The Greek Tycoon's Love Child Read online

  'Yes.' Anna grinned at him. 'But that doesn't mean we are. So you can get your older-brother disapproving scowl off your face.'

  The trouble was, Theo realised belatedly, he had reacted with just such a baseless foundation last night when he had seen the lovely Willow, and he wasn't proud of the fact.

  'As for The Mole. . .Willow Blain,' Emma amended when he shot her a dark glance, 'I did my best to get her involved and lent her a stick-on belly-button gem and some of my clothes so she would blend in, but—' she glanced down at her own body, and then flirtatiously back at Theo '—as you can see I'm quite small and I could not believe how tall Willow had grown in the years since we last met.'

  Theo's memory summoned up all too vividly Willow's tall, lithe body. The brilliant blue eyes and skin as smooth as silk, and his body immediately reacted with shocking enthusiasm. But his incisive brain also reminded him of the face scrubbed free of make-up, and the stained bed, and just as quickly his heated response was quenched. Anger and confusion raged though him, the latter emotion not one he was familiar with. When he could trust his voice he asked abruptly, 'So Willow is not at university with you?' He rose to his feet. Theo suddenly had a horrible premo­nition he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

  'Good heavens, no,' Emma said with a giggle. 'She was only here because my father has known Mrs Blain for years; she is employed by the diplomatic corps and is in India at the moment. Anyway, my dad asked if we could put Willow up for the night, because her mother did not like the idea of her being on her own in a London hotel, especially as it was her eighteenth birthday. She only left school yesterday and she had to catch a flight out of Heathrow this morning to join her mother.'

  'Why are you so interested, Theo?' Anna asked, her brown eyes, full of merriment, resting on his face. 'Surely you didn't fancy her? Especially when the lovely Dianne has been on the telephone countless times already this morning. I think Willow took the first call before she left and I have fielded the rest. You'd better ring Dianne back; she was beginning to sound frantic.'

  Not half as frantic as Theo felt. His stomach churned and he was savagely angry with the four grinning girls, but even more so with himself. Theo could not believe he had been so arrogantly self-centred and had seduced a beautiful, in­nocent young girl into his bed without a second thought. How could he have been so blind not to have seen that, beneath the appalling make-up and clothes, Willow was barely eighteen.

  'Theo,' Anna prompted, 'are you going to ring Dianne?'

  'No. We split up, and if she calls tell her I am out.' Glad of the excuse and sick to his stomach, Theo stormed out of the kitchen, and the house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Seated at the circular dining table in a conference room of an exclusive London hotel, Willow wished she could just get up and walk out. Unfortunately her publishing com­pany had insisted she attend. Her third novel, A Class Act Murder, had been nominated for the Crime Writer's Prize, and Willow stood a good chance of winning.

  More importantly, an appointment had been arranged at five this evening for Willow to meet American producer, Ben Carlavitch, to discuss the proposal of buying the film rights to the book. If by some miracle Willow won the prize it would ensure she got a much better deal.

  Three days ago, Willow had been thrilled when Louise, her editor, had informed her about meeting Carlavitch. It had meant staying in London overnight, but excitedly she had agreed. However, Willow was now beginning to wish she hadn't bothered.

  She glanced around the room full of intense literary peo­ple, and felt hopelessly out of place. She had left school at eighteen and had become a writer more by accident than design. She loved reading, especially crime novels, and at the age of twenty she had decided to try to write one. Now, seven years and three books later, she found herself, much against her better judgment, in the spotlight.

  The award winner was to be announced after lunch, and Willow wished it were over and done with. She felt pretty certain that she had no hope of winning; the other five nominees were all well-established crime writers.

  But two hours later Willow walked out of the conference room in a daze. She had won. Her acceptance speech was a blur. She had immediately called her son, Stephen, on her editor's mobile and told him the news before being swamped with people wishing to congratulate her.

  She still felt weak at the knees with excitement and was grateful for the steadying hand of her editor on her arm as they approached the lift.

