‘Perfect,’ she murmured. He hadn’t bought a drink for himself, Althea noticed as she took a small, careful sip.

He sat down next to her, watching her with an intent narrowed gaze that lacked the lascivious speculation she was used to and yet affected her more deeply, causing a strange shaft of pleasure and pain to pierce her composure, her armour, as his eyes swept slowly over her.

‘I don’t even know your name.’

She smiled over the rim of her glass and sought to arm herself once more. ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that how you like it?’

‘Sometimes,’ she shot back carelessly. She put her drink down, not quite meeting his eyes.

‘I like women to know my name,’ he replied. His eyes glinted with both challenge and admiration. ‘Demos Atrikes,’ he said after a moment, and she tossed her hair back and smiled.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ She’d heard of him, of course. She supposed she should have recognised him. He was in the tabloids just as much she was, usually with a model or starlet clinging to his arm. And now he wanted her for that precarious position.

Her lips thinned before she smiled again, letting her gaze linger on the harsh yet beautiful lines of his face, noticing the gold flecks in his silver-grey eyes. Silver and gold. The man was rich, she knew. Rich and bored, out for an evening’s entertainment. She leaned back against the leather divan, tucking her legs under her, her mouth twisting sardonically.

He noticed. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked in a murmur, his voice pitched low yet sharpened with cynicism.

‘I’m bored.’ Althea met his gaze with a challenge of her own. ‘Let’s dance.’

‘You bore easily.’

‘Not if given the right entertainment,’ she tossed back, eyes and senses flaring.

‘I have a better idea,’ Demos murmured, leaning towards her so she could feel his breath, cool and minty on her cheek. ‘Let’s leave this party. I know a taverna near here. We can have a drink, some quiet conversation.’

Althea pulled back, raised one eyebrow in mocking disbelief. ‘You want to talk?’

‘We can begin with talking,’ Demos replied with a smile. ‘And see where it leads.’ He paused, his eyes flickering over her once again. ‘You’re different.’

She smiled again, not bothering to hide her cynicism. He had no idea how different she was. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It was intended as one. So?’ Demos arched an eyebrow, his eyes dark with enquiry and interest. ‘Shall we?’

She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. She didn’t get that close with men like Demos Atrikes. She didn’t get them alone.

Yet she was intrigued despite her intentions not to be, despite her self. He had told her she was different, and now she wondered if he really was too.

It was more than simple curiosity, Althea knew. Her eyes were drawn to the hand he extended, lean and brown and sure. She wondered how that hand would feel wrapped around hers, how his body, lean and long and hard, would feel against hers, and the very fact that she was wondering such things made her breathless and dizzy with fearful surprise.

Althea felt herself slip from the divan even as a disconnected voice reminded her that she never did this. He was just a man, another man, and she knew…

Except maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she wanted to find out. She tossed her hair back and reached for the scrap of spangled silk that served as a wrap. Even in Athens the early spring air was chilly. It had a bite.

She slipped her hand in his and felt those strong brown fingers close around hers, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her like a shot to the heart. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling; it was too strong and surprising. Althea jerked back, but Demos didn’t let go.

He just smiled, and Althea realised he’d sensed her reaction and knew what it meant. Maybe he felt it too.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a glint of pink silk, and her stomach curled with nerves as Angelos Fotopolous walked straight towards her, smiling with unpleasant promise. She turned back to Demos.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘In a hurry, are you?’ he murmured, even as Althea rested a hand on his arm, her fingers curling, clinging to his suit jacket.

‘You’re not leaving the party so soon, beautiful?’ Angelos said. He’d undone a further button on his shirt and his hair was slicked back from his narrow face.

He reached out to pull her to him, and Althea let herself go slack, unresisting. She felt her body go numb, and then… nothing.

He didn’t touch her.

Demos had stopped that snaking arm with a quick vice-like grip. ‘She’s leaving,’ he said in a low, pleasant voice. ‘With me.’

‘Says who?’ Angelos snarled, yet Althea saw the uncertainty enter his eyes. Demos was a head taller and a decade older than Angelos, who still had a rime of pimples along his jaw.

‘She says,’ Demos replied. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked, sliding her a quick querying glance. He was, she realised, giving her a choice. She hadn’t expected it. She had expected him to defend her against Angelos as a matter of personal pride. But to let her choose…? It was novel.

Maybe he was different.

‘I…’ She cleared her throat, raised her voice. ‘I do. Leave it, Angelos.’

Angelos’s eyes blazed, but he shrugged. ‘Fine. She’s nothing but an easy slut anyway.’

Demos’s hand shot out, wrapped around Angelos’s throat. Althea blinked. Angelos choked.

‘Apologise, please,’ Demos said. His eyes were hard, almost black, even though he kept his voice pleasant.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Angelos gasped, his fingers scrabbling at Demos’s fist. Speculative murmurs rippled around them in an uneasy tide. They were, Althea realised, attracting a crowd.

‘Demos—enough,’ she said. She lifted her shoulder in a dismissive shrug. ‘He’s not worth it.’

Demos waited a few seconds, watched as Angelos’s face began to turn colour. Then he let him go. ‘No, he’s not,’ he agreed with an unpleasant little smile. He stepped away. ‘Let’s go.’

Demos turned his back on Angelos and his arm, heavy, guiding, went around Althea’s shoulders. She tensed as he led her through the curious throng, the crowd parting easily and quickly for a man of Demos’s size and presence.

Within seconds they were on the street outside the club—little more than a narrow alleyway in the city’s Psiri district.

‘I know a place near here,’ Demos said, and with his arm still around her shoulders he began striding down the street.

Although the district was a working class neighbourhood of small shops and factories during the day, at night the tavernas and ouzeries opened up, spilling their tables and patrons out onto the street along with raucous laughter and the twangy strains of old rembetika songs.

High-profile nightclubs had attracted Athens’s A-List, but now Demos was leading her to another part of Psiri altogether; a part, Althea thought with a shiver, that reminded her of the district’s origins in revolutionaries and organised crime.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, and Demos flashed her a quick smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

The pounding music and pulsing lights of the club were far behind, and somewhere in the darkness a wild cat yowled.

‘Don’t worry,’ Demos said, but Althea jerked away from him.

‘I want to know where we’re going.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of how skimpy her attire really was. In the crowd of a club it felt appropriate. Here, alone with Demos on an empty darkened street, it felt ridiculous, dangerous. And freezing.

She was also conscious of how little she knew Demos; she’d been intrigued in the club—excited, even—yet now fear, cold and familiar, came rushing back.

Demos regarded her for a moment, and in the yellow wash of a passing car’s headlights Althea could see a considering gleam in his eyes. ‘There’s a little taverna on the next street,’ he said. ‘A quiet place, with good wine.’