bag to him.

Cynically amused at her care to avoid touching his fingers, Lukas said, ‘This way.’

For a moment he’d been going to ask her why she’d left him in Tahiti, but she was now his employee—and he’d overstepped the professional bounds already.

Besides, he had not allowed himself to care. He’d learned young that women were naturally treacherous—a lesson cut into his heart when his father’s second wife had engineered his expulsion from the family.

He’d vowed then never to trust another woman, so it would be foolish of him to expect more from Iona.

Aristo Michelakis, his father, had expected his twenty-year-old son to fail, to fall into oblivion. Twelve years later, Lukas allowed himself a swift glance around his opulent surroundings.

He’d been coldly, furiously determined to prove both himself and his innocence of the crime he’d been accused of. That driving need had guided him into a career where his brilliant brain and passion were fully utilised. He had seized his opportunities with a zest that had led to huge success in spite of his father’s attempts to ruin him.

And he had his pick of lovers from the women who’d flocked to him, drawn by his fortune and the face he’d inherited from his father.

Always he’d made sure his lovers expected nothing more from him than good sex and his protection as long as the affair lasted.

Then Chloe had been born—another outcast from the family. She’d brought a new dimension to his life, but his attitude to his lovers remained the same.

So why had Iona stuck in his mind?

Because she had been—different. He set Iona’s bag beside a chair and glanced down at her, resisting an impulse to run a finger across that unsmiling, infuriat-ingly desirable mouth. What would she do if he kissed her? His body tightened in swift, fierce response even as he dismissed the thought.

She was not exactly beautiful, but she’d been a passionate and generous lover, and he’d enjoyed their interlude—perhaps a little too much. It irritated him to admit it, but her abrupt departure had angered him. He had missed her.

However, it was ridiculous—a stupid, unnecessary overreaction—to feel she’d betrayed him.

Acutely aware of his swift glance and his silence, Iona was glad to meet the child she was looking after. Chloe was tall for her age, as befitted the daughter of such a tall man, with large dark eyes, and a mouth that subtly echoed that of her father. It quirked in a fleeting smile for him before she transferred a solemn gaze to Iona, who introduced herself calmly.

‘Hello. My name is Iona Guthrie, and we’ll be spending some time together today while your father has a meeting.’

‘He always goes to meetings.’

The statement, although made entirely without rancour, wrung Iona’s heart.

‘I’m sure he’s very busy, but we’ll have fun together, you and I.’

Chloe scanned Iona’s large bag. ‘Are you going to stay ’cos Neelie’s gone?’

‘Only for today,’ Luke told her.

Who was Neelie? Mother? Nanny?

‘I’ve brought some things you might like to do with me, and a few books you might not have seen before,’ Iona said.

That seemed to satisfy Chloe, who obeyed immediately when her father announced, ‘Take Ms Guthrie out onto the terrace, Chloe, and show her your horse.’

Horse? Surely he didn’t carry around a horse as part of his ménage?

He did. A splendid rocking horse, dappled grey, with flared nostrils and flowing mane, and a saddle and bridle fit for a queen. ‘His name is Pegasus,’ Chloe informed her in that precise, neutral voice.

She glanced up at Iona, who asked, ‘And does he fly, like the horse in the legend?’

It seemed she might have passed some subtle test, for the child smiled at her. ‘Nearly. He used to be Lukas’s horse when he was a little boy.’ Her tone expressed a hint of disbelief, as though she simply couldn’t conceive of her father ever being small enough to ride the horse.

Why did she call him by his first name?

More to the point, where the heck was her mother? Dead? Divorced? Not interested?

None of your business, Iona warned herself, and said gravely, ‘You and your father are very lucky. Pegasus is a magnificent animal.’

‘He’s my best friend.’

Like her father, Chloe spoke excellent English; unlike him she had no trace of an accent. Not, Iona recalled, that Luke had much—really, only the merest hint…

Just enough to imbue every word he said with a subtle under-note of disturbing sensuality that had deepened when they’d made love.

Don’t even think about that!

Iona said, ‘Pegasus is lucky too—to have such a good friend as you. Would you like to show me how well you can ride him?’

After a moment Chloe hitched up her skirt and climbed onto the horse, setting it rocking with a gleeful enthusiasm that warmed Iona’s heart.

‘She is reserved, but not shy,’ her father said from behind.