  'We have to meet our MD and company lawyer in Reception, and then across town to meet Carlavitch. He is really enthusiastic about your book,' Louise said, grinning happily. 'Especially after you winning the award, the pub­licity will boost our bargaining power immensely. You have it made, Willow. Carlavitch is leaving for Los Angeles later tonight, so we have to make the most of this oppor­tunity, and hopefully secure the deal.'

  'What is going on?' Theo Kadros asked the hotel manager as a reporter and cameramen he recognized from the na­tional press hurriedly crossed the foyer. 'You know the company policy: no reporters are allowed to hassle the ce­lebrity guests,' he said curtly.

  Theo, as the owner of a multinational company that dealt with property worldwide, including a string of exclusive hotels, had arrived in London this morning on business. As always he was in the process of making a quick inspection of the hotel lobby. Experience had taught him that the un­heralded visit gave him a much better idea of how his hotels were being run.

  The manager's smile slipped a little. 'Strictly speaking the person in question was not a celebrity when she booked in; no one had ever heard of her. We are hosting the Crime Writer's Prize ceremony lunch, and all the excitement is because the author J. W. Paxton has been announced the winner.'

  'Good choice. I read his latest book and thought it was excellent. However, I would hardly have thought the cer­emony warranted attention by the national press. It must be a slow news day,' Theo responded.

  'Maybe, but then you obviously have not seen J. W. Paxton.' The manager chuckled, his glance swinging to the lift doors opening at the mezzanine level. 'Here he comes now, but he is a she—and what a she! She could double as a model any day. Willow Blain is her real name, appar­ently.' And he chuckled again.

  On hearing Willow's name Theo stiffened and glanced across the crowded foyer to the lift. His dark eyes blazed for a moment, then narrowed on the woman who slowly stepped out. He would recognize that face anywhere. Willow, the woman who had haunted his dreams for nine long years. Now to see her in the flesh again shocked Theo rigid. A sudden anger, fierce and primitive, had him in­stantly stepping forward, but then just as quickly he stopped himself and stepped back.

  He had charged like a bull at the gate the first time he'd met Willow, and lived to regret it. Theo had learned never to make the same mistake twice. His unfinished business with the lovely Willow was private and very personal—he could wait. . .

  Casually leaning back against a marble pillar, he studied her with hot dark eyes. The years had been good to her; she had barely changed at all. Her figure a little fuller per­haps, but she was still sex on legs. The eager faces of the male reporter and photographer proved it, he thought an­grily as his glance skidded over them.

  The fact that she was a successful crime writer surprised him, and then with a wry smile he thought again. Emma had called her The Mole, not just because of her name, but because she was quiet and always had her head buried in a book. Perhaps it was not that unusual that she would choose to write, but as a man—now that was unusual.

  The book he had read, A Class Act Murder, had appealed to him because the plot had been strong and had tested the intelligence of the reader. The writing style of the author was full of vigour and passion. The passion of Willow he could personally vouch for, and as for the intrigue, well, she had certainly fooled him the first time they had met.

  For a moment the sudden camera flash blinded Willow and she was completely unaware of the tall, dark-haired man's silent scrut
iny of her as she exited the lift.

  'What was that for?' she asked Louise, blinking furi­ously. 'I thought the man at the lunch was the official pho­tographer from the Crime Writers' Review.'

  Louise chuckled. 'Yes, but the fact that J. W. Paxton is actually a woman, and the fact that Carlavitch is interested in buying the film rights, make it a much bigger story. Obviously, the news has already reached the nationals.' Louise grinned up at Willow. 'And let's face it, Willow, you are pretty gorgeous.'

  'I wish I'd stayed a man,' Willow muttered darkly, walk­ing by Louise's side towards the shallow flight of stairs that led down to the reception.

  'Hold it there, Willow,' the photographer shouted, and the two women halted a couple of steps from the foyer.

