Blackmailed Into The Greek Tycoon's Bed. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
then he saw her, and again rationale was lost.
Her slender, willowy figure was draped in blush-pink velvet, her pale arms and creamy décolletage mocking, laughing, spitting a hundred times over at the fake-bronze limbs that usually embraced him. She wore no jewellery, except for two diamond studs; she needed nothing else. Her long blonde hair was piled high, sleek and elegant, and all Xante wanted to do was take it down, to unravel it clip by hidden clip.
Kneed in the groin with longing for a moment, all he could do was stay still, to compose himself for a quiet moment as he acknowledged her beauty. He remembered in that moment all that had first captivated him about Karin, and chose to forget their sullied meeting for this one night, to push aside all he knew of her—to just revel in the woman she was.
Walking to the lift, he could feel her tension, despite the cool demeanour. And when his hand located hers Xante expected her to sharply pull away. Instead he was rewarded with the sweet feel of the pressure of her fingers, and then everything changed.
Karin Wallis was his guest this evening, and with every unfolding moment Xante was discovering the difference that made. Her company was engaging, quietly informed; she chatted easily with the most esteemed guest and their partners. And, when the players realised who she was, she was accepted into the fold in a way Xante could never be.
For a while it irked him—it was his hotel, but not his night, and the seating had been arranged so that the players and elite guests were seated at the top table. Only a quiet word must have been had because, with Karin Wallis as his date, suddenly he was sitting amongst the elite now with Karin beside him. Suddenly he was the toast of the table, accepted in a way he never had been before. Still, it was hard to remain irritated with such a rich tapestry of guests, and almost easy to dismiss the part she’d played in his acceptance.
To just enjoy the night, as he had instructed her to do.
Karin declined the wine, taking Xante’s word for it that it was excellent, but asking for sparkling mineral-water instead.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’ Karin nodded, accepting her mineral water and blowing out a small breath, realising that she actually was enjoying herself. Oh, she was exquisitely aware of the man sitting beside her, could feel his hand on her arm occasionally, could feel him invade her personal space when he leant over as she spoke—more demonstrative, more expressive, than David had ever been. But here in the bright lights of the ballroom, here surrounded by fellow diners, Karin knew she could keep him at arm’s length, and safe in that knowledge she had allowed herself to relax.
‘The food is amazing, Xante.’
It was. The roast beef was so tender you could have cut it with a butter knife; trays of roasted vegetables were spread before them, and Yorkshire puddings as fluffy as clouds, which Karin smothered in thick, rich gravy.
‘You would not believe the thought that has gone into this menu,’ Xante admitted, relieved at the reception of the simple fare. ‘I have a very highly strung, but genius French chef—Jacques.’
‘Oh?’ Karen’s fork, laden with very English fare, paused midway to her mouth.
‘Last year we hosted the team. The food was superb; Jacques had spent days preparing. I found him in tears the next morning when he found out most of the team had ordered club sandwiches from room service. This year we will make sure no one goes to bed hungry.’
They certainly wouldn’t; the sumptuous roast was followed with a selection of puddings—upside-down cake smothered in golden syrup or spotted dick—all washed down with the most delectable custard.
‘My grandmother used to make this…’ A flood of warm memories bathed her, her cheeks pink as she closed her eyes and took a bite.
‘You were close to your grandparents?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And your parents?’ He shook his head in apology. He knew that he’d crossed the line and was cross with himself that he’d actually forgotten, as they’d dined together, the real reason she was here.
Karen gave a bright smile, and tried to resurrect the conversation. ‘Will you go to any of the Six Nation matches next year?’
‘One or two, I hope.’
‘Surely if they’re staying in your hotel…?’
‘I am not often here.’
‘Oh.’
‘I own many hotels—though this one,’ Xante admitted, ‘is my favourite. But the hotels are only a part of my business.’ He chose not to add ‘a small part’, chose not to add that he was the most successful shipping tycoon in modern times and that he employed more people than the hotel staff just to count and track his vast wealth.
‘Your parents must be proud.’ It was Karin that tipped the conversation into the personal this time.
‘My father died when I was nine. In a boating accident.’
‘The same as mine,’ Karin said. ‘More recently, but they died in a boating accident too.’
No; he bit on his tongue rather than say it. His father had died working; his father had been sober; his father had died because the company had sent him out in a badly maintained vessel. It had been nothing like Karin’s parents’ amoral end. Instead of saying it, though, he gave a gracious nod.
‘How about your mother?’ Karin asked.
‘There is only one thing that will make my mother truly proud: it is about this big.’ He held his hands a foot or so apart, his smile so devastating Karin found she was smiling too. ‘It makes a lot of noise and smells. I am back there next week for a christening. My cousin Stellios—he is also my best friend—has just acquired one.’
‘A smelly, noisy thing?’ Karin checked, and Xante nodded.
‘So I will suffer the weekend being reminded that I should be settling down with a nice Greek girl and producing babies instead of wasting my time with sport and work and nonsense like that.’
‘Do you have many brothers and sisters?’
‘Just me.’ Xante rolled his eyes.
‘Oh dear!’ Karin smiled, really starting to enjoy herself now. Xante Rossi up close and personal, apart from being seriously gorgeous, also had this rather dry humour that appealed. ‘Well, good luck next weekend.’
There was something on the tip of his tongue—right there on the very tip—the ludicrous suggestion that she come with him. But thankfully formalities took over; the MC stood, the lights dimmed, and Xante breathed out a small sigh of relief.
Since his break-up with Athena, he had never brought a woman back to his island, and if he suddenly were to now the implication would be huge to his family. It had been but a moment of madness, Xante decided. Karin Wallis might have all the attributes of a lady, but under that dress she had a grazed knee where she’d been tripped up stealing. At that moment she leant over to say something, just an observation about the speeches, and Xante caught a scent of her perfume. A stray curl just dusted the edge of his cheek, and he was so lost he had to ask Karin to repeat herself.
The speeches and formalities went on for ever, but neither Karin nor Xante seemed to mind. Sitting together, listening, occasionally talking, they truly appeared a couple. Only, just as Karin truly started to relax, the highlight of the night started—the charity auction. Everything seemed to be auctioned, from Caribbean holidays, a luxurious winter retreat at Lake Como and baubles from Tiffany’s that Xante had acquired at a preposterous price for his godchild. And yet all it did was make Karin feel sick. The copious spending, the haemorrhage of money, was all too familiar to her.
But the lavish spending had been just a pale precursor. When the auctioneer silenced the room, the major prize was announced—for a group of up to twenty to