Wedding Night with a Stranger (4 page)

It was so unexpected her heart nearly arrested. She felt the slight graze of his shadowed jaw on her skin, and the heady masculine scents, the powerful nearness of him swayed her senses.

Flustered, her cheek burning as if she’d been brushed with a flame, she had one coherent thought swirling over and over in her brain. Here was a man whose interest in her was purely financial. This wild fluttering inside, these uncontrollable sensations, needed to be crushed into extinction.
At once.

‘I’m thinking we won’t go too far afield tonight, since you’re probably jet-lagged,’ he said, as smoothly as if he hadn’t been insulting her only a few short hours previously. ‘I know a little place not far from here. Do you like Italian?’

She drew a deep breath.

‘Listen, Sebastian…’ She raised her hands before her like a barricade. ‘I don’t want to marry you.’ He blinked, and before he could reply she added, a tremor in her voice, ‘So—so you might not wish to waste any more of your time. Thanks anyway for—for coming.’

‘What?’ He looked stunned.

‘Yep, that’s right.’ Wound up and swept by a massive charge of adrenaline, she gave him a cool smile. ‘As the song says, I’m holding out for the prince.’

Without waiting to watch him crumble into a heap of masculine rubble, she turned on her heel and swept towards the lifts, rather pleased with her exit line. Unfortunately for her grand moment, before she’d gone more than a couple of steps the persistent man recovered himself and caught up.

‘Well, er—hang on there a second.’ He moved around to block her path. He was shaking his head, amusement seeming now to have replaced his astonishment.

She had to wonder if he’d understood. Or was he so in need of the money, he felt driven to try some other way to talk her round?

‘That’s fine, Ariadne,’ he said. ‘That’s just fine. But whether we marry each other or not, we still have to eat dinner, don’t we?’

His lean handsome face broke into a smile that was far more dangerous than his earlier sternness and hostility. Charming little
lines appeared like rays of warmth at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and crept insidiously through her defences to assault her too soft heart. Here she was, all geared to be brave, to foil his cold, cutting words with icy hauteur, and now he’d changed tack.

It was confusing. And unfair. She was so desperately in need of a friend, if she wasn’t careful, before she knew it she’d be forgiving him. Complying. The very word evoked a shudder.

Thank goodness Demetri’s legacy had died hard. She reminded herself that a man’s smiles came easily, and this one could hardly wipe away the distress she’d gone through since she’d boarded that plane. She needed to be strong, and, after so much humiliation, true to herself.

‘I’m not very hungry,’ she asserted coolly. ‘I’ll be happy enough just to order room service. Anyway, it was—interesting, meeting you.’

‘Oh.’ Perhaps he’d picked up on the edge in her voice, because he dropped his gaze and his smile faded. When he glanced up again she saw remorse in his eyes. ‘I deserve that. I know I wasn’t very welcoming earlier. You’d had a long flight and I…’ His deep voice was suddenly contrite. ‘I’m pretty ashamed of how I spoke to you this afternoon. I’d like to apologise properly, and explain, if you’ll give me the chance.’

His eyes had softened beneath his luxuriant black lashes to a rich, warm velvet. She had the ghost of an impression of what it might be like to be someone he admired. Someone he felt affectionate towards. He looked so sincere, her instincts, always weakly anxious to think the best of people, rushed to believe him.

She felt herself begin to melt, then just in time remembered all those occasions with Demetri and steeled her heart against him. Men could be such smooth liars. Especially if there was a financial incentive.

‘Apology noted,’ she said softly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Nikosto. Some other time, perhaps.’

Like some other life. Some other universe.

‘Oh, look, Ariadne…Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a little taste of Sydney nightlife? You look amazing in that dress. It’s a shame to waste it.’ His dark eyes flickered over her, a sensual glow in their depths. ‘We don’t have to go far. As it happens, this hotel is said to have one of Sydney’s finest seafood restaurants.’ With a lean hand he indicated the other side of the lobby. ‘Won’t you let me at least buy you a glass of wine? Break the ice?’

An olive branch was so tempting. She’d never been the vengeful type. His mouth relaxed in a smile, its warmth reflected in his eyes. With his sexy, deep-timbred voice seeping into her tissues like an intoxicant, the man was a powerhouse of persuasion.

