He dropped the page and leaned back in his chair, brows rising as he shot Demetrius a look of dry inquiry. “That’s it?”
Demetrius offered a grateful nod to the steward who returned with his coffee. He chuckled at Alexandros disgruntled expression.
“That’s it. I ran the usual searches. Social media, digital trail, records—nothing. She might as well be a ghost.”
Alexandros exhaled a long, slow breath and stared down at his eggs as if they might offer insight. “Incredible,” he murmured. “In thisworld of influencers and over-sharers… I find the one woman who’s completely offline.”
Demetrius took a sip of his espresso, savoring it with a sigh. “She has an email address linked to an engine repair site she’s never updated. No Instagram. No Twitter. No Facebook. No TikTok. She’s a unicorn.”
“A unicorn who punches like a prizefighter and tosses caviar into billionaires’ faces,” Alexandros dryly commented, his lips quirking at the memory of her pointing out where she had hit him.
That earned him a choked laugh from Demetrius.
“She was magnificent,” Alexandros continued, voice lower now. “Hair soaked, that dress hanging off her like it was floating—bare feet, clutching those ridiculous boots like they were diamonds.” He paused, eyes narrowing with interest. “Despite that, she carried herself like a queen storming a palace.”
Demetrius raised a brow. “She also stole your shirt.”
“Technically, I gave it to her,” Alexandros corrected, though his smile had gone wistful. “Not that she cared for my act of chivalry. Or showed even the faintest flicker of being impressed.”
He swirled his orange juice, watching the pulp catch the morning light.
“She wanted nothing from me, Demetrius. She didn’t want my money. Didn’t care about my name. She just wanted her tools.”
“Alexandros, as your friend, I think this is one you should leave well enough alone. As your head of security, I ask that you at least give me time to find out more about her if you won’t.”
“I appreciate your concern, my friend, but this is one that has me truly intrigued. Something that hasn’t happened in a long, long time,” he said, lifting his fork and spearing a piece of toast with egg on it. “I don’t want her to escape.”
Demetrius leaned back in his chair, studying his employer like one might study a volcano that had grumbled after years of silence.
“So what now?” he asked.
Alexandros smiled over his coffee cup, his eyes dark with amusement and something else—something deeper.
“Now,” he said, “I do things the old-fashioned way. I’ll start by returning her precious tool bag. I’m sure that should earn me some credit. By tonight, she will be eating out of my hand.”
Demetrius groaned. “I’m not sure who I should be feeling sorrier for—you or the woman.”
“Sorrier for—me? Why would I need your sympathy?”
“When she hands you your balls on a platter like she nearly did last night, I’ll explain,” Demetrius dryly replied.
Alexandros tilted his head back and laughed. “Since when has a woman ever turned me down?” He raised his hand when Demetrius started to point out the obvious. “Last night does not count. She was upset with Vito. Who, by the way, is no longer welcome at any of my properties,” he added.
“His sister is not going to be pleased about that,” Demetrius warned, his face bland of any emotion.
“Perhaps it’s time for Allegra to find a new best friend,” he said.
Demetrius lifted his eyes to the heavens and muttered a low, “Thank you, Zeus, for small favors.”
That drew another rich, genuine laugh from Alexandros. One that echoed across the deck and over the sea.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the silver Bentley Continental GT, its polished chrome grille glinting like a snarl beneath the sun. Alexandros ignored the stares as he guided the luxury coupe around a rusted flatbed truck and parked just outside the boathouse.
Men looked up from their work, some shading their eyes with grease-streaked hands, others nudging each other with sighs of longing in Greek. He could almost hear the rumors starting to brew: What the hell is a Kallistratos doing here?
Alexandros was, in fact, dressed down—navy slacks, a tailored white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark aviators that hid the wicked amusement glinting in his eyes. He’d tradedhis power suit for something far more dangerous—a charm offensive.
And he came bearing gifts.
