Page 6 of Virgin's Night with the Greek

‘So far, so good.’

In response to the dry comment in Greek that came from his left, Leo swung his gaze away from the guests beginning to amass in the hall below and rested it on his brother, the next one down in age.

Zander was right. So far, things had been very good. Way better than he’d anticipated, in fact. The ceremony that had taken place this morning at the Metropolitan Cathedral of Athens had gone off without a hitch. The dozen or so knee-high bridesmaids had behaved beautifully. The bride had looked radiant as he’d led her down the aisle, and the groom—ridiculously overcome by emotion—had even shed a tear when he’d said his vows. Selene had ditched the white in favour of an unexpectedly age-and occasion-appropriate pale blue skirt and matching jacket and had exhibited far more restraint than Leo could ever have hoped.

Yet he couldn’t relax.

The minute he’d woken up this morning his gut had started to churn with apprehension and adrenalin, a leaden weight settling in his chest. Despite the success of the day, none of that had eased. He had to remain alert. He had to keep an eye on his mother because he knew from experience that when it came to her, things could turn on a sixpence.

‘The night is young,’ he muttered as he resumed his perusal of the throng at the centre of which were his sister and brand-new brother-in-law, looking absurdly happy, as if the car crash of her parents’ marriage hadn’t given them even the tiniest pause for thought. ‘There’s still plenty of opportunity for Selene to make a scene.’

‘She hasn’t yet,’ Zander pointed out, ‘and I’m assured she won’t.’

‘Who by?’

‘Atticus told Olympia who told Thalia who told me that apparently the woman who was painting her had a word.’

At the eventual reference to Willow, every one of Leo’s senses sharpened and his entire body seemed to vibrate, as if he’d suddenly been plugged in and switched on. If someone had asked him to recite the order of siblings through which the information had travelled he’d have failed. ‘What sort of a word?’

‘A subtle one, apparently.’

‘Well, that won’t last long,’ he muttered. ‘We all know subtle doesn’t work.’

‘Seems to be working so far,’ Zander said. ‘Who’d have thought? A random artist who’s known her for approximately two months succeeds where the rest of us, who’ve known her for years, fail. She must be quite something.’

She was. Although Leo had no idea quite what.

‘You met her, didn’t you?’

Met her. Dived into a pool to save her. Argued with her, bargained with her and dreamed about her ever since... ‘I did.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Willow Jacobs.’

Saying the words out loud made his blood heat and his skin prickle, but that reaction was nothing new when it came to her. He’d been driven to distraction by the woman over the last couple of weeks. That their encounter had lasted no more than half an hour and had hardly been scintillating didn’t matter. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get the image of her—arms folded, chin up, green eyes lit with cool fire—out of his head.

In his dreams, she didn’t don a robe on exiting the pool. No. That would be far too considerate. Instead, she sidled up to him, all glorious curves and sultry smiles, while he remained rooted to the spot. She pushed aside the lapels of his jacket, put her hands to the buttons of his sodden shirt and huskily said something along the lines of ‘Why don’t we get out of these wet things?’ He, seeing this as an excellent idea rather than a cringe-worthy cliché, then invariably pulled her into his arms and lowered her to a lounger before setting about doing as she suggested.

‘What’s she like?’

Gorgeous. Annoying. Disturbing. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘Our encounter was brief.’

And that was what was so irritating about the bizarrely intense effect she’d had on him. He didn’t know her. He didn’t particularly like her. She had zero respect for his authority. She challenged the order and control he valued so highly and ultimately she’d blackmailed him.

Yet he could recall every word of their conversation, every arch of her eyebrow and every jut of her chin. He wanted to know what she felt and tasted like. The sounds she’d make as he ran his hands and mouth over her and then finally sank into her. What was even more unnerving but equally baffling, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fleeting sadness that had filled her expression when she’d mentioned her mother and pondering the nature of their relationship.

Willow—a woman with multiple piercings, a slapdash attitude towards nail varnish and possibly pink hair, whose nanosecond of vulnerability seemed to be permanently etched into his head and who was the complete opposite of the cool, polished, one-earring-per-ear type he usually went for—was immensely distracting on a number of levels, and it was frustrating in the extreme.

‘Daph said you invited her tonight.’

Schooling his features so that not a hint of his inner turmoil showed, Leo shoved his hands in his pockets and gave a casual shrug. ‘All part of the package to keep the wedding scandal-free.’

‘So where is she?’

‘No idea.’

Whether she came tonight or not, he didn’t care. She wasn’t the cause of the adrenalin that had been pounding through him since this morning and he wasn’t scanning the guests for her now. He was standing on the balcony simply to get some breathing space after a hectic day. That he had a view of the gathering throng was merely an unintended consequence of that. He wasn’t watching the door. He had eyes on his mother and that was where they’d stay.

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