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When they had kissed in her tiny student apartment his passion had been too overwhelming for her to blind herself to it. But then later he had dismissed the kiss as nothing special.
Now she had to wonder. Had he played down its impact on both of them because he refused to compromise his integrity? She had been promised to his brother, and Spiros had made it more than obvious that he placed the highest priority on keeping promises. He would not have wanted to compromise her ability to do so.
But this was all speculation.
There was only one way to find out if he wanted her. The question was, did she have the courage to push the issue? Could she face another rejection if she was wrong?
When faced with a loveless and passionless marriage as a possibility if she didn’t, she knew she had no choice. Better to deal with rejection now than a lifetime of marriage to a man she loved but who didn’t want her. What she could have tolerated with Dimitri—a marriage of convenience—would be pure torture with Spiros. And she couldn’t do that to herself. Not even for the salvation of Leonides Enterprises.
Spiros let himself into his apartment, checking the voicemail on his mobile phone as he did so. Still no word from Aristotle or Phoebe. It had only been the better part of a day, but that didn’t prevent his impatience from growing. He wanted to know if Phoebe would agree to be his.
He poured himself a whiskey and took a sip just as the buzzer for downstairs went off.
He pressed the intercom button. “Who is it?”
“Phoebe.”
What was she doing here? Had she come to tell him her answer in person? He pressed the unlock buzzer and then waited for her to arrive.
Her unmistakable knock sounded on his door and he let her in, scrutinizing her features for clues as to what she had decided. She looked…resolute.
Was that good or bad? And what was he? A woman, that he should be so worried about all this?
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked as she sat on the edge of the butter-yellow leather sofa.
It was very comfortable, but he still wasn’t sure about the color. But it went with the rest of the room and, according to the decorator who had done his apartment, that was what mattered.
“What are you having?” Phoebe asked.
“Whiskey.”
She scrunched her nose in a wholly adorable way. “Maybe a wine cooler?”
“We’re in Greece, Phoebe. Not the States.”
“So? Mix some wine with club soda and juice.”
He left and returned a few minutes later, carrying a glass full of a pale pink beverage. He’d made it for her before, but gave her a hard time about it as a matter of course. He handed it to her. “Your wine cooler.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was not up to its usual wattage, but it was better than nothing.
“You ever hear the term high-maintenance?”
“Yes.” A mischievous glint shone in her dark eyes. “I’ve looked it up, even, and one of the definitions just said Greek men.”
“I think not. Here I sit, drinking a simple whiskey, while you ask for a concoction of three different beverages.”
“Is it a Scotch or a malt whiskey?” she asked, all innocence.
“Malt.” He’d been in the mood.
“How old?”
He frowned, guessing where this was going. “Old enough.”
“And expensive enough too, if I don’t miss my guess. You had to go through a special supplier to get it, didn’t you?”
“Naturally.”
