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What man wouldn’t?
Shifting a little in his seat, he felt the evidence of his desire straining against his pants and if anything, it made him angrier with her.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
Sir. It only compounded his problem.
“Another.” He lifted his glass into the air, eyes narrowing as he saw the flicker of disappointment in her gaze. Had she been hoping he’d say something else? “And one for you, if you’ll join me.”
The invitation surprised them both, but he was far more adept at concealing his reactions.
“Oh.” Her teeth pressed into her soft lower lip, drawing his fascinated gaze lower. “That’s very kind, but I can’t. I have to pack up.”
“Ten minutes won’t kill you.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Join me.” The last was uttered as a command and her eyes flew wide.
“I—,”
“You won’t regret it.”
Her eyes darkened, somehow, so they were as dark as the essence of the night sky.
“I’m not in the habit of drinking with customers,” she said softly.
It was an objection he presumed she made as part of her routine. After all, he had evidence to the contrary.
“Make an exception.”
Her throat shifted delicately as she swallowed and then cast a glance over her shoulder.
“A coffee,” she said after a pause. “I don’t drink.”
He lifted his shoulders to conceal a familiar sense of triumph. After all, Anastasios Xenakis was used to winning, at all things.
She moved back into the bar, pouring him another measure of scotch and making herself a short shot of coffee, before coming back to the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and his desire for her was, frankly, disgusting. He wasn’t someone to fetishize his father’s mistress.
When she sat, it was a little uncertainly. She wore her wariness like a cloak. With him? Or in general? That didn’t seem right, for a woman who was intent on seducing her way to wealth. He frowned as a flicker of doubt ignited in his gut—a doubt which he ignored. His father had bequeathed her over a million pounds. That wasn’t a gift you left a waitress as a tip.
He had planned to confront Phoebe ever since learning of her existence, but a simple conversation now seemed difficult to construct. Uncertainty was utterly foreign to Anastasios; he pushed it aside.
“What is your name?”
He found his breath held. Even though he’d seen a photo of her, he found himself hoping there’d been a mistake.
“Phoebe.” There was a hesitation. “And yours?”
Thinking quickly, he offered the diminutive of his name. His father had only ever referred to him as Anastasios, so there was no risk of her having heard of him. “Tasso.”
She lifted a brow, repeating the name, igniting little flames in his bloodstream as her tongue encircled the syllables. “That’s unusual.”
His lips curled in derision at the obvious conversation opener. Is that how she flirted her way into men’s beds?
“You’re Australian?”
“My accent’s a giveaway, huh?”
He sipped his scotch without taking his eyes from her face. “How long have you been in London?”
“A year and a half.”
