Page 3 of Virgin's Night with the Greek

Not that her body was of any interest to him, of course. Her curves, which were barely contained by the tiny black bikini she wore, were generous and her legs were tanned and shapely, but he’d never been distracted by a woman and he wasn’t about to be now. He wasn’t his mother, after all, ruled by whim, by emotion, by carnality. He wasn’t self-centred and thoughtless, scandalous and embarrassing.

Not these days, at least.

As a youth, he’d lived a pretty hedonistic and carefree existence, taking for granted his family’s wealth and privilege that meant he could pursue his love of sailing with the best boats and finest kit, and believing himself invincible. But ever since his father’s fatal heart attack, which had catapulted him sooner than anyone had anticipated into the role he’d been destined to fill—for which he had not been ready—he’d been a model of strength and restraint. These days, he was focused and driven. With the occasional exception that generally involved obstreperous family members, he was used to being obeyed. He was accustomed to having his demands carried out and he got results.

So he didn’t think it a disappointment when Willow towelled herself off and slipped on a silky pink robe that hid her body from view. He easily wiped from his memory the feel of her bottom bumping up against him as he’d towed her to the side and the satiny softness of her skin beneath his fingers. He had no further reason to find himself so close to her that he could make out flecks of amber in the emerald-green depths of her eyes. Her toenails—each painted a different colour—offended his need for order, so he simply wouldn’t look at them, and that went for the many earrings and the twinkling nose stud she wore, too.

The only thing that mattered was that he accomplished his mission to ensure his sister’s wedding went off without a hitch. And that he would do, right here, right now, whatever it took.

Had Willow not been busy contemplating the reason Leo Stanhope was paying his mother a visit and somehow sensing that it couldn’t be good, she’d have thought it a crying shame he donned his jacket and fastened the buttons because his shirt, rendered transparent by his dip in the pool, showcased muscles that really were something else.

However, who or what he looked like was as irrelevant as his impressive size and the raw physicality that had been in such evidence only a moment ago. If by some unfortunate chance he’d found out about the portrait and was here to express his displeasure, she needed to keep her wits about her. If he wasn’t, if he’d just happened to catch sight of her flailing about through the window and simply hadn’t fancied the paperwork of a hypothetical drowning, then all she needed to do was introduce herself, muster up a grudging ‘thank you’ and get back to work. Either way—and the latter was infinitely preferable, of course—polite professionalism was the way forward, she was sure.

‘Willow Jacobs,’ she said, holding out her hand and bestowing upon him her widest smile. ‘You must be Leo.’

With a quick frown, he gave her hand a perfunctory shake then strode past her and pulled out one of the six chairs that surrounded the poolside table.

‘I know who you are,’ he said flatly, pointing at the seat with one long tanned finger. ‘Sit down. We need to talk.’

Willow dropped her hand and her stomach sank. Right. So hewashere for her. ‘About?’

‘Your portrait of my mother naked.’

As she’d feared.

The set of Leo’s expression and the severity of his tone suggested he’d brook no argument, and from what Selene had told her, he was used to ordering about people who immediately rushed to do his bidding, but that was just tough. Willow had no intention of being one of them. Certainly not if he was here to scupper the future she so badly needed. There was simply too much at stake.

And besides, he might be standing there all darkly forbidding and smoulderingly intense, the sun setting behind him giving him a godlike glow, but thanks to Selene and her stories, she knew that that he wasn’t as invincible as he obviously liked to make out.

‘I prefer to stand,’ she said, lifting her chin and folding her arms across her chest to reinforce the message that she was not going to be intimidated.

‘Fine.’ He stalked towards her and came to a halt a couple of feet in front of her. ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said, close enough for her to be able to feel the simmering tension vibrating off him, close enough to touch.

Willow ignored the instinct to take a step back out of his powerful orbit and stood her ground. ‘Please do.’

‘This painting of yours will not be going on display.’

What?‘That is not your decision to make.’

His jaw tightened. ‘It must never see the light of day.’

‘It absolutely must,’ she said, straightening her spine and lifting her chin a tiny bit higher. ‘It’s an exceptional piece. My best work yet.’

‘That’s irrelevant.’

Willow bristled. However handsome and well-constructed he was, his presumption was staggering. ‘Not to me.’

‘I’ll double what my mother’s paying you.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll triple it.’

‘No.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘I’m not for bribing,’ she said with a bluntness that matched his own.

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