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She watched him carelessly toss the keys to a car worth more than she could dream of to the valet, and gesture for her to enter the restaurant. It was a move that even her obscenely rich father would never have made. No, there had never been anything careless about her exacting father’s actions.
She felt Loukis’s presence at her back as she made her way to the maître d’, adopting a mask she hadn’t used for years. One that implied that she was used to eating in restaurants like this for breakfast, lunch and dinner, no matter what she looked like. Even if, inside, she was experiencing an excruciating humiliation.
Over the hum in her ears she barely heard Loukis state his reservation, but she didn’t miss the way the black-and-white-suited maître d’ cast her a no-less-than-she-deserved disparaging look and a sudden wave of Loukis-focused resentment sliced through her. Of course she was not dressed appropriately for a restaurant of this calibre. Ten minutes ago she hadn’t even known she would be here. She waited for Loukis to make some apology for her state of dress, but was surprised to find a steely glint in Loukis’s eyes as if daring the man to object or find fault. Instantly his manner transformed to obsequiousness.
She followed behind the two men weaving between tables where hushed conversations, romantic assignations and even a few business deals appeared to be taking place and smiled thankfully at the now chastised man who pulled a chair out for her as if she were royal.
‘May I offer you the carte des vins?’
‘That will not be necessary. A bottle of the Pouilly-Fuissé and whatever fish main you have today.’
‘Bien sûr.’
‘Merci,’ Célia added just before the man could beat a hasty retreat with the unseen menus. After all, she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Loukis’s abruptness. Choosing to ignore the fact that he had not even thought to ask her wine preferences, let alone food wishes, or even possible allergies, she attempted to take at least some control back of her hijacked evening. Attempted to pull around her some of the confidence and self-assurance she felt when dealing with the charities that were her much preferred interaction.
‘So, Mr Liordis, what is it that you wish to discuss?’
‘I need another event.’
‘Okay, did you have something in mind?’
He shook his head, his lips pulling into another moue of carelessness. ‘Not particularly. Only that it must be within the next few weeks.’
* * *
Loukis watched Célia take in his directive, silently, but mind clearly racing. He had expected outrage, immediate dismissal, and certainly a great deal of objection, but no.
‘It would not be realistic to expect to do so again with the Erythra Foundation.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, not to be petulant, but genuinely curious.
‘In order to ensure that there was no oversaturation or fatigue with donations and press. Do you have another charity in mind?’
‘No. But ideally it would be Greek.’
Célia nodded, pressing her hand to her rosebud lips and looking off to the side. At this angle, the length and curve of her neck were on exquisite display and he found himself almost thankful that she was wearing the horrid beige round-necked T-shirt.
The first time he’d met her, in the offices in Paris, he’d had to force himself to wrench his eyes away from her. Instantly he’d felt a pull of desire so strong and so sure that he’d been shaken by it. But even then he’d known that he couldn’t entertain such a thing. Not only were they working together, but he just couldn’t risk it. Not then, and certainly not now.
He was in the process of once again forcing his gaze away from that alluring curve when she turned her attention back to him.
‘I would need more time than a few weeks. What is your absolute deadline?’
Loukis couldn’t quite account for why her practical, no-nonsense, down-to-business approach to this conversation bothered him so much. After all, it was what he had wanted, and what he usually demanded from those he got into business with. But on Célia it seemed...unsatisfying.
‘I need it done by the end of—’ He cut himself off short, before revealing too much, and silently cursed the strange reaction she was provoking in him. ‘By the end of June.’ He had nearly said by the end of the school term. And that would have been unacceptable. It was utterly imperative that he did not reveal a single thing about why he needed this event to happen so quickly. Even the smallest detail would put everything at risk—and that he could simply not allow.
‘So I have four weeks.’
‘Nai—yes.’
‘Do you have a preference over the type of event?’
‘Only that it be as public and positive as possible.’
‘How do you feel about art?’
‘I have a few investment pieces.’
