The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife. Helen BianchinЧитать онлайн книгу.
within his immediate vicinity…came full circle, then returned to linger on one young woman’s features.
Fine facial bone structure, a pretty mouth…He liked the way she held her head, the expressive movement of her hands. Ash-blonde hair swept high on her head in a style that made his fingers itch to release the pins holding its length in place.
Refined elegance from the top of her head to the tips of her delicate feet.
And slightly nervous, he detected idly, beneath the practised smile…and wondered why, when she was so well versed with the social scene.
Ilana…daughter of society maven Liliana and the late Henri Girard.
Attractive, slender and petite, in her late twenties, she possessed an aloof persona in the company of men…a quality that had earned her an ice maiden tag. With reason, or so rumour abounded…although the only known fact was her hastily cancelled nuptials to Grant Baxter on the eve of their wedding.
Two years on, she mixed and mingled with the city’s social glitterati in the company of her widowed mother.
Many men had attempted to date her, but to Xandro’s knowledge none had succeeded.
Impeccable background, charming manners and well versed in the social graces, Ilana Girard would, he’d decided, make an eminently suitable wife.
All that remained was to implement a starting point, begin the courtship…and put forward his proposal.
Xandro’s eyes narrowed slightly as Liliana Girard separated from her daughter’s side and began moving towards him.
‘Xandro. How lovely to see you here.’
‘Liliana.’ He took her outstretched hands in his, then lowered his head and lightly brushed his lips to her cheek.
‘If you’re alone this evening, perhaps you would care to join Ilana and me?’
Xandro inclined his head in silent acquiescence.
‘Thank you.’
He allowed Liliana to precede him, his gaze becoming deliberately enigmatic as he saw the moment Ilana sensed his approach. The imperceptible stillness in her stance, the slight lift of her head, like a fragile gazelle scenting danger.
Then the moment was gone, replaced by a practised smile as he drew close.
People-watching was an art-form, body language an acquired skill…both at which he was incredibly adept. ‘Xandro,’ Ilana managed with cool politeness, and silently damned the way her pulse kicked in to a faster beat.
There was something about him, an indefinable quality that raised the hairs at the back of her neck in silent warning…of what?
Tall, for even in four-inch stilettos she had to lift her head to look at him.
Attractive, Ilana accorded silently, in a leonine way, for the lighting accentuated his broad sculptured facial features, strong jaw-line and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes.
His tailoring was impeccable and individually crafted, downplaying rather than emphasising his impressive breadth of shoulder.
Intensely masculine, he bore an aura of power that was uncontrived, yet only a fool would fail to detect the ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface.
‘Ilana.’
He made no attempt to touch her…so why did she harbour the instinctive feeling he was merely biding his time? It didn’t make sense.
‘I believe you’re sharing our table this evening.’ She was well versed in the art of social conversation and could converse in fluent Italian and French, thanks to a year spent in each country studying couture.
Yet in this man’s presence she had to consciously strive to present a certain façade. Aware, in some deep recess of her mind, that he saw straight through it.
His gaze remained steady. ‘Is that a problem?’
What would he do if she said…yes?
A polite smile curved her mouth. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to have you join us.’ And knew she lied.
‘One of the committee members has just signalled me,’ Liliana posed. ‘I won’t be long.’
For a moment Ilana felt bereft, and incredibly vulnerable. She could escape with good reason…excuse herself and drift towards another group of guests. Except it would be a copout, and a fruitless one, for she doubted such a move would fool Xandro in the slightest.
It was inevitable they’d cross paths. The Caramanis empire was a known benefactor of several charities, and gala events such as this evening’s fundraiser ensured Xandro’s presence, usually with a stunning female in tow.
Yet this was the third time in recent weeks he’d attended an evening function without a partner.
So who’s counting? a silent imp taunted…and she stilled the soft oath that rose and died in her throat.
The thought he might deliberately seek her out was laughable. She was his polar opposite, and besides, she was done with men. Had been for more than two years, and once bitten…
A faint shiver slithered down the length of her spine as memory provided a vivid replay of that fateful night when her hopes and dreams had been so cruelly shattered.
She’d survived and moved on, losing herself in her career to the extent it consumed her life. There was little she wanted or needed. No unfulfilled dreams.
‘Darling.’ The soft feminine voice was pure feline, and matched the tall, willowy blonde who drifted close to Xandro’s side. ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’
‘Danika,’ Xandro acknowledged with a polite smile that failed to reach his eyes.
The Austrian-born model trod the international fashion catwalks and was much sought-after by designers, despite her behind-the-scene tantrums. A nightmare to work with, she possessed a magical ability to model clothes that put her among the élite.
‘You’ve met Ilana?’
Brilliant blue eyes spared her a perfunctory look. ‘Should I have?’
The deliberate put-down was softened with an ingenious tilt of that exquisitely painted mouth.
‘Ilana is a fashion designer.’
‘Really?’
Bored disinterest couldn’t have been better feigned. This was party time, and the glamorous model had only one goal in mind…Xandro Caramanis.
Who could blame her? The man was the catch of the decade!
‘I’m not familiar with your name. Ilana…who?’
‘Girard,’ Xandro informed silkily.
Ilana decided there was never going to be a better moment. ‘Arabelle label.’ She waited a beat. ‘You’re wearing one.’ So too was she, a gorgeous, figure-hugging halter-neck design in deep pink slipper-satin.
Danika’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘It was sold as an original.’
‘Gifted,’ Ilana corrected, and saw the model lift a dismissive hand.
‘My agent deals with the minor details.’
‘She follows your instructions.’ It was part of the deal, part of the play Danika employed. Designers adored her panache, and turned a blind eye to any contretemps. The gift of one of their original designs meant little in the big scheme of things.
It was all about marketing…recognition…sales.
Danika placed a lacquered nail to the lapel of Xandro’s evening suit and offered a seductive smile. ‘I’ll ensure we share the same table.’
With an unhurried movement he removed the model’s hand. ‘No.’
Just…no?