She lowered her lashes to avoid his mesmerising gaze, her pulse drumming. Shouldn’t she have one drink with him? Even with the off-balance tie, he looked so darkly handsome in his evening suit. The beautiful cloth was so well cut, it enhanced his wide-shouldered, lean-hipped six-three to perfection. It was hard to imagine he was anything but what he appeared. Civilised, straight, honourable, decent…

Unfortunately, Thea’s information about his company’s need for a cash injection was still lodged in her oesophagus like a spike. The hurt pride and shame surrounding the notion of herself as a prize in a transaction welled inside her again.

‘No, thanks,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I think I’d prefer to go to bed early and read up on Australia.’

Sebastian felt a spurt of good-humoured frustration. How far did a man have to grovel to lighten the mood of this difficult and, the more he saw of her, really quite desirable woman?

He drank her in, admiring her black dress. Wasn’t it the classic dinner garb women wore? That feathery affair she’d added couldn’t conceal the shape of her breasts, the pretty valley dividing them. It was hardly a dress to be lounging in.

Unless of course it was lounging on a man’s bed, prior to being unzipped.

He had a sudden hot flash of smooth, satin breasts spilling into his hands, meltingly tender raspberries aching to be tasted, but he banished it. Still, the thought of them stayed there just below his awareness, like a wicked temptation, dreamed of but forbidden.

He cursed himself for having alienated her and making his situation more complicated than it needed to be. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was the one who was reluctant to be married. Who’d have thought he’d have to end up fighting to win his unwanted bride for even the smallest dinner engagement?

In every corner of his being, instincts of determination and masculine self-respect gathered in momentum and roused his red blood cells to the challenge. He was reminded of one of his more complex satellite projects. The harder it had been to resolve, the more fired up he’d been to conquer it.

Added to that, he had a vested interest here. If he didn’t marry her, where did that leave his contract with Peri Giorgias? Now faced with the real danger of her slipping from his grasp, with a galvanising immediacy he suddenly realised how crucial it was for him to keep her. He could hardly expect to persuade her against her will, but his entire being grew charged with an urgency to win. This little tussle, at least.

‘Read up on Australia?’ he echoed, appealing to her with the rueful charm he’d known never to fail with women. ‘You’d prefer that to sharing an excellent dinner with a guy whose only desire is to make amends?’

Her glittering blue gaze met his without wavering. ‘Depends on the guy.’

Touché. The thrust was as unexpected as a punch in the gut.

‘Oh,’ he said, his insides reeling. ‘Right.’

Ariadne sensed the impact of her words and knew they’d hit home. She tensed, waiting for some blistering response. To give the barracuda his due, he controlled whatever it might have been.

He merely nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s your call.’
His eyes gleamed and his mouth hardened to a straight, determined line, but he raised his hand in a cool farewell gesture, ‘Enjoy your holiday, then, Miss Giorgias,’ and walked away.

As Ariadne watched his rigid, retreating back the sudden relief from tension made her knees feel wobbly. She let out the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. Spying a nearby ladies’ room, she made for it, and pushed her way into the blessed sanctuary for a moment of private self-congratulation.

Her first triumph of the day. She leaned up against the wash-basin console until her breathing calmed. In the mirror her eyes had a dark glitter, as though she’d been in a fight. In a way she had, she recognised, and she’d come off victorious.

He’d looked so shocked, as if he’d been savaged by a sheep. Serve him right for conniving with her uncle to snare her like a helpless little lamb. A fleeting image of the sincerity in his eyes when he apologised flashed into her mind, but she dismissed that.

Let
him be sorry. Let him suffer.

For once she hadn’t succumbed to a man’s wiles. She’d carried out her plan, and felt better for it. Empowered. With relish, she watched herself in the mirror make a symbolic gesture of dusting off her hands.

Let Sebastian Nikosto know how it felt to be scorned.

Empowerment must have been good for the soul, because it no longer seemed necessary for her to spend the evening cowering in her room. In fact, her appetite came roaring back and she felt ravenous enough to eat a lion.

She swept from the washroom and sashayed in search of the restaurant. Guided by the chink of china and the unmistakable hum of a large number of people tucking in, she found the entrance without much trouble. She could hear the smoky voice of a singer performing some bluesy old love song, and delicious cooking smells wafted to her. Garlic, herbs and exotic spices mingled with the savoury aromas of char-grilling meats to taunt her empty stomach. All at once she felt nearly faint with hunger.

