What the Greek Can't Resist. Maya Blake
to let that stand in the way of this one small bolstering move.
Squaring her shoulders, she indicated a dark red drink with lots of sunny umbrellas sticking out of it. ‘I’ll have that one.’
He followed her gaze and frowned. ‘The Pomegranate Martini?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong with it?’ she asked when he continued to frown.
‘It’s a bit...well, lame.’
Her lips firmed. ‘I’ll take it anyway.’
‘Come on, let me—’
‘Give the lady what she wants,’ a low, dark drawl sounded behind her right shoulder. The smooth but unmistakable cadence in the masculine voice spelled a foreign accent, possibly Mediterranean, that caused a shiver to dance down Perla’s spine.
She froze in her seat, her back stiffening as sensation skittered over her skin.
The bartender visibly paled before nodding quickly and sidling off to prepare her cocktail.
Perla felt his silent presence behind her, a palpable force field that bore down and surrounded her with unmistakable power. Her mind shrieked with danger, but for the life of her she couldn’t move. Her hand tightened over the strap of her handbag, her fingers plucking frantically at the beads that decorated the dark satin exterior.
‘Turn around,’ came the low command.
Her back stiffened some more. Another man who wanted to push her buttons. ‘Look, I just want to be left alone—’
‘Turn around, if you please,’ he instructed again in that low, growly voice.
Not please but if you please. The slightly old-fashioned turn of phrase piqued her curiosity. Coupled with the dark rumble of his voice, Perla was seriously tempted to do as he asked.
But not enough to give in. She remained facing forward.
‘I just saved you from becoming the potential target of a chancer with delusions of swagger. The least you can do is turn around and talk to me.’
Despite her stomach flipping again at the impact of his voice, Perla’s lips tightened. ‘I didn’t want nor need your help...and I don’t really want to talk to anyone so...’
She glanced towards the bartender with the intention of cancelling her order. The long drive here...the inspired words she’d hoped to write...the idea of a quick drink...the courage-lending scarlet lipstick—probably that most of all—had all been an unmitigated disaster. Again she felt pain tighten her chest and fought to keep her emotions under strict control.
Behind her, the man who thought he was her saviour stood in imposing, stifling silence. She knew he was there because his scent lingered in her nostrils—intriguingly spicy, masculine and raw—and she could hear his firm, steady breathing. Again an alien sensation skittered over her skin. The urge to look over her shoulder scythed through her but she refused the urge. She’d failed herself in so many things. Perla refused to fail at this one thing.
Lifting her hand, she tried to catch the bartender’s attention but his gaze was focused behind her...on the man whose presence, even without her knowing who he was or her having seen him, spelled power with a capital P.
She watched in stunned silence as the bartender nodded in answer to a silent command, rounded the counter with her drink and headed towards a dark corner of the bar.
Outraged, Perla finally turned to find the man—tall, dark-haired and incredibly broad-shouldered—retreating to the table where her drink had been placed along with another, presumably his.
Pure anger spiked through her. Her heels landed on the polished wood floor and she was marching over to him before she fully registered her intention. ‘What the hell do you think you’re—?’
He turned to face her and the words dried in Perla’s throat.
Gorgeous. Astoundingly. Gorgeous. The description lit up like a neon sign in her head—bright, bold, insistent. And so unbelievably real, Perla could only stare in astonishment. Even as she took in the sheer vitality of his olive skin, the lethal bone structure that made up his striking features and the tinge of grey in his hair and designer stubble—her personal, stupidly debilitating weakness—she knew she should never have turned around; never have followed him.
She should’ve heeded her instinct and walked straight out.
Dear Lord, hadn’t she learned from her mistake? She gave a slight shake of her head and tried to step back. She had no business being here; no business staring at a man the way she was staring at this stranger. If anyone found out...
Move!
Her feet wouldn’t comply.
Deep hazel eyes bored into hers, then slowly traced her body from head to toe and back again. Perla found herself holding her breath, her fingers once again working frantically over the beads on her handbag.
The breathtaking stranger’s gaze paused at her hair. ‘Is that colour real?’ he rasped in that knee-weakening, pulse-stroking voice.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That shade of red. Is it real?’ he demanded.
A little bit of her entrancement receded. ‘Of course it’s real. Why would I dye—?’ She stopped as it occurred to her then that he didn’t know her and therefore wouldn’t know that the last thing she concerned herself with was vanity in the form of artificial hair colour. There was no one to please or pander to and she was too busy surviving to think about frivolous things such as what colour to dye her hair. ‘It’s real, okay? Now will you explain what you’re playing at? That’s my drink you’ve just commandeered.’
‘Your manners seemed to have deserted you. I’m merely redressing the situation.’ He pulled out a chair. ‘Please sit down.’
Lifting an eyebrow, she remained standing.
With a shrug, he remained standing too.
She blew out an irritated breath. ‘My manners haven’t deserted me. You stepped in and took over a situation I had under control. What did you think, that the bartender would’ve vaulted over the counter and assaulted me in plain sight of the other customers?’ she snapped.
He broke his fascination with her hair and dropped his gaze to capture hers. ‘What other customers?’ he asked.
‘The couple over there—’ She broke off as she looked around. The young couple were gone. Aside from a waiter who was clearing a few other tables, only the tall stranger and bartender remained in the bar. As she watched, the waiter walked through a set of swinging doors and disappeared.
She swallowed. ‘This is a reputable place. Things like that don’t happen here.’
‘And what exactly do you base that statistic on? Are you a frequent visitor?’
She flushed. ‘No, of course not. And I’m not naïve. I just...I just think—’
‘That predators in Savile Row suits are less vicious than those in hoodies?’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I came here for a quiet drink.’ Her gaze dropped to the bold and garish-looking cocktail standing next to his dark-coloured spirit.
This was fast getting out of hand, and she needed to think about getting back. Or she would have more explaining to do.
He indicated the chair one more time. ‘You can still have it. And you needn’t worry about making conversation. We can sit here and not...talk.’
His words piqued her curiosity. Or maybe she just wanted a distraction from the pain and chaos that awaited her the moment she left this place.
She forced herself to look at him—really look past the surface hurt-your-eyes gorgeousness of the man—past the powerful shoulders underneath the impeccable suit and loosened silk