Sara Craven - The Tycoon's Mistress

‘No,’ Cressy said. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t—possibly.’

He leaned across and put the improvised plate on the corner of her towel.

‘Why are you frightened?’ He sounded as if he was merely expressing a friendly interest.

‘I’m not.’

He sighed. ‘You are lying again, matia mou. Now eat, and tell me about your work in England, and later we will swim. And do not tell me you cannot swim,’ he added, as her lips parted in negation, ‘because I too was watching.’

Cressy sat very upright. She said, quietly and coldly. ‘Does it occur to you, kyrie, that I might not want to spend the afternoon with you? That I prefer to be alone?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But that will change when you know me better. And no one so young and so lovely should wish to be alone. It is a sad thing.’

There was lamb tucked into the pitta bread. The scent of it was making her mouth water.

She glared at him. ‘I’ve no taste for meaningless compliments, kyrie.’

He said, ‘Nor do I, thespinis. You know that you are young, so accept that you are also beautiful. And my name is Draco.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now eat your food, and don’t be afraid any more.’

But that, thought Cressy, looking down at the pattern on the towel—or anywhere rather than at him—that was easier said than done.

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