Page 22 of The Billionaire's Demand

She was there. Eliana. Real, live and no fantasy. No dream. No long-lost yearning.

So go to her.

The words were in his head, in his will—but he was resisting them. Yes, he’d brought her here to Paris for precisely the purpose that was now urging him on, but with his head—if not, alas, his body—he knew that now was not the right time. Tonight it had been a formal dinner, tomorrow he had his client appointment—he wanted all business affairs out of the way before he turned his focus on Eliana.

And there was another reason too. He wanted to give her time. Oh, she deserved no consideration, but he would allow it her all the same. He would treat her well—whether she deserved it or not.

He forced his gaze back on to the article he was attempting to read. He wished he felt sleepy, at least, not as if this edgy restlessness was possessing him.

And then, as his eyes glazed over yet again, not seeing the text, he heard his bedroom door open.

Immediately, his gaze flashed upwards, pulse leaping.

It was Eliana. Standing in the doorway.

And Leandros’s blood leapt again.

Eliana forced herself forward. Her feet felt like blocks of lead, and her heart was thudding in her chest at the thought of what she was doing. But she made herself pad forward.

Leandros’s gaze had lifted from his magazine and gone straight to her—eyes fixed on her like lasers. She felt her cheeks flush, then whiten, as her own gaze took in, instantly, the fact that he was sitting in bed, bedclothes casually drawn over his lower half, his torso bare. Smooth, muscled, lightly tanned, lithe and powerful...

She swallowed.

She had to say something. Of course she did. But her throat was as narrow as a crushed straw.

She swallowed again, halted halfway across the room.

Leandros let his magazine drop, his lasering eyes never leaving her. Saying nothing.

So she spoke instead—she had to. With an effort, she managed to get the words out, past the deafening thudding of her heart, the blood drumming in her ears. She felt hot and cold all at the same time, weak and faint, forcing herself to stay upright.

‘Leandros...’ She said his name, faint and hesitant. ‘I... I...’

It was all she could manage. Something changed in his face. His expression was edged...became guarded and loaded at the same time.

‘Yes?’ The edge was in his voice too.

She took another halting step forward, half lifted a hand, then let it drop again.

‘Leandros.’ She got his name out again, less hesitant now, but with a husk in it that even she could hear. She swallowed once more, took another step forward, lifted her hand again.

Was she imploring him? And if so, for what?

‘Eliana.’

He echoed her style of address, his voice flat now. The edge was still in his face, and in his voice.

‘What is it that you want?’

It was a polite inquiry—or could have been. But she knew it wasn’t. She felt herself flush again and made herself speak. He obviously wasn’t going to help her out.

She took a larger breath, lifted her chin—looked straight at him. ‘You brought me here to Paris for one reason only, so—’ she took yet another breath ‘—here I am.’

She let her hand drop, knowing she was just standing there, wearing her ankle-length nightgown, a few metres from the end of his bed. And he was sitting there, propped up by his pillows, his bare torso exposed, looking at her.

Like a pasha waiting for his chosen female from the harem to approach him...

Dark stories from the grim centuries of the Ottoman conquest and occupation of Greece were in her head. Was that what she was? One of those hapless females procured to serve...to service...their imperial masters?

---