Althea took a breath, tried not to think of the implications of his invitation. She made it a policy never to get this far, this close. Yet she’d broken that cardinal rule, and now she didn’t know what to do. How to act.

He’d led her through a maze of twisting alleys and streets and she had no idea how to get back to the club, or even to a thoroughfare that would have reliable taxis. She nodded slowly, and then forced herself to shrug. ‘Fine.’

He held out his hand, and with another shrug and a little smile Althea took it. She shouldn’t like the way his hand felt encasing hers, she knew, warm and dry and safe. She shouldn’t curl her fingers around his as if she wanted him to keep holding her, touching her. Yet she did.

A few minutes later they arrived at the promised taverna, a narrow, quaint place, crammed with tables and rickety chairs, dusty bottles lining the walls. The proprietor, a tall, gangling man in a three-piece suit and apron, welcomed them in.

‘Demos! Long time, eh? What brings you here?’

‘A party,’ Demos said with a shrug, but he clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Good to see you, Andreolos.’

Althea was surprised. From the innate grace and arrogance with which he’d strode through the club, not to mention dealt with Angelos, she’d expected him to entertain at five-star hotels on the Plaka, not dusty holes-in-the-wall in Psiri.

Andreolos ushered them to a table tucked in the corner, gave them menus and went to fetch a bottle of wine from under the bar. Althea wrapped her spangled shawl more modestly around herself, conscious yet again of how tarty she must appear.

‘Regretting your choice of attire?’ Demos asked, and she heard a mocking note in his voice that made her flush. Then he surprised her by adding quietly, ‘You look beautiful.’

In the dim intimacy of the taverna, with their knees touching under the tiny table, she took a moment to study the man whose attention and interest she’d captured. And had he captured hers? She considered the question reluctantly; she didn’t like to think that a man—any man—could have a hold over any part of her. Body, mind, heart.

Yet she’d gone with him; she’d been planning to go with him even before Angelos had intercepted their exit. She’d wanted to.

Why?

She thought of that deep shaft of pleasure-pain she’d felt when he looked at her, touched her, and then shoved the memory away with resolute determination.

She couldn’t afford memories like that.

He glanced down at the laminated menu, giving her ample time to study his features.

He was good-looking, undoubtedly, although not in the stylised, almost feminine way most of the young men of her circle were.

His face wasn’t beautiful; it was too rugged and individual for that. His hair was dark, longer than most men’s, touching his collar, raked arrogantly back from his face. His eyes were silvery grey under fierce arching brows. His nose would have been straight and perfect if not for a slight crook in the middle, suggesting it had been broken at some time in the distant past. And his mouth…lips that were sculpted, full. Surprisingly soft in such a hard face.

She tried to remember what the tabloids said about him, but the details escaped her. She tried never to read the gossip rags anyway. She knew all too well how they twisted the truth and lied outright. And she let them.

Andreolos came with the bottle of wine and two glasses, and they were both silent as he poured. Demos smiled his thanks at the man, then lifted his glass in a toast, the ruby-coloured liquid glinting in the lamplight.

‘Yasas,’ he said, in the familiar drinking toast, and Althea murmured it back before she took a sip. ‘So,’ he said musingly, and Althea tensed. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She took another sip of wine. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Your name, to start.’

Althea smiled mischievously. ‘I thought we agreed it would be better if you didn’t know.’

His mouth quirked in an answering smile. ‘Woman of mystery?’

‘Of course.’

He chuckled, and Althea wondered why it mattered. It didn’t make sense; he could find her name out easily enough by asking anyone in that club. She was surprised that he didn’t know it already, and that she’d never seen him outside the tabloids before.

She noticed now a few grey streaks at his temples, and wondered how old he was. Older than most of her crowd, at any rate. Older and more experienced—more sophisticated. More dangerous, she reminded herself.

She took another sip of wine.

‘All right, Woman of Mystery,’ Demos said, his tone lazy and languorous, ‘I suppose I’ll have to think of a name for you myself.’

Althea’s lips curved. ‘Such as?’

He studied her, his eyes heavy-lidded over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Elpis,’ he finally said at last, and Althea let out a short laugh of disbelief.

‘That’s an interesting choice.’

‘Do you know who she is?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Hope. The only thing left in Pandora’s box.’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know who she is?’

He laughed, and she could tell he had recognised how he’d patronised her. ‘Vaguely,’ he admitted, his eyes glinting in the dim light, sending a strange shiver of foreboding through Althea. She shouldn’t let him affect her like this…even if he was different.

‘So.’ She placed her wine glass on the table and leaned forward, her wrap slipping off one shoulder. ‘What kind of hope do I give you?’ she asked, and there was a knowing, sardonic edge to her voice that had his eyebrows rising in surprise.

His eyes flicked over her, resting briefly on her bare shoulder. ‘I think you know,’ he murmured.

She smiled, leaned back, and said nothing. She felt the slight, stupid sting of disappointment. It was about sex. Always about sex. Just sex. Of course. Had she thought for a moment he wanted something more? Had she hoped for it? Why?

Maybe he wasn’t so different after all.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ she said after a moment. Demos shrugged.

‘I’m a yacht designer. I also run a business letting luxury yachts to the discerning customer.’ He smiled and she nodded, her interest piqued. He wasn’t another boy intent on spending his father’s inheritance. He was a man who had presumably made his own money.

‘You like it?’ she asked.

‘Very much.’

‘Why?’

The question surprised him, she could tell. He took a sip of wine before speaking. ‘I like to see the designs come to life. From nothing, to lines on paper, to something made of steel and glass—something that races across the sea.’ He gave a little smile, almost of embarrassment, as if he’d said too much.

‘That must be a nice feeling,’ Althea agreed, and she couldn’t quite keep the wistful note from her voice. ‘To create something.’

‘And what do you do? Besides play and party.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I need to do anything else?’

‘A beautiful woman need only exist,’ Demos replied smoothly. Too smoothly.

‘An ornament, you mean?’ Althea said flatly, and she could tell he was surprised. He thought he’d been complimenting her.

‘So tell me what you do, then,’ he said, a cool note entering his voice.

Althea smiled sardonically, although she kept her voice light. ‘I exist, of course.’ Exist. So much less than living, loving. Nothing more than a state of being.

She could feel Demos’s eyes on her—felt his curiosity, his interest and, worse, a flicker of compassion. Pity.

‘Are you happy?’ he asked, and Althea realised no one had ever asked that before.

She looked up, saw him smile and laughed—a hard, brittle sound. ‘Of course I am. Look at me.’ She raised her arms. ‘Do you honestly think a woman like me could be unhappy?’

It was a bold question, one she didn’t want answered. She was beautiful; she knew that. Beautiful people didn’t have problems. Beautiful people were always happy. They had to be.