Rebecca Winters: Latin Lovers: Greek Tycoons

The intelligent, educated young lady he had imagined Delia had grown up to be had been leading a double life for years with the help of Helen Heywood. A woman he distinctly remembered his sister telling him she had virtually lost touch with when she had gone to university in London.

Even for a man as cynical as him, particularly where the supposedly fair sex was concerned, the lies and the acting ability Delia had displayed over the last few years boggled the mind. He had loved his sister though he might not have shown it as he should, and her deceit hurt. For a man who never indulged in emotion and actively disdained anyone who did, it was a galling admission and he knew exactly who to blame. His sister was gone, but Miss Heywood had a hell of a lot to answer for, and he was just the man to make sure she did.

HELEN STOOD IN the kitchen watching the coffee percolate, and trying to think straight. Leon Aristides was here, in her home, and he knew about Nicholas. It wasn’t too bad, she told herself. So he knew Delia had an illegitimate son, and obviously he knew that Helen looked after the child. Maybe Delia had finally told her father, and maybe he had consulted a lawyer and maybe he had told Leon. But it was all very odd and there were way too many maybes!

At the very least Delia might have warned her, she thought, miffed with her friend for putting her in such a position. Snatching her bag off the kitchen table, she took out her cell phone and tried Delia’s number again. It was still dead.

Five minutes later, after snagging a towel from the downstairs toilet, she walked back into the sitting room carrying the coffee tray. ‘Sorry it took so long.’ She placed the tray on the occasional table and held out the towel.

He took it from her hand with a brief, ‘Thank you,’ and, swiftly wiping his face, he began drying his thick black hair. In his dishevelled state the family resemblance to Nicholas was quite startling.

Realising she was staring, she quickly sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Black or white, Mr Aristides?’ she asked coolly.

‘Black, one sugar and drop the Mr Aristides. Leon will do—after all, we are old friends.’

‘If you say so,’ she murmured, and poured the coffee, unable to get his name past her suddenly dry mouth. As for being ‘old friends,’ he must be joking. Lifting her head, she handed him the cup and saucer, and flinched slightly as his fingers brushed hers. Their eyes met and for a second she saw a gleam of something sinister in the depths of his that made her stomach clench, and then it was gone and he was raising the cup to his mouth.

Oddly flustered but determined not to show it, Helen took a much-needed drink of her own coffee, and, replacing the cup on the table, she said, ‘Now perhaps you can tell me why a lawyer informed you about Nicholas? Did Delia finally tell her father the truth, and perhaps he contacted a lawyer?’ she queried.

He drained his cup, replaced it on the table, and raised his head, his dark eyes resting on her with cold insolence. ‘By the truth, I presume you mean that my crazy sister had a child outside marriage, a son that her family knew nothing about. A son that you have taken care of from birth… Is that the truth you are talking about?’ he prompted, his cold dark eyes narrowing at the look of guilt that flashed across her pale face.

‘That my own sister could be so devious as to deprive her father of a grandson is beyond belief, and that you with the collusion of your grandfather apparently aided and abetted her is downright shameful, if not criminal—’

‘Now wait just a minute,’ Helen cut in. ‘My grandfather died months before he was born.’

‘My sympathy, I apologise for maligning the man. But it does not make your actions any less shameful,’ he said bluntly.

‘The only shameful act as far as I am concerned is your father forcing Delia into becoming engaged to a distant cousin when she returned to Greece last summer. A man of his choosing, to keep the money in the family. She is not crazy, quite the reverse. Delia always knew her father would try and marry her off eventually and prepared for it,’ Helen said adamantly.

‘She tried to delay it as long as possible—that was why she changed the course she was taking at university after the first year, so she could extend her studies a year. And, for the same reason, once she did graduate she decided to take a teacher’s training course for another year.’ Helen leapt to defend her friend. She didn’t like Leon Aristides and she liked even less his derogatory comment about his own sister.

‘You know more than me, it would seem,’ he drawled sardonically his eyes narrowing on her small face, and Helen felt inexplicably threatened.

She hesitated and lowered her lashes to hide her too expressive eyes. It was not like her to let her tongue run away with her, and she had the disturbing conviction that she would need all the self-control she possessed around Leon Aristides.

‘As to that I don’t know.’ She gave a slight, what she hoped was a nonchalant, shrug. ‘But obviously Delia has changed her mind about Nicholas or you would not be here,’ she continued. ‘But I spoke to her a few weeks ago and she never said anything to me. As far as I know, she still has no intention of marrying the man and only agreed to the engagement to keep her father happy until she is twenty-five in May and comes into the inheritance her mother left her. Then she has every intention of telling the whole world she has a child when her father can no longer control her.’

‘She will never have the chance.’ He brushed aside her stalwart defence of his sister with a few cold words.

‘My God, Delia was right about you!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re as—’

‘Delia is dead, as is my father,’ he interrupted brutally, guessing her thoughts about him, and deflecting them in the bluntest way possible.

‘They were staying on the island, and Delia was driving them to the harbour when the car slid off the road and into a ravine.’ He spoke emotionlessly as if he had recited it all a hundred times before. ‘Father died instantly, Delia a few hours later in hospital without ever regaining consciousness.’

Helen stared at him in stricken silence. She could not believe it, did not want to believe it.

‘Dead… Delia dead,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not possible.’ She lifted wide, appalled eyes to the man opposite. ‘It has to be a ghastly joke.’ Not half an hour ago she had been worrying because Delia had not called; now she was expected to believe she was dead.

‘The accident was on the fifteenth of January and there was a double funeral three days later.’

Suddenly, like a tidal wave crashing down on her, the full horror of his revelation swamped her mind, and she knew Aristides was telling the truth. Her heart contracted in her chest, her eyes closing momentarily as she struggled to hold back the tears. But it was a futile gesture as moisture leaked beneath her lashes. She wrapped her arms around her middle in a physical attempt to hold herself together.

Delia, beautiful, brave headstrong Delia, her friend and confidante—dead.

She remembered the first time they had met. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship, the extrovert Greek girl and the introvert English girl.

Helen at sixteen had missed a lot of schooling owing to the accident that had killed her parents. Her father had worked as an IT consultant for a Swiss bank in Geneva and they had been on a skiing weekend in the Alps, when an avalanche had buried her parents and left Helen slammed against a tree chest-deep in snow. Rescued hours later, she had fractured her pelvis, but worse had lost her sight. Whether it had been snow blindness from exposure to the brilliant sun in the hours before she had been rescued, or a psychological reaction at seeing her parents killed, it had taken her a long time to recover.