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‘We will talk about this further.’
Before she could even offer the possibility of a meeting, the line went dead, and the phone went limp in her hand.
What had she just done?
Sheneverspoke to people that way, let alone their most valuable client. But Loukis’s constant hounding over the last few months, his absolute determination for everything to be perfect had driven her and her team out of their minds. In the months since Ella had signed him in Fiji, Chariton Endeavours had taken on even more clients and had been absolutely run off their feet working hard to fulfil their promise to both the business side and the charitable side of their organisation. They’d undertaken twelve events in the last month alone, and all without Ella, who was Célia’s rock, sounding board and confidante.
In truth Célia was exhausted, which was the only reason that she had let her usually ironclad guard down and said exactly what had been on her mind. She ran a slightly trembling hand over her face and finally put the phone down.
Tomorrow she would have to do damage limitation. But for now, she needed to return to her apartment and sleep. Eat. Perhaps even indulge in a cool white glass of Australian Pino Gris.
That decision rose within her like defiance, as if she still had to justify something as silly as her taste in wine to her father, even if she did imagine a look of abject horror crossing the proud Frenchman’s features. His distant disapproval a constant presence in their interaction. But as Célia looked out at the Parisian streets from her window, she mentally shielded herself from being drawn down that dark path.
She grabbed her bag, her keys, locked the front door of the ground-floor office and turned onto the street only to pull up short.
The absolute gall of the man!
In a dramatic turn of his recent luck, Loukis Liordis had found a parking space just outside Chariton Endeavours about thirty minutes earlier. He had terminated his call to Célia d’Argent only ten minutes ago and was now leaning against the sleek McLaren supercar he’d leased for his time in France, scrolling through the latest headlines pontificating on his absence from the charity gala last week. Each successive screenshot fuelled an ire ignited by the steely voiced Célia.
If it hadn’t been for the barely audible gasp of indignation he might not have even noticed her departure from the building. He certainly would not havenoticedher.But that was partly due to the fact that, dressed in what could only be described as a deeply unappealing beige top, she had been camouflaged by the stonework behind her. And had it not been for a pair of black jeans he might not even have known she was there. Especially since the moment she’d caught sight of him, she had pulled up short and not moved a muscle.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.
‘Ms d’Ar—’
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
He’d barely taken a breath before she continued, ‘Youcan’tbe here.’ Finishing the inhalation, slowly, he locked a well-honed, utterly devastating gaze on her and tried again. ‘Ms d’Argent, as I said. We need to talk further.’
‘Notnow.’
‘Yesnow. I am needed back in Greece first thing tomorrow morning,’ he said, checking his watch unnecessarily, as he perfectly well knew the time, but it was not bad for an on-the-spot dramatic effect.
Having done so, he levered himself from where he leaned against the car and held open the passenger door. ‘Shall we?’
‘No, we shall not,’ she hissed as she skirted around him and away from the open door as if he posed some great threat. Fine. He closed the door.
‘Célia,’ he called out before she could get much further. ‘We do need to talk.’
It must have been the change in his voice that stopped her retreat. It wasn’t the charming playboy tone that had done him both great success and great damage only a few years before. Before everything he’d known had come crashing down about his ears. It wasn’t the tone he’d used to seduce, or amuse, to charm, placate or cajole. Neither was it the autocratic arrogant, commanding, brook-no-argument voice he’d used on her earlier. Strangely enough it was none of the façades he’d adopted over the years, but the tone of his own true self that halted her departure.
He watched her take a deep breath and remembered just how beautiful he found her. Her face was almost startling in comparison to the bland taste in clothing. Broad features made the most of the sharp cheekbones that were contrasted with lips that were a small, delicate cupid’s bow. Eyes, wide in shock, were of the purest amber. Her hair had been piled up as if thoughtlessly in a messy bun, but the little of what he could see hinted at rich auburn tones he wanted to investigate further. Her rich, creamy skin was covered in a light spattering of freckles that the horrid T-shirt did nothing for. But no matter how appealing and refreshing he found her, it was not why he was here.
‘Mr Liordis. I am sorry, but I really do need to eat.’
‘We have reservations at Comte Croix.’
‘I... I’m hardly dressed for—’
‘Anything other than paintballing? I had noticed. But as you’ll be with me, I’m sure they’ll make an exception.’
A blush rose to the creamiest of skin on her cheeks, blotting out the subtle shades of her freckles. He opened the door for her once again and as she passed before him he inhaled the sweet scent of orange and herbs, basil perhaps, and pressed down the urge for more.Morewas certainlynoton the menu tonight. Or any other night, quite possibly, for the next ten years or so. In that moment he cursed his mother all over again and wished her safely and securely to hell.
Célia pressed herself deeply into the plush leather of the sleek supercar wishing she were anywhere but right there, next to Loukis Liordis. It was one thing to be sharp with him on the phone, but altogether something else to be within touching distance of such a...such a... Well, she wasn’t blind. The renowned Greek billionaire playboy was utterly overwhelming in person.
From this angle she couldn’t miss the thick waves of dark hair that had been pushed back from a proud forehead as if conspiring to show off his innate beauty. His brows were low above eyes that were busy scanning the lamplit Parisian streets. Eyes that she’d chastised herself already for comparing to rich espresso the one and only previous time she’d met him.
He’d come to the office before Ella’s maternity leave and their brief introduction had sent seismic shock waves through Célia. Not because of any special attention he’d directed her way. No, in fact he’d barely raked a glance across her features. But that glance had fired something within her. Something she’d thought dormant. And it had been enough. Enough to warn her she would have to be on her guard around him.
