One Summer Night. Carol Marinelli

       CHAPTER ONE

      SHE looked forward to his calls far more than she should.

      Charlotte knew that.

      She should be distant, professional, polite when dealing with this powerful man—but the sound of his voice, the way he paused after her comment, the way she knew that he was smiling at something she had said made Charlotte’s toes curl as she lay in her bed.

      There had been several calls now. The first had started with Zander terse and abrupt. His Greek accent had been confusing for Charlotte, so much so that she’d actually thought it was her boss Nico in a bad mood. Her phone had rung at six a.m. and it had taken a moment to register that the caller was, in fact, the elusive property owner that she had been chasing on Nico’s behalf. It was not one of his lawyers, or the sour PA she was more used to dealing with, but the very man himself.

      ‘This is Zander,’ he had snapped to her fuddled brain. ‘I thought you wanted to speak with me—it would seem that I was mistaken.’

      He had been about to ring off—clearly irritated that she hadn’t instantly recognised him—but knowing how badly Nico would take it if she lost this point of contact, Charlotte had stammered out an apology. ‘I’m s-sorry for the confusion. It’s wonderful to have you return my call.’ She hadn’t added a sarcastic finally to her sentence, though she’d been tempted; instead, she’d glanced at her bedside clock. “It’s just that it’s six a.m. here.’

      There had been a pause, a lengthy one, and though certainly not conciliatory his voice had been a touch less brusque when next he spoke. ‘I thought it was eight. You are in Athens, no? Xanos?’

      ‘London.’ Charlotte had dragged herself up to sitting in bed.

      ‘You are Charlotte Edwards? Nico Eliades’s PA?’

      ‘Yes, but I’m based in London.’

      And then, most unexpectedly, came an apology.

      ‘Forgive me. I am in Australia … I just assumed when I worked out the times that, like your boss, you would be in Greece. I will call you back during office hours.’

      ‘There’s no need,’ Charlotte said hurriedly, not wanting to tell Nico the elusive Zander had finally called and that she had been too groggy to deal with it. ‘Don’t ring off—I’m up now. Well, not up …’

      Oh, dear!

      There was a long pause, from both parties. Charlotte cringed because, far from coming across as an efficient PA, she had made it clear she was lying in bed. Zander, well, his pause, followed by a light huskiness to his voice, made her blush further, and not because she was cringing. It was for other reasons entirely.

      ‘Do you want to get a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I will call back.’

      ‘No, I’m fine …’ Charlotte lied, reaching for a pen, determined to be ready whatever figures he flung at her, to be poised and fully engaged. Even if she was desperate to go to the loo, to check on her mum, and, yes, grab a coffee, she would not show it. Then he spoke again and, on a cold London morning, somehow his voice seemed to caress her. Somehow the elusive billionaire spoke not at her but to her.

      ‘Charlotte, I will call you back in five minutes. Go and get a coffee and bring it back to bed—and then we can talk.’

      She was about to correct him, for only Nico called her Charlotte in her work. Ms Edwards kept things rather more formal—instilled immediate distance—but it seemed petty to correct Zander when she may have already appeared rude. Whether it sounded efficient or not, she answered with the truth.

      ‘That would be lovely, Mr …?’

      ‘Zander,’ came his brief response before he promptly rang off.

      This was how it had started.

      Yes, she looked forward to his calls far more than she should—their early morning chats had become a routine. He would call at some ungodly hour, talk for a brief moment and then hang up; she would make coffee, bring it back to bed, wait for the ring of her work phone and then listen to his rich, deep voice. She would write down the messages to relay to Nico, dispense with work, and then they would talk.

      Not much.

      Just a little more than perhaps she should.

      ‘So you don’t actually work with Nico?’ Zander had probed one Sunday night. The unexpected timing had surprised her, though, of course, Charlotte realised, it was Monday morning there. She was huddled under the sheets, the weather filthy outside, the sound of rain on the windows and his voice keeping her warm.

      ‘I work for him.’

      ‘But not alongside him.’

      ‘I work from home,’ Charlotte explained. ‘Nico travels a lot and I organise things from this end.’

      ‘And do you enjoy it?’

      And she hesitated, not for long, just a brief second. ‘I love it.’

      Which she did, Charlotte told herself and then told herself again. It was a wonderful job, but that was all it was to her—a job rather than a passion, a means to an end rather than the career she had once loved. As a child, ‘an international flight attendant’ had been her unwavering response when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She had studied language at school, and beyond, had applied for and worked for her first airline of choice, been swiftly promoted through the ranks to become a lead attendant. How she longed to be in the air