The Greek Tycoon's Secret Child. Cathy Williams
androgynous look but didn’t because her face was just too damn feminine. Heart-shaped, with a short, straight nose, very large, almond-shaped eyes whose colour he couldn’t discern because of the discreet lighting, and framed by the most amazing hair he had ever seen. Hair the colour of vanilla, poker-straight and almost waist-length.
He relaxed back in the chair, all the better to survey her, aware that he was now behaving like one of those sad old businessmen he had mentally sneered at earlier on.
She was, he noticed, making sure not to look in his direction. Which he found just a bit irritating, partly because he was footing the bill for the very expensive and highly unnecessary champagne she had succeeded in persuading them to buy and partly because he was accustomed to being looked at by women.
So he said now, in a smooth drawl, ‘But that’s the last of the champagne, my darling. Some of us have a full day’s work in the morning.’ An equally smooth half-smile accompanied that remark.
He heard the patronising arrogance in his voice and winced, but hell, anything to get her to look at him.
Celibacy, he thought with wry amusement, must really be kicking in if he now found himself reduced to trying to commandeer the attention of a waitress in a nightclub.
But it worked. She looked at him and he could see the need to appear friendly warring with cold distaste. She began gathering the empty glasses onto her tray, and as she turned for his she leaned slightly forward, offering him a glimpse of generous cleavage that looked all natural, and said in a sibilant, deadly whisper,
‘I’m not your darling.’ Then she was standing up again, the bland smile back on her face, and heading off into the shadows.
How dared he? Mattie thought furiously. Of course, she had encountered that sort of thing before. Well-oiled businessmen with eyes on stalks, thinking that they could talk to her in whatever suggestive voice they wanted.
For the most part, she had learnt to ignore them. She was a waitress, whatever her outfit of high shoes and small, tight dress might indicate to the contrary, and there was a strict policy of not fraternising with the customers.
But their customers didn’t usually come wrapped up like that one. Something about him had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and the lazy contempt she had heard in his voice had fired up a part of her that should have known better. After all, she had been working in the place for nearly seven months now, way long enough to know how to handle seedy customers.
Not that he had looked seedy. Too good-looking for that. But she of all people ought to know that good looks could cover a multitude of sins.
She found that she was glowering at Mike as he replaced two empty bottles of champagne for another two.
‘What’s up, gorgeous?’ he asked, grinning, and Mattie smiled back a weak smile.
‘Oh, the usual.’
‘Ah.’ A nod of understanding. ‘Just ignore him.’ He began handing her clean flutes. ‘Filthy minds. Probably has some poor wife waiting up for him at home and a handful of kiddies.’
‘Look, can Jessie handle that table? I really can’t deal with that sort right now.’ One particularly bad row with Frankie, a course project with a deadline she was finding it difficult to meet, did not add up for a whole lot of patience when it came to difficult customers.
‘No chance.’ Mike looked at her ruefully. ‘The place is heaving and we’re two girls short. Which is why you’re working that table in the first place, with Jackie leaving like that. Old Harry’s fit to explode as it is. If you value your life, I’d just put up with the bastard. He’ll clear off soon enough.’
Easier said than done. She weaved her way back over to the table, her jaw aching from the effort of trying to appear natural. Harry did not approve of his girls looking anything but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. As if they were enjoying every minute of having to serve drinks to inebriated, rich men whilst dressed in outfits that invited lurid comments and lecherous remarks.
Sometimes it all just seemed too much.
But the money was brilliant. That was one thing she couldn’t afford to forget.
And she needed the money.
And how many other night jobs could offer what she got at this place? Because a day job was out of the question. Too much of her time during the day was used up with completing her course, and what part of the day was left was devoted to sleeping.
Not that she had been getting much of that recently.
She thought of Frankie, knowing that something would have to be done very soon about him, but, as always, the minute she started thinking of him her brain began to rear up at the logical course of her thought processes, and closed down.
The man appeared to be involved in an intense conversation with his friends when she arrived at his table, which was a blessing, and she was given only a fleeting glance as she expertly opened the champagne and filled their glasses.
But he continued to jar on her mind. She found her eyes straying over to him as she waited on her other tables, watching the way he leaned into his conversation, commanding attention. Still managing to command it even when he drew back, drumming restlessly on the table with one hand whilst the other caressed the champagne flute.
People were beginning to filter out now. It wouldn’t be long before she could make her escape. It was a financial disadvantage to leave before the bitter end, as she was inevitably doing herself out of much needed tips from those groups who turned up in the early hours of the morning, but she needed the sleep. Needed the time to restore some energy back into her body. She was young, but she wasn’t made of iron and, unlike the other girls working the tables, she didn’t have hours of unimpeded sleep ahead of her in which to recover.
She watched covertly as they finished the champagne, hoped that there would not be another bottle ordered even if she was doing herself out of money in the process, walked over towards them, taking a deep breath on the way.
Training was given to all the girls when they first joined on walking. She had never, in her twenty-three years of life, known that there were different ways of walking. She had always narrowed it down to simply putting one foot in front of the other. But she had picked up the style quickly enough so that now, as she headed towards their table, her gait was unconsciously provocative, all the more so because of her slenderness.
Dominic followed her progress with leisurely enjoyment. She was determined not to look at him. He could see it in the way she collected their glasses. Nor was she interested in them ordering another bottle of champagne, even though she asked the question in the same breathlessly tempting voice.
‘Now, where,’ he drawled, capturing her reluctant attention, ‘do you suggest I put this?’ He rested one elbow on the table and heard his client chuckle with wicked amusement as he watched the notes between Dominic’s long fingers.
Mattie stretched out her palm.
‘Isn’t it customary to slip it somewhere rather more intimate?’
‘No.’ Mattie flashed him a smile of pure ice and prayed that Harry wasn’t anywhere within earshot.
‘Fair enough.’ He surrendered and handed her his extremely generous tip.
Mattie hadn’t expected it. He was, after all, a typical obnoxious customer who felt he had no need to treat her, a lowly waitress in a nightclub, with anything resembling respect. He shouldn’t be capable of smiling at her with such genuine rueful amusement. As if he could read her mind and could also see for himself what sort of picture he had portrayed and how it had conveyed itself to her.
She felt a second of passing disorientation, then her fingers curled around the money, well earned as far as she was concerned, and she was walking away. Out to the changing room, where she could get rid of her ridiculous outfit, step out of the high shoes which still pinched her toes even though she should have broken them in a long time ago, into sensible jeans and the flat trainers she was