She approached the entrance, feeling glaringly conscious of not having an escort. At the host’s desk she paused. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lowering her voice to avoid attracting too much attention. ‘A table for one, please.’

The portly head waiter raised close-set brown eyes to regard her, and arched his supercilious brows. ‘Name?’

‘Ariadne Giorgias.’

A subtle and strangely smug expression came over the man’s face. ‘Do you have a reservation, Miss Giorgias?’

‘Well, no.’ She smiled, and almost whispered, ‘I’m a guest in the hotel. I didn’t think a reservation would be required.’

‘I think you will find, madam,’ he said in crushing tones, making no effort to lower his voice to spare her embarrassment, ‘that in the finer hotels with restaurants of renown, a reservation
is
required.’

She flushed. ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise. The finer hotels I’ve stayed in before haven’t expected a reservation in their dining rooms.’

The man’s sceptical gaze clashed with hers. ‘And which hotels might they be, madam?’

‘Well…’ She thought back. ‘There was the Ritz in Paris. And the one in London. And the Dorchester. I’m sure The Waldorf in New York was very welcoming…’ Although, her uncle and aunt had been with her on those occasions. She supposed there wouldn’t be many head waiters who would refuse Peri Giorgias a table. ‘Oh, and there was the Gritti in Venice. Though I’m not so sure about that one now. Maybe we did have a reservation there.’

The man drew in a long breath and seemed to swell, while at the same time his lips thinned.

‘Madam,’ he stated, with austere emphasis, ‘this is the
Park Hyatt
in
Sydney.
Our rules may differ from those of the less
moderne
northern hemisphere establishments, but they are crucial if our guests wish to experience the continuing superbness
of our cuisine.’ He gave her a moment to digest the information, then lowered his gaze and darted his plump fingers across the screen of his little computer, frowning and pursing his lips. ‘As it happens, madam is fortunate in that we do have one remaining table.’ He picked up a menu, tucked it under his capacious arm, and, pivoting on his heel, made a grand gesture. ‘If madam would follow me.’

He raised his hand, and another waiter materialised from somewhere, bearing a water carafe and a basket of freshly baked bread. Thankful for her stroke of luck in not being turned away, Ariadne followed the procession across the crowded room. Through the glass walls she received an impression of the harbour lights, vessels on the dark water, the hard glitter of the city rising up behind Circular Quay. The pale shells of the Opera House floated in luminous majesty, seemingly a stone’s throw from the terrace.

As she threaded her way among the tables, she couldn’t help noticing the small, delicious-looking morsels on the diners’ overlarge plates, and wondered anxiously if she should order double of everything.

She rounded a pillar after her guides and stopped short. Tucked into a corner between pillars and the step down to the terrace, was a small, round, vacant table, gorgeous with crystal, roses and pink and white linen. Right next to it, in fact, practically jammed against it, was another table, similarly adorned. Only this one wasn’t vacant.

To her intense shock, lounging back in its single chair, his long legs stretched casually before him, Sebastian Nikosto sat perusing a leather-bound menu.

The host pulled out her chair and waited. Sebastian glanced casually up at her from beneath his black brows. His eyes lit with a curious gleam, then he resumed brooding over his menu.

Momentarily thrown, but loath to betray it or start a distressing scene, she hesitated, then submitted herself to be seated. With
chagrin she noticed that her chair was positioned to face Sebastian’s.

The head waiter deposited her napkin on her lap and presented her with her menu, while the other waiter fluttered to fill her water glass, offer her hot rolls.

She barely knew what she said to them. Questions clamoured in her head as Sebastian’s dark satanic presence dominated the space. Had the man somehow guessed she’d be coming here after all and arranged this with the restaurant staff?

But how could he have known? Did he have some sort of diabolical clairvoyance?

The head waiter retreated, along with his small entourage. Almost at once a wine waiter advanced, who hovered, exerting polite pressure for her to make a choice. Conscious that this was something she’d never had to do herself before, she opened the wine menu and skimmed page after page of unfamiliar Australian and New Zealand names, hypersensitive to the unnerving presence of her neighbour.