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Xandros glanced sideways at his passenger in the chauffeured car. She still had that blank expression on her face, as if she was not really taking in what was happening.
Make that two of us, Xandros thought grimly.
He’d come to London with no intention other than to warn Stavros’s English daughter against her father’s scheming. But now his anger at Stavros had found a new cause. Hell, he’d always known the man was ruthless—his disowning Ariadne was proof of that!—but what he’d done to this wretched other daughter of his was...unforgivable.
Keeping her in ignorance about her father—keeping her in abject poverty...
Emotion roiled in him, and there was a dark, angry glitter in his eyes. Stavros wanted his English daughter delivered to him in Athens? Well, Xandros would be glad to oblige! No way could he just walk away from her, leave her there in that slum...
She’d come eagerly enough—but then, why wouldn’t she? She’d just discovered she had a father she’d never known about—of course she’d want to meet him! And why delay? There was obviously nothing for her here in London! Not if she was reduced to cleaning for a living!
So he’d waited as she abandoned her bucket and mop, shed her yellow rubber gloves, shrugged on a cheap, worn jacket, picked up a shabby tote bag and left with him—just like that. She’d put the house key back through the letterbox and climbed into Xandros’s waiting car.
She hadn’t asked any more questions and Xandros had been glad of it. Answering them would have been difficult—especially any about how her father had found out about her existence.
His mouth set again. Let Stavros tell her that to her face.
There had been practical issues about getting her to Athens that had required immediate intention. Most importantly, did she have a passport? The answer had been an affirmative, and she’d told him it was in her bedsit. The car had stopped there—on another rundown street not far from the place she’d been cleaning—and Xandros’s frown had deepened. The terraced house was peeling, its railings broken and rusty. Empty bottles and litter lay on the steps, and there were sagging curtains at the window. A total dump.
She hadn’t taken long, emerging ten minutes later lugging a battered suitcase and climbing back into the car.
His eyes flicked over her now. She was looking marginally better, having changed into cheap faded jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was neater, and she had a strong odour of deodorant now—not stale sweat from a day’s cleaning. Her skin was still pallid and blotchy, though, her features tired and drawn. Only her luminous grey-green eyes gave her beauty...
He snapped his gaze away, getting out his phone. What was it to him what Stavros Coustakis’s English daughter looked like? His impulsive decision to take her to Athens had been motivated solely by his anger at the callous way Stavros had so obviously abandoned her to abject poverty.
Maybe Stavros will be shamed into supporting her now! Or she can hire a lawyer to make a claim—even take her story to the tabloids. How one of Greece’s richest men left his own flesh and blood to live in squalor...
One thing that would not be happening, though, was Stavros’s crazy idea that he might actually substitute this wretched, ill-treated English daughter—a total stranger to him!—for the missing Ariadne.
Xandros’s mouth tightened. And if that meant he had to walk away from any hopes of the business merger he wanted—well, damnable though it would be to abandon a project he’d been determined on, so be it.
No way would he consider saving the merger by marrying Rosalie Jones...
He wouldn’t give the thought the time of day.
CHAPTER TWO
ROSALIE SAT CLUTCHING her worn tote bag, staring out of the tinted window. She’d never been in a car with tinted windows—never been in a chauffeur-driven car. And she’d never sat next to a man like the one she was sitting next to now.
She pulled as far away from him as she could. He was checking messages on his phone now—a seriously flash model, she could see—and paying her no attention at all. She didn’t care. She didn’t want his attention anyway.
Alexandros Lakaris. That was what he’d said his name was. But who he was was not important. Nor was the fact that he was the most fabulous-looking male she’d ever seen in her life, let alone that she’d been looking a total mess when he’d first set eyes on her.
Those incredible, dark, long-lashed eyes had looked at her so disdainfully...
But why should she care what he thought of her? All that was important was what he’d told her.
She felt excitement rush through her again.
My father—he exists! He’s real! And he’s found out about me! He wants to meet me! My father!
The words were running through her head, storming through her like a torrent, overwhelming her, and she was only hanging on by a thread.
Everything was a daze.
In a daze she’d rushed up to her dive of a bedsit, grabbing what clothes she could, stuffing them into her suitcase. She’d riffled through the room for her passport—acquired so hopefully, yet never had there been an opportunity to use it—then hastily stripped off, washing in cold water at the tiny sink in the rickety kitchenette in the corner. Her hair was filthy, but there had been nothing she could do about that—nor the fact that she badly needed a shower. All she’d been able to do was spray herself with deodorant and put on clean clothes.
She hadn’t impressed Alexandros Lakaris much, she thought now, with a twist of her mouth. She’d still got that disdainful flicker from his eyes when she’d clambered back into the car, depositing her battered suitcase in the footwell.