  Straightening her slender shoulders, Willow flicked a tendril of black hair from her cheek and tried to appear relaxed. She wished she had not left the jacket that matched the mint-green dress she was wearing in her room. She was suddenly terribly conscious that the heart-shaped neckline revealed more of the upper curve of her breasts than she was happy with. The rest of the dress fitted smoothly over her shapely figure but the skirt ended two inches too far above her knee for Willow's liking. Living in Devon, and, until recently, undecided whether to attend the awards cer­emony, it was the best thing she'd been able to find to wear at the last minute.

  Her hair had started the day severely tied back with a matching silk scarf but had now begun to escape, tendrils softly curling around her face and her elegant neck. Hot and flushed from the excitement and the attention, she still managed to stand tall and face the numerous questions the reporter fired at her.

  Louise raised her voice. 'Right, that is enough, gentle­men, we have a very important meeting at five so—'

  'One more shot, Willow, please,' the photographer shouted. 'How about this time with your hair loose and leaning forward over the stair rail, with a hand on your hip?' he suggested with a cheeky grin.

  Willow blushed scarlet and, laughing, said, 'No way.' She was a writer not a pin-up and her initial pleasure in actually winning the award was now fast diminishing. It suddenly dawned on her that it probably wasn't the best idea in the world to have her picture featured in the national press. One never knew who might see it, and she valued her privacy above all else. She lifted her hand and brushed past the pushy photographer, and froze.

  A head taller than every other man in the hotel, he wore a pale grey suit that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection and loosely followed the fine of his great torso. He moved with a lithe grace for such a big man, and he was moving towards her. . . Theo Kadros. . . She could hardly believe her own eyes. Frozen in shock, she simply stared. A ghost from the past—but unfortunately all too real. It was Theo.

  His black hair was streaked with silver now and if any­thing he was more stunningly handsome, more powerfully masculine than she had ever allowed herself to remember.

  His eyes gleamed black as night and were fringed with thick curling lashes that any woman would kill for. Willow now noticed that his eyes were fixed on her, with a dis­turbing intensity. She silently groaned. Seeing Theo again was all she needed at this point to melt what little shred of delight she had in winning the award to dust. But even so she could not tear her eyes away from his. It was a replay of the first time they'd met—she was dumbstruck.

  'I think Miss Blain has answered enough of your ques­tions.' Theo's strong hand quickly curved around her el­bow, and Willow found herself being marched across the foyer and straight into a large office.

  'You.' Willow finally found her voice, and glanced wildly around—they were in the manager's office! 'We can't come in here,' she said inanely.

  'We can when I own the hotel,' Theo Kadros declared arrogantly. Turning to the startled manager, he said, 'Get out there and get rid of those two news hounds. Reassure Miss Blain's publisher that she won't be a minute, and shut the door behind you when you leave.'

  'No,' Willow said shakily. This could not be happening to her. Wide blue eyes fixed in horror now on his hard, handsome face, she felt a slither of fear slowly trickling down her spine.

  She had convinced herself over the past nine years that she would never see Theo Kadros again. Now standing in front of him she wondered what the odds were of them bumping into each other like this. Probably astronomical! This had to be the most disastrous coincidence of all time, and instantly Willow realised the consequences could be catastrophic.

  It was so unfair; at her moment of triumph, Theo Kadros had appeared like a spectre at the feast. What kind of rotten luck was that? she silently screamed. Tearing her gaze from his, she looked around her, terrified he would see the fear and turmoil she knew must be reflected in her eyes.

  At their first meeting she had taken one look at him and been utterly entranced by his masculine beauty. Even now, looking back, she inwardly cringed with embarrassment at how very young and innocent she had been.

  It had been an unhappy time in her life. Her mother and father had both been in the Foreign Office. Her father had died in an accident in Africa when she was a baby and she did not really remember him. But her mother had continued with her career in the Foreign Office. Willow had spent most of her childhood with her grandmother in Devon. During the holidays Willow would visit her mother at whichever embassy she was attached to, and at the age of twelve she had been sent to boarding-school.

  Unfortunately Willow's grandmother had died three months before her eighteenth birthday, and she had been on her way to spend the summer holiday with her mother in India. Alone in London for the first time, and supposedly protected by close friends of her mum, she had been no match for the sophisticated seduction skills of Theo Kadros.

