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None of them were of any interest to him, however. There was only one woman who had caught his eye, and she, he knew, had been highly receptive to him. Oh, she might have an attitude issue, but that was immaterial. It wouldn’t last. He would see to that. He’d have her purring like a cat before long.
Women always purred for him.
The two staff stopped outside one of the doors and glanced back at him. He gave a nod, and one of them knocked discreetly.
Inside the room, Anna paused, dropping her hands from her back. What on earth…? The knock came again. Hastily doing up her hooks again, for decency’s sake, she crossed over and opened the door. Outside were two of the household staff, each bearing a huge tray covered with a linen cloth.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taken aback. ‘I mean—um—Entschuldigen Sie bitte, aber Ich habe nicht…’
Her sketchy German failed her. She had no idea how to say she had not ordered anything.
The man merely bowed slightly and swept in, followed by the second man. They set both trays down on the low table in front of a pair of armchairs by the window, and removed the cloths.
An entire light supper was contained on the trays—including, she saw, a bottle of chilled white wine, a flagon of orange juice, a jug of mineral water and a coffee pot.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t ask for—’ she began.
‘But I, however, did.’ A deep, familiar voice interrupted her.
She whipped round. There, in the doorway, stood Leo Makarios.
For a moment Anna just stared, unable to believe her eyes.
Let alone what was happening.
He strolled into her room.
He was still in evening dress, still looking impeccable, as only a man of his height, wealth and looks could look, but there was a faint shadow along his jaw that somehow suddenly made him look—
Sexy.
The word came out of nowhere into her brain, and the moment it formed she was horrified.
She opened her mouth to say something. Anything. But her mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Predominant was disbelief. Sheer disbelief that Leo Makarios was strolling into her bedroom, one hand in his trouser pocket, looking as though he had every right to be there.
The two members of his household staff evidently thought so. They were diligently laying out their wares on the low table, deftly and neatly, placing a large plate of thinly sliced smoked chicken, ham and salmon together with a bowl of salad and a basket of bread in the centre, with porcelain plates and silver cutlery nestling in white damask napkins. Crystal glasses followed suit, and then a coffee service and drinks and a plate of tiny chocolate truffles.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Leo Makarios, indicating one of the armchairs. He simultaneously lowered his tall frame into the other one.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? She wanted to scream at him.
But the presence of the two staff made it impossible. Good grief, the last thing she wanted was to make a public scene that would inevitably feed back into the gossip machine that was always at work around the rich and famous.
Every nerve screwed tight, she urged them mentally to clear out. Because the moment they were gone she would—
‘Gnadige Fraulein?’ One of the staff was indicating her chair, bowing politely. The other was busy opening the wine.
Oh, hell, she would have to sit down, pretend that—my goodness—no, of course there was nothing strange in the castle’s multimillionaire owner turning up to have a little midnight supper with her!
Stiffly, she sat down, carefully ensuring the narrow skirts of her excruciatingly valuable dress were not catching on anything. Her face was a mask. But behind the mask her emotions were tumbling like a wash cycle set to crazy.
Skirts settled, and ignoring the fact that her back was imperfectly fastened, she looked up, ready to aim a killing glare at him.
Instead, she just stared, the breath stalling in her throat.
Leo Makarios was loosening his dress tie and slipping the top button on his shirt.
That, and the shadowed jawline, made her heart stop beating.
Oh, dear God, he is just so—
The word slipped straight into her mind—right out of her subconscious.
Sexy.
It was that word again, coming out of nowhere—refusing to go. She had heard it a million times—it was one of the most popular in the fashion world. But it had never meant anything at all to her. It was just people posing and pouting and putting it on for the camera or an audience.
With Leo Makarios it was real.
And it was, she realised, standing there as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus, incredibly powerful.
She tried desperately to analyse it away. It was just the juxtaposition of contrasting modes, that was all—the severe formality of the tuxedo with the raffish informality of a loosened tie and shirt, accentuated by the roughened jawline.
