HELEN BIANCHIN - The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife

‘I very much doubt it was more than a challenge.’ Her voice held wry humour. ‘Kiss the ice maiden and see if you can make her melt.’

‘And did you? Melt?’

In an ignominious puddle. Not that she’d admit it to anyone. ‘He’s practised in the art of kissing.’

‘No toe-curling, gut-wrenching, off-the-planet reaction?’

In spades, and then some.

She managed a light shrug. ‘Not really.’

Team Arabelle were already seated when Ilana and Micki walked into the trendy bar, and there was champagne on ice, finger food spread out on the table.

Xandro rose to his feet, indicated a seat next to his own, and before Ilana could refuse Micki took the chair opposite, leaving no choice.

There were champagne toasts, much light-hearted laughter…and her stomach executed a painful somersault as Xandro touched his flute to her own and held it there a few seconds too long. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and she felt suddenly out of her depth.

He was seated too close, his thigh only a few centimetres from her own, and she was far too aware of his potent masculinity.

Ambivalent feelings coursed through her veins, teasing her with what could be…if only she had the courage to reach out for it.

Followed by the fear of opening her vulnerable heart to a man who might destroy her.

It was far wiser to refrain from having anything to do with any man…Xandro Caramanis in particular.

At midnight the girls began making a move to end the evening, and together they converged on the pavement, caught up in ‘good-night’ hugs.

‘I’ll drive you home.’

Ilana spared Xandro a fixed glance and shook her head. ‘I’ll take a cab.’

‘No, you won’t.’

Was it her imagination, or did everyone suddenly disperse with discreet speed? Even Liliana.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Xandro took her hand in his. ‘My car is parked close by.’

‘Are you always so bossy?’

‘Let’s just go with I gave Liliana my word to see you safely home.’

Ilana found herself seated in a luxury vehicle before she had time to think about it. The result of a little too much champagne, or clever manipulation?

Music filtered softly through the car’s speaker system, and she leaned back against the head-rest and closed her eyes as she reflected on the evening…the clothes, the models, the judging. Winning.

And Xandro’s kiss.

Wow…was the word that came readily to mind.

What would he be like as a lover?

Not that she intended to find out.

Hell, she dared not go there. Instinct warned she’d never survive with her emotions intact.

Besides, how could she ever forget Grant Baxter’s dire threat after she’d opted out of their wedding?

I’ll kill you if you date another man.

For two years she hadn’t wanted to get close to any male of the species.

She assured herself nothing had changed.

Except it had. And she didn’t know what to do about it.

‘WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.’

Ilana turned her head and looked at Xandro’s strong features beneath the lit bricked apron adjoining the entrance to her apartment building.

‘I wasn’t asleep.’

His teeth shone white as he smiled. ‘Pleasant thoughts?’

‘Thanks,’ she offered belatedly as she released the seat belt and reached for the door-clasp.

‘You’re welcome.’

She couldn’t move as he captured her face and leant in close for a brief evocative kiss.

Then he let her go, and she scrambled from the seat with undue haste. Otherwise she’d have been tempted to stay, wind her arms around his neck, and sink in against him as she returned the salutation.

And that would never do.

He waited until she passed security and entered the lift, then he fired the engine and eased the Bentley onto the street.

It had been a great night, Ilana determined as she entered her apartment. Terrific celebration. Winning took it off the Richter scale.

Tomorrow—today, she corrected as a last waking thought, was Sunday, and there was no need to set the alarm for some unearthly hour before dawn.

A caffeine hit followed by a hot shower helped a little, so too did something to eat, followed by a couple of painkillers and more hot strong coffee.

The apartment had been just a place to sleep for more than a week in the rundown to awards night, and Ilana gathered clothes, ran the washing machine and took care of a few essential household chores before changing into designer jeans and a loose top and heading for the workroom.

The sun’s rays fingered warmth as she trod the pavement, and she slid sunglasses into place from atop her head to shade the midday glare.

Cafés were filled with the Sunday-brunch crowd, and cars tracked the oceanfront road in search of parking.

A light breeze drifted in from the sea, feathering the fringes of numerous beach umbrellas dotted on the sandy foreshore.

For many the weekend invited relaxation, stretching out on the sand for the day to gain a tan, cooling off in the water, wandering across the road for sustenance in any one of several cafés.

Tantalising aromas teased the air, tempting her with the promise of a late lunch when she was done restoring order to the workroom.

Ilana unlocked the door, set down her bag, cellphone, and went to work clearing the detritus. There was a need to update her appointment book, check dates, asterisk possible openings and pencil in contact numbers.

Next came a close examination of garments that had graced the catwalk the previous evening. Some would require spot cleaning, others put aside for the dry-cleaner, and she needed to scrutinise hems for any minuscule damage.

In general, models were careful, but occasionally in the rush of a quick-change it was possible for a lacquered nail to catch in a seam, a hemline.

It took a while, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief that only two garments required minimum repairs, and she’d assembled those needing the dry-cleaner.

Ilana crossed to the refrigerator and filched bottled water, unscrewed the top and took several long swallows before capping it.

Almost done.

For a moment she indulged in a mental review of the previous evening, visualising each garment in each category…only to pause with a frown.

The red evening gown. It wasn’t among the collection of garments returned to the workroom.

A tight ball of tension curled inside her stomach.

She had to be wrong…but she knew with sickening certainty she wasn’t.

Danika. It had to be.

What she wanted to do was call the model and breathe fire and brimstone!

Damn. She needed the complication like a hole in the head!

Instead, she had little recourse but to contact Danika’s agency, explain, request return of the gown and offer another in its place.

At that moment her cellphone pealed, and she picked up, offered her usual greeting…and received silence.

She checked the battery level, saw it was fine, then heard the call disconnect.

Within minutes it rang again, with the same result, and when she activated the call-back feature it registered a private number, denying access.

Weird. Unless the caller was close to an out-of-range area and the cellphone was cracking up.

Ilana had the model agency she used on speed-dial, and an answering machine picked up.

It was Sunday…what did she expect? A further call to the manager’s cellphone went straight to message-bank.

A muttered oath spilled from her lips. Defeated and angry, she had little option but to lock up, go have lunch, then return to her apartment.

She chose a café, ordered, and picked up the leading city newspaper from a selection the café offered its clientele.