  With her only experience of life garnered from books, and her head stuffed full of romantic teenage fantasies, Willow had been instantly mesmerised by the wondrous gleam in his deep dark eyes. And for the first time in her life she had suffered the full force of a man's overwhelming sensual attraction and had been totally captivated. It had been no contest—Willow had surrendered on the spot. She'd fallen head over heels in love with him, and then fallen into bed with him, and had spent a dream-like night making wild, passionate love.

  No, not love, sex. . .Willow instantly amended. She had discovered the true meaning of her Quaker grandmother's many dire warnings about men and sex and their lack of respect the morning after.

  Like a besotted fool she had believed Theo when he'd asked her to spend the weekend with him, so they could get to know each other better. She had watched him fall asleep and then returned to her room and packed. Later, feeling every inch a real woman, she had slipped down­stairs to ring her mother to tell her of her change of plan. Her head had been full of love and happy ever after. But before she'd had a chance to call the telephone in the hall had rang.

  Politely answering, she had listened in numb disbelief as a woman called Dianne had asked to speak to her boy­friend, Theo Kadros. Shocked into answering honestly, Willow had said he was still in bed asleep. The woman had hesitated for a moment, and then laughed, saying, 'He is probably tired because I kept him up till dawn the night before. Don't bother waking him; I am flying over today, and I want him rested for tonight.' She had then instructed Willow to inform Theo as soon as possible that his fiancée had called.

  Anna had appeared as Willow had slowly replaced the receiver, and had asked who had called. Willow had told her that it was Theo's fiancée, and had had the horrible truth confirmed when Anna had replied, 'Dianne, you mean.'

  Even then Willow had not wanted to believe what she'd been hearing. She had hated herself but she hadn't been able to help questioning Anna. She had asked her if Theo had known Dianne very long, and had been mortified when Anna had informed her about a year, which was a record for her brother. Anna had explained that this was probably because Dianne was prepared to put up with his playboy lifestyle, but had added that their dad had been grumbling lately that it was time Theo settled down.

  Th
e final nail in the coffin for Willow had been when Anna had confirmed that Theo had just flown in late last night after visiting Dianne in New York. Willow had not needed to hear any more. She'd realised what a complete and utter fool she had been, and half an hour later she had been in a taxi heading for the airport.

  Now, nine years later, she looked back up into his darkly attractive face and her blue eyes clashed with gleaming black. For a moment the breath left her lungs as she realised he was watching her with cold, almost angry scrutiny. Even so, she could not prevent the sudden acceleration of her pulse rate and the sick twist of sensual hunger that tied her stomach in knots.

  'What exactly do you think you are doing?' she asked in a voice that was not quite steady. Hating the ease with which he had affected her all over again, Willow took a couple of steps back.

  'Rescuing an old friend.' His dark eyes narrowed on her pale face. 'Unless of course you want to pose some more for those two randy men out there.' He paused, one dark brow arched sardonically. 'Topless, maybe?' His heavy- lidded eyes raked slowly over her, taking in the top of her head, lingering for a moment on the unchanged beauty of her face and down further, hesitating briefly on the creamy curve of her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her dress. 'As I remember, Willow, you certainly have the fig­ure for it.'

  She battled back the blush that threatened at his blatant masculine appraisal. But she could do nothing except pray that he would not notice the sudden tightening of her nip­ples against the soft fabric of her dress. 'I didn't need res­cuing,' she said, aiming for a firmness she did not feel. 'I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you. Now, if you will excuse me. . .I have a meeting to attend.'

  'Yes, I heard, with Ben Carlavitch, no less. But first al­low me to congratulate you on winning the award. I have read your latest book and thoroughly enjoyed the deviousness of the mind that wrote it. You have certainly done well for yourself.' His dark eyes gleamed appreciatively down into hers, and his firm male mouth curved and soft­ened in a slight smile. 'But then I always knew you had hidden talents,' he drawled silkily.