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True, Constantine was a Greek, whose family owned a tiny taverna on a small Greek island—he might not even have heard of the Daily View. But what if he had?
After she’d won the Young Journalist compe- tition launched by the Daily View, they had offered her a job as reporter—a job she had accepted with eager gratitude, given the cut-throat world of jour- nalism. Then she’d been proud to tell people that she worked on Britain’s best-selling tabloid news- paper. But that was before she’d discovered what most people actually thought of the Daily View.
They despised it.
Time and time again, when she had explained who she worked for, she had seen an expression of scorn come into the faces of people who viewed tabloid writers as total drunks with no morals. So, in the end, she had stopped telling them. It made for an easier life.
She stared into Constantine’s dark eyes and made her decision. This was one evening out of her lifetime, she reasoned; an evening scented with magic which would soon become nothing more than a distant memory. This was total fantasy, so why taint it with the bitter taste of reality?
She saw that he was waiting for her answer and gave a little shrug. ‘I just wanted a break,’ she said carefully.
‘A break from something in particular?’ he probed. ‘A man perhaps?’
Now he really had got the wrong end of the stick! ’Heavens, no!’ she exclaimed fervently, unaware of the small smile he gave to this. ‘Nothing like that! I meant a break from city life.’
He sipped at his drink and surveyed her curi- ously. ‘You’re very young?’
‘I’m twenty,’ she answered, and then, more ten- tatively, because it su
ddenly seemed terribly im- portant, ‘And you?’
‘Thirty.’ There was a glimmer of a smile. Had he guessed what she’d been thinking? ‘That is a good gap, yes? Ten years?’ He stared across the table at her moonwashed hair, raising his glass to his lips. ’So tell me—what do you think of my island?’
‘You don’t actually happen to own it, do you?’ she joked.
‘You must forgive me yet another possessive Greek statement,’ he said implacably.
‘I love your island,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve never relaxed so much in my life. I’ve spent my whole time being thoroughly lazy, swimming every day’
‘I know.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘How can you know?’
‘Because I’ve watched you. Looking like a mermaid with that yellow hair, those mysterious green eyes, that secretive smile.’
‘You were—watching me?’ she asked, appalled at the way her heart galloped into action.
He nodded. ‘I was your guardian angel. Like today. Didn’t you know?’
Jade shook her head. ‘No.’ Thank heavens she hadn’t gone topless!
‘And do you mind?’
‘I don’t know really. Isn’t it a loss of the privacy you were so keen to preserve this evening?’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps. But I couldn’t stay away,’ he said simply, as though this excused everything, then popped another olive into his mouth and smiled. ‘Let’s order.’
Jade was relieved to have something relatively ordinary to do to keep her attention from the lunatic thoughts which were buzzing around her head. For Constantine seemed to possess some powerful quality she’d never encountered in a man before. Something which touched and matched some deep, dark longing inside her, offering her a glimpse of a passionate side to her nature she hadn’t dreamed existed.
And she already suspected—no, she knew, that this—relationship, if you could call it that, threat- ened to get out of control very quickly. And she knew what out of control meant. Shocking though it was, she wanted this arrogant and handsome man she’d only just met to make love to her. She wanted to taste the pleasures that she instinctively knew that only he could offer her. But no one in their right mind would allow such a wish to become reality. After all, what possible future could a London- based journalist have with a restaurant proprietor who lived on a distant Greek island?
None.
Jade forced herself to apply her attention towards the food, which was surprisingly good and simple. They ate Greek salad, scarlet with tomatoes and white with feta cheese and black with olives, with strong olive oil drizzled all over it. ‘And what do you do in England?’ he pursued.
‘Oh, it’s just a boring old typing job,’ she said vaguely. True, although she knew she was being economical with the truth—but what if he had the rest of the world’s prejudices about tabloid journalists? The evening would be ruined before it had even got started. She dipped some bread into the olive oil, then ate it. ‘And how about you? Are you a waiter at your family’s restaurant?’
He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth, and the corners of his mouth twitched before he laid it down on his plate. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘And I help them—balance the books—as the English say.’
