An Heir for the Millionaire Read Free Page B

life, she knew, amassing his fortune through skill, daring and formidable financial acumen. Brought up by an elderly uncle, a professor of maths at a provincial Greek university, who had died some years ago, Xander had put his energies into his work. Clare knew that for Xander women were only for recreation and sexual pleasure, fleeting companionship, nothing more. He did not want emotional attachment. Let alone love.
    But in the year they had been together he had shown no sign of restlessness with her, no sign of growing bored and weary of her. It was the reverse, if anything—especially that last, most precious time when they’d made love. She had sensed in the depths of her being that something was different between them.
    She felt her heart catch again. Fill with hope again. Surely she was more than just the latest in his endless parade of mistresses who, as she had so swiftly learned, never engaged him for more than a handful of months at a time? He found it hard to express his emotions, she knew, preferring passion and sensuality—but that did not mean he did not feel them! Did not mean he felt nothing for her beyond physical attraction!
    Again she replayed in her mind the memory of how he hadbeen different last time, how he had held her, gazed into her eyes, spoken those words to her in Greek that he had never said before… And yet again came hope, searing and urgent.
    There was the sound of the apartment door opening. She felt her heart leap, then quiver, her eyes going immediately to where he would walk into the reception room.
    And then he was there, paused in the entrance, his figure tall and familiar, making her breath catch in her lungs as it always did, every time she saw him again after an absence.
    For a second her eyes lit, and for the briefest moment she was sure she saw an answering expression in his eyes.
    Then it was gone.
    â€˜Delays at JFK,’ he said. ‘Then the motorway was jammed.’ Xander gave an irritated shake of his head and set his briefcase down on the sideboard.
    Clare stood, poised in the centre of the room. He turned to look at her. For a second there was that look in his eyes again, and then it was gone once more.
    â€˜I’ll take a shower, then we can go out and eat,’ he said.
    Her eyes flickered. ‘You don’t want to eat here?’
    He gave another cursory shake of his head. ‘I’ve reserved the St John.’
    â€˜Oh. That’s lovely,’ Clare answered.
    It might be lovely—the restaurant at the St John had become one of her favourites—but it was also unusual. Usually when Xander got back from abroad he preferred to eat in.
    After sweeping her off to bed…
    She looked at him uncertainly. He was loosening the knot of his tie, but he made no move towards her. Instead, he headed to the bedroom.
    â€˜Fix me a drink, will you, Clare?’ he called.
    She headed back to the kitchen and extracted a chilled bottle of beer from the fridge, opening it carefully and filling a glass. She made her way down to the en suite bathroom. He was already in the shower cubicle, and she could see his tall, naked body dimly behind the screen through the steam. He was washing his hair and had his back to her.
    She left his drink on the vanity, and went into the bedroom. If they were going to the St John she’d better dress accordingly.
    She had learnt very early on that Xander did not care to be kept waiting. He was never uncivil, but she could sense his irritation. The irritation of a rich man who didn’t have to wait for things, or people. Including herself. So now she simply slipped on a dark green sheath, one of her favourites, brushed out her hair and retouched her make-up. Then she stepped back to check her appearance.
    The familiar svelte, classically beautiful image looked back at her—hair smooth, make-up restrained, cool and composed.
    She was still extremely slim. Nothing showed at all. Yet she could feel a