The Millionaire's Virgin. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
been protected and cared for all the time she was grieving, and she had the comfort of knowing that her future was secure.
But now was not the time to be having negative thoughts about the girl she’d come here to chaperon. Instead, Paige concentrated on her surroundings, finding that her memory hadn’t deserted her when they reached the top of the stairs. Marble treads led down to an Italian marble foyer, a black iron balustrade following their sweeping curve.
‘Wow!’ Sophie was impressed, and she paused on the first stair to admire the cut-glass chandelier that illuminated the hall below. ‘What a pity we don’t have an audience,’ she taunted. ‘We could make quite an entrance from here.’
‘Thank goodness we don’t—’ Paige was beginning, when a tall figure moved out of the shadows and into the light.
‘Parakalo,’ said Nikolas, a black silk shirt and black trousers accentuating his darkly tanned appearance. ‘Please—Sophie, is it not?—feel free to descend the stairs any way you choose.’
Even Sophie was taken aback and Paige wished she could just fade into the woodwork behind her. Evidently Nikolas had returned and it was him they’d been keeping waiting. Always supposing he intended to eat with the hired help this evening, of course. Until she knew what their position in the household was going to be, she couldn’t be sure of anything.
‘Is that him?’
Sophie’s stage whisper must have reached Nikolas and Paige gave her sister an exasperated look. ‘Go on,’ she urged, pushing the girl forward without answering her, and Sophie returned her look with interest before obediently starting down.
‘I only asked,’ she muttered, but Paige wasn’t in the mood to be placated. She was already wondering how she’d ever thought that bringing Sophie here would be a good idea.
Nikolas had stepped back as they came down the stairs but now he approached them, greeting them in his own language as if to reassure them that he hadn’t heard what Sophie had said. ‘Kalispera,’ he said, his deep voice scraping across Paige’s already frayed nerves. ‘Kalos orissate sto Skiapolis.’
Sophie blinked, clearly not understanding his words, and he took her hand and said easily, ‘Welcome to Skiapolis. Did you have a good journey?’
‘Oh—yes. Thank you.’ Paige was amazed to see that her sister had actually turned fiery red. ‘I’m sorry about—you know—saying what I did. But this house is, like—way cool.’
‘I am glad you like it,’ he responded smoothly, but Paige closed her eyes for a moment, praying for deliverance. She dreaded to think what Sophie was going to say next and she started violently when Nikolas murmured, ‘Paige?’ in a concerned voice. ‘Are you all right?’
He was standing in front of her now and she had no choice but to allow him to shake her hand, too. But her fingers tingled within the strong grasp of his, her damp palm sliding revealingly against his firm flesh.
‘I—I’m fine,’ she managed, extracting her hand again as soon as she possibly could. He was so close, much closer than he’d been across the table at the restaurant in London, and she was instantly conscious of his height and the broadness of his shoulders, and the intimidating awareness that this might not have been such a good idea on her part either. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve kept you waiting. Your housekeeper said you were away.’
‘I was. But now I’m back.’ Nikolas continued to regard her with considering eyes, and Paige, whose eyes were on a level with the opened collar of his shirt, concentrated on the V of dark hair that was visible above the placket. ‘You’re flushed, aghapita. Are you not feeling well?’
‘I’ve told you, I’m fine—’ Paige started protestingly, only to be overridden by her sister’s voice.
‘She didn’t eat any lunch on the plane,’ Sophie told him smugly, not to be outdone, and as if realising they had an audience Nikolas took an automatic step away.
‘That was unwise,’ he said softly, his eyes lingering on her embarrassed face. ‘Was it so stressful? The journey, I mean.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
Paige wished he would leave her alone. Sophie wasn’t a fool and if he continued to behave as if her well-being was of some importance to him her sister would begin to suspect she had something to hide.
But perhaps that was his intention, she mused uneasily. She’d never truly believed he’d offered her this job out of the goodness of his heart. Men like Nikolas Petronides didn’t forgive—or forget. And, although she had no illusions that she’d ever meant a great deal to him, she had walked out on him, which in his eyes was probably unforgivable.
‘Kala,’ he murmured now, inclining his head towards a room on his left. ‘Ariadne is waiting for us. We will go and introduce you, ne?’
Paige nodded, glancing at Sophie before accompanying him across the vast expanse of marble that lay between them and what she seemed to recall from her previous visit was an elegant drawing room. Around them, the plain walls of the reception hall were hung with literally dozens of paintings, large and small, that added vivid colour to what was essentially a neutral area. But there were flowers, too: huge bouquets of magnolia and oleander and lily in sculpted vases, whose distinctive fragrance hung sweetly in the cool conditioned air. It was all very beautiful and very civilised, and Paige wished she could relax and stop thinking that she’d made a terrible mistake.
The lamplit salon they entered was as she remembered: high ceilings above striped silk walls; long undraped windows at either side of an enormous stone fireplace, above which hung an impressive portrait of a woman she knew to be Nikolas’s mother; several upholstered sofas in green and gold; and rich, subtly woven rugs scattered over a polished floor. The many display cabinets were the repository for delicate china and ceramics, a collection Nikolas’s grandfather had begun in his lifetime and which his late father had continued. And, although there were other paintings here, too, there were also a handful of jewelled icons to draw the eye. It was a beautiful room, casually luxurious, yet revealing a lived-in comfort and informality in the sprinkling of cushions on the sofas, in the sprawl of magazines decorating a low granite table, and the squat vase of wild flowers residing on the mantel.
But it was the girl who was standing on the hearth who took Paige’s eye. Ariadne—Stephanopoulous, as Donald Jamieson had advised her—was nothing like the schoolgirl she had been expecting. Tall and slender, with a long coil of night-dark hair hanging over her shoulder, she looked years older than the seventeen she admitted to. She was wearing black: an ankle-length gown that moulded her figure, and would not have looked out of place on a woman twice her age. She looked more like Nikolas’s wife than his ward, thought Paige in some dismay, wondering how on earth she was supposed to deal with her.
And, indeed, Ariadne reacted to their appearance with the kind of studied arrogance that seemed to confirm Paige’s assessment of her. ‘Nikolas!’ she exclaimed, ignoring the two women with him and going towards him, her hands held out in front of her so that he was obliged to take them in his own. ‘Ola entaksi?’
‘Speak English, Ariadne,’ Nikolas chided her mildly. ‘Our guests are not familiar with our language. And, after all, that is one of the reasons I have invited Miss Tennant here: to help you improve your accent.’
‘My accent doesn’t need improving,’ retorted Ariadne at once, with a little less maturity. But Paige had to admit she was right. The Greek girl appeared to speak English very well indeed. A lot better than the schoolgirl Greek she could manage.
‘Whatever…’ Nikolas’s tone had hardened now. He turned to Paige. ‘My ward,’ he said simply. ‘I hope you’ll become good friends.’
‘I hope so, too,’ said Paige firmly, taking the limp hand Ariadne offered her. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Stephanopoulous.’
‘Miss Stephanopoulous!’ Nikolas was impatient. ‘Her name is Ariadne.’ He glanced at the girl beside her. ‘And this is Sophie. Miss