Greek Affairs: In His Bed - Kate Walker Mills & Boon M&B

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she was wearing were unsuitable attire for this climate. But was that the only reason she looked so distrait?

      She’d cut her hair, he noticed, with a pang he quickly suppressed. But she was still as slim and lovely as ever. Would she recognise him? It had been over fourteen years, after all. Was he flattering himself in thinking she might remember him as well as he remembered her?

      And then their eyes met and held, and the breath he’d hardly been aware he was holding got caught somewhere in the back of his throat. Theos, she remembered him all right. Why else would there be such a mixture of fear and loathing in her eyes?

      ‘Who’s that?’

      Without her being aware of it, Melissa had noticed her distraction, and Helen managed to drag her eyes away from Milos’s and say with admirable restraint, ‘Who’s who?’

      ‘That man,’ said Melissa flatly, hauling her backpack higher on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Mum. He’s staring at us. He’s not your dad, is he?’

      Helen gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Hardly,’ she said, acknowledging that only she could know the irony of that statement. ‘His name’s Milos Stephanides. Your grandfather must have sent him to meet us.’

      ‘Yeah?’ Melissa arched dark brows that were so exactly like her father’s that Helen felt a momentary pang. ‘So how do you know him?’

      ‘Oh …’ This was not a conversation Helen wanted to be having right now. ‘I met him—years ago. Your grandfather asked him to look us up when he was on a visit to England.’ She moistened her dry lips. ‘That—that was before you were born, of course.’

      ‘And he still remembers you?’ Melissa reflected consideringly. ‘What happened? Don’t tell me my stiff-assed mother actually had a thing for a sexy Greek labourer!’

      ‘No!’ Helen was horrified, glancing about her to make sure no one else had heard her daughter’s coarse words. ‘And as far as I know, he’s not a labourer. He just works for your grandfather, that’s all.’

      ‘Well, what else is there to do on a farm?’ asked Melissa impatiently, and Helen sighed.

      ‘It’s not a farm.’

      ‘Yeah, right.’ Melissa gave her a sardonic look. ‘You’re not going to tell me.’ She snorted. ‘I should have had more sense than to ask.’

      Helen had no time to answer that. They’d reached the stone quay and Milos was coming towards them. He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt, open halfway down his chest, she noticed, and black chinos that hugged his narrow hips and only hinted at the power of his long legs. He looked good, she thought uneasily. Dear God, it was devastating how good he looked. Cool and dark—was his hair a little longer than she remembered? But so horribly familiar, his lean handsome face the one that had haunted her dreams for all these years.

      She badly wanted to turn tail and get back on the ferry. She’d known all along it was a risk coming here, but how had she been supposed to know that his would be the first face she’d see? But with Melissa breathing down her neck and her pull-along suitcase nudging at her heels, there was no alternative but to go on. She had to go through with this, she told herself. If only to prove to this smug, unsmiling stranger that she’d got over him and made herself a life.

      It didn’t help that in spite of her high heels—heels she’d worn in a futile attempt to boost her morale—she still had to tilt her head to look up at him. It reminded her too painfully of the past and for a moment she thought she wasn’t going to be able to do this. But then sanity returned, and with admirable control she said, ‘Hello, Milos. How kind of you to come and meet us. Did my father send you?’

      The dig was unmistakable, but he was unperturbed by it. ‘No one sent me,’ he said, revealing the faint trace of accent she remembered so well. ‘I am not an item of mail.’

      Helen’s lips tightened. No, you’re not, she wanted to say grimly. You’re far more dangerous. But all she actually said was, ‘You know what I mean.’ Her eyes flicked to his and swiftly away again. ‘Is my father with you?’

      ‘No.’ Milos negated that hope with a cool arrogance. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

      ‘You have got to be kidding!’

      It was Melissa who answered him and Helen saw Milos’s eyes move beyond the girl without even acknowledging she’d spoken. ‘Your daughter?’ he said thinly. ‘I thought she was coming with you.’

      ‘I’m her daughter,’ announced Melissa shortly, clearly resenting his attitude. ‘Who’re you? My grandfather’s chauffeur?’

      Milos’s expression didn’t change, but Helen was aware of the sudden withdrawal that stiffened his lean, muscular frame. ‘No, yours,’ he responded, without turning a hair. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’

      Helen resented it, but she felt uncomfortable now. It was bad enough having to deal with a man she had once made a fool of herself over without having to feel ashamed of her daughter’s attitude.

      So, ‘Yes,’ she said, giving Melissa a killing look. ‘Is—is it far to Aghios Petros?’

      ‘Not very,’ Milos replied, taking possession of her suitcase. ‘Follow me.’

      ‘Shouldn’t you say ilthateh sto Santoros?’ asked Melissa, undaunted by her mother’s embarrassment. ‘That’s welcome to Santoros,’ she added, for Helen’s benefit. ‘Good, eh?’

      Milos glanced at her, but if she’d expected an angry reaction, she was disappointed. ‘I am pleased you’re keen to learn my language,’ he said smoothly. ‘Then to ixera.’

      ‘Yeah.’ But Melissa was nonplussed now, and, shoving the phrase book she’d pulled out of her backpack into the pocket of her jeans, she adopted her usual belligerence when faced with opposition of any kind. ‘Well, I’m not really interested in learning Greek,’ she said rudely. She glanced about her. ‘Come on. Can we get moving? I need to pee.’

      Helen clenched her teeth. Melissa was impossible and she saw that Milos had noticed how pushing the phrase book into her pocket had exposed a generous wedge of olive skin between her waistband and her cropped tee shirt. It had also exposed the navel ring that they’d had a row about just the night before and she dreaded to think what kind of a mother he must believe her to be.

      The quay had virtually emptied while they were talking and only the porters unloading supplies from the hold of the vessel were still working in the hot sun. Helen wished she were just wearing a vest instead of the heavy blazer, but she’d had no idea it would be so hot.

      As if taking pity on her, Milos spoke again. ‘Your father can’t wait to see you,’ he said. Then, with a careless gesture, ‘My car is over here.’

      ‘I’m looking forward to seeing him, too,’ Helen confessed, keeping pace with him with some difficulty. ‘Is he very ill?’

      Milos halted then and gave her a stunned look. ‘He’s—as well as can be expected,’ he said, after a moment. ‘For his age, that is.’ He paused and then added stiffly, ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband’s accident.’

      ‘Yes.’ But Helen didn’t want to talk about Richard. Particularly not to him. She strove for something else to say and found the perfect response. ‘How is your wife these days?’

      Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘We are divorced,’ he said tersely, obviously resenting her question just as much as she’d resented his. ‘Your—husband must have been very young when he died.’

      ‘He was—’

      ‘’Course, he was stoned at the time,’ put in Melissa, apparently growing tired of being ignored. Then, before either of the adults could respond, ‘Wow, are these your wheels? Cool!’

      Helen met Milos’s eyes without really being able to stop herself. She could almost see what he was thinking.

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