The Greek and the Single Mum. Julia James
impoverished single mother, wearing clothes out of charity shops and eking a living, that was still infinitely better than being the alternative—the unwanted bastard of a Greek tycoon and his discarded, despairing mistress…
CHAPTER ONE
XANDER ANAKETOS stifled his impatience with a civil, if brief smile at the man beside him. Richard Gardner was of the school of businessmen who considered that every deal should be sealed with a drink and an expensive meal. Xander had no time for such niceties. The investment he’d just agreed in principle to make in Gardner’s company would be mutually profitable, and the details would be hammered out by their respective subordinates. Now Xander was eager to be gone. He had plans for the evening which did not include making small talk with Richard Gardner. However, he had no wish to snub the older man, and besides, his ‘other business’ would wait for him.
They always waited for him.
Sonja de Lisle was no exception.
Oh, she might pout for a few minutes, but it wouldn’t last. Soon she would be purring all over him. He pulled his mind away. Best not to let his thoughts go to Sonja when he had dinner to get through first.
And before that a drink in the cocktail lounge while they perused the menu.
As the guest, Xander let Gardner choose where to sit, and took his place accordingly. He glanced round, concealing the disparagement in his eyes. This was not a hotel he would have chosen to patronise, but he could appreciate that it was convenient for the business park where Gardner’s company was sited near Heathrow. But, for himself, he preferred hotels to have more class, more prestige—usually more antiquity. He liked classic, world-famous hotels, like the Ritz, Claridges, the St John.
Memory flickered. He rarely went to the St John now.
Like a stiletto sliding in between his synapses, an image came into his mind. Blonde hair, curving in a smooth swathe over one shoulder, diamond studs set into tender lobes, long dark lashes and cool grey-green eyes.
Eyes that were looking at him without emotion. A face held very still.
A face he had not seen again.
He thrust the image aside. There was no point remembering it.
Abruptly he reached for the menu that had been placed on the low table in front of them and flicked it open, making his selection without great enthusiasm. Snapping it shut, he tossed it down on the table again and looked around impatiently. He could do with a drink. Did this place not run to waitresses?
There was one a table or so away from them with her back to him. He kept his eye on her, ready to beckon. He could see her nodding, sliding her notepad into her pocket.
She turned towards the bar. Xander held up an imperious hand. She caught the gesture and altered direction.
Then she stopped dead.
Clare could feel the blood and all sensation slowly draining out of her body. It emptied from her brain, her limbs, every part of her, draining down through every vein, every nerve.
And in its place only two things.
Disbelief.
And memory.
Memory…
Poisonous. Toxic. Deadly.
And completely overwhelming.
She was dragged in its wake, down, down, down through the sucking vortex of time.
Down into the past…
Xander was late.
Restlessly, Clare paced up and down. She should by now be used to him arriving when he wanted to, but this time it was harder to bear. A lot harder. She could feel nerves pinching in her stomach. Every muscle was tightly clenched.
Am I really going to tell him?
The question stung in her mind for the thousandth time. For two weeks it had been going round and round in her head. And with every circulation she knew that there was only one answer—could only be one answer.
I’ve got to tell him. I can’t not.
And every time she told herself that she would feel the familiar flood of anxiety pooling in her insides—the familiar dread.
If—she corrected herself—when she told him, how would he take it? Automatically, in her head, she felt herself start to pray again. Please, please let him take it the way I so desperately want him to! Please!
But would he? Like a lawyer, she tried to shore up her position as best she could, mentally arranging all her arguments like ducks in a row.
I’ve lasted longer than the others. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?
Xander Anaketos never kept his mistresses long. She knew that. Had known it since before that fateful night when she had joined their long, long list. But she hadn’t cared. Hadn’t cared that her shelf-life in his bed was likely to be in the order of six months, if that. Hadn’t cared even that she’d got that fact from one of the most reliable sources for such information—her predecessor. Aimee Decord had warned her straight. The woman had been drunk, Clare knew, though it had hardly showed except for the slightest swaying in her elegant walk, the slightest lack of focus in her dark, beautiful eyes.
‘Enjoy him, cherie,’ she’d said to Clare, taking yet another sip of her always full champagne flute. ‘You’ll be gone by Christmas.’ Her smile had almost had a touch of pity in it, as well as malice. And something more—something that had not been jealousy, but something that had chilled Clare even more than jealousy would have. A despairing hunger…
But Aimee Decord had been wrong. Clare had not been gone by Christmas. Indeed, she’d spent the holiday with Xander in Davos, skiing. Just as she’d spent the last two weeks of January in the Caribbean, and Easter in Paris. Followed by a tour of North America, taking in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Vancouver and Toronto—a hectic schedule which had whirled her along in the wake of one business meeting after another. Then it had been back to Europe, a sojourn in Paris again, then Geneva, Milan, another brief, but so very precious holiday in the Caribbean, and back to London.
Six months—nine months. Nearly a year. Very nearly a year.
In fact, Clare knew to the day—the night!—that in three weeks it would be their anniversary. And by then—oh, please, sweet God—by then she would have more to celebrate than that.
She went on pacing restlessly. Nerves still pinching. Still running through the tangled, shadowy fantasies that might or might not prove true.
It wasn’t just that she’d lasted nearly twice as long as other mistresses of Xander Anaketos. Or that he had never installed her in an apartment, as he had the others, preferring that she should accompany him on his constant travels to the continents on which he conducted his complex and never-ending business affairs in the mysterious and arcane realm of international finance. Clare knew nothing about it, and did not enquire, having realised very early on that when Xander did finally clock off from business he wanted no more discussion of it until he was recalled to its demands.
There was another fantasy, most precious of all, that had came true recently, and which she now hugged to herself with a desperate hope.
Their last time together, nearly a fortnight ago, had been different. She’d known it—felt it. At first she’d thought it was only herself, suffused, as she had been, body and heart, with the knowledge that she possessed about what had happened to her so completely and absolutely unexpectedly, and yet so thrillingly.
But the change had not just been in her, she knew—knew. Xander had been different too. Oh, he’d been as passionate as ever, as voracious in his desires and needs, and as dedicated to fulfilling her own physical needs, desires. But there had been something more—more than could be accounted for merely because he had not seen her for ten days and had, the moment he’d stepped through the door, tossed aside his