Page 15 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

And she was there—there in the entrance to the lounge.

He felt emotions stab through him—a mix of them. Anger that she’d run so late, relief that she’d arrived at all, and something even more potent...more stabbing. Something that made his gaze focus on her like a laser beam, taking in the entirety of her in an instant, imprinting it on his retinas.

She was looking fraught—that was the only word for it. Strain in her face, in her eyes, as she hesitantly showed her boarding pass to the attendant at the door, gripping her bag—a shoulder bag that seemed, he thought, to be doubling as a carry-on, bulky and bulging.

He’d told her not to pack, that he’d be supplying her wardrobe, but presumably there were first-night necessities she would need before he took her shopping in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré tomorrow.

He pushed the thought of ‘first-night’ from him...got to his feet, strode across to her.

‘You’ve cut it fine,’ he said. His voice was still curt, and it came out like an admonishment.

She flushed. ‘The bus took longer than I thought it would,’ she said.

He frowned. ‘I told you to take a taxi—that I’d reimburse you the fare.’

She didn’t answer, only paid attention to the airline staffer who was hovering, keen for them to board.

Leandros nodded, taking Eliana’s elbow. He felt her freeze, and for some reason it annoyed him. But she went with him all the same, disengaging as they left the lounge to make their way towards their gate.

Leandros glanced at her as they walked. She was looking neat, but that was about the only compliment he could pay her. He frowned inwardly. It was...strange... That was the only word he could come up with. To see her dressed so cheaply. Almost as strange—and that was definitely not the only word—as seeing her reduced to living in that squalid rental apartment.

He quickened his pace slightly, unconsciously. Well, that poverty-stricken, squalid existence she’d been forced into was about to change. From now on her luck was looking up—courtesy of himself. Courtesy of the fire burning in his head that only she could extinguish.

When he had got what he wanted from her—then, and only then—he could be free of that burning fire, so disastrously rekindled. He wished to God it wasn’t so—wished to God he’d never set eyes on her again. Wished to God that she’d never been widowed, simply so that their paths would never have crossed again and she would have remained out of his reach for ever by her marriage, instead of only six long years.

But now...

Now she was boarding a plane with him, and they were heading to Paris. To have the ‘honeymoon’ she had denied him. And after that, and only after that, he would, if there was any justice in this world, finally be free of her.

Finally.

‘Champagne, madam?’

The steward was proffering a tray with two glasses of gently foaming flutes on it, together with little bowls of salted almonds.

Eliana shook her head, but Leandros simply reached out and took the two flutes with a swift ‘thank you’, placing them on the table set between their spacious seats. The steward placed the nuts down as well, and then disappeared.

Leandros picked up a flute and held the other one out to Eliana. Passively, she took it, trying to calm her jangled nerves. Trying not to be so burningly aware of sitting there beside him in the capacious first-class seat. But he was dominating her senses—as he always had.

He always did—always! From the first moment I saw him there was never another man for me. Never...

Not Damian—poor, hapless Damian. Trying to please his overbearing father with a bride Jonas Makris considered suitable for his son—irrespective of what his son might want...

Poor Damian—and yet we both got what each of us wanted from our marriage.

A marriage that had ended with his car smashed to pieces on that treacherous road a year and a half ago, leaving the consequences that it had...

‘To Paris—and to our time together there.’

Leandros’s low voice interrupted thoughts she didn’t want to have...memories she wanted even less. He clinked his glass against hers, a smile pulling at his sculpted mouth. Yet it was a smile that was disquieting. Like the silky note in his voice.

‘To our days,’ he said. ‘And to our nights...’

For a moment his eyes held hers, and then she broke contact, knowing colour had stained across her cheekbones. Knowing why. Because when he looked at her like that...

More memories she must not have came to her. Of how he had once looked at her like that all the time, making no secret of his desire for her—a desire that she, in those heady, intoxicating days of her love for him, had made no secret of returning.

She took a hasty sip of her champagne, letting the soft mousse fill her mouth, divert her senses from the burning consciousness of Leandros so close beside her.

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