The Andreou Marriage Arrangement Read Free

brain.
    The evening stretched ahead, and one she’d choose to fill after a light meal with a few hours spent on her laptop, catch the late news on television…then bed.
    It seemed like a plan, albeit a familiar one as she swept the length of her hair into a careless knot, donned underwear before adding comfortable jeans and a singlet top.
    The message light was blinking on her answering machine as she entered the kitchen, and she crossed to the servery, took up a pen, pulled the message pad forward and pressed the play button.
    â€œAlesha. Loukas Andreou.” His voice was deep, husky, with a slight accented inflection that curled round her nerve-ends and tugged a little. It wasn’t a feeling she coveted, and she drew in a calming breath as she noted down the number he recited. “Call me.”
    A soft curse emerged from her lips, and she rolled her eyes in silent self-castigation. He wasn’t wasting any time.
    So make the call. The sooner she dealt with him, the better.
    He picked up on the third ring. ‘Andreou.’
    â€˜Alesha,’ she informed him matter-of-factly.
    â€˜Have you eaten?’
    â€˜I’m about to.’ It would take only minutes to assemble a salad and enjoy her solitary meal. ‘Why?’
    â€˜I’ll collect you in ten minutes.’
    Who does he think he is? Don’t go there.
    â€˜If you’re issuing an invitation,’ she managed silkily, ‘it’s polite to request, not demand.’
    â€˜I’ll make a note of it.’
    Was there a smidgen of mild amusement apparent in his response?
    â€˜Ten minutes.’ He cut the connection, and left her silently fuming and on the verge of calling back to insist she meet him at a nominated venue.
    Except it would seem petty, and not the action of a woman in control. Or one determined to treat this meeting with prosaic common sense.
    There was the need to change. Comfortable well-worn jeans, a casual top, her dark hair caught in a careless knot and anchored there with a large clip, bare feet, and no make-up didn’t comprise fitting attire in which to dine out.
    There was a part of her that felt inclined to slip her feet into trainers, collect her car keys, wallet, and leave.
    Except her absence wouldn’t achieve a thing.
    So, get over it, she admonished silently as she changed into tailored trousers and a buttoned blouse. She added a dash of colour to her lips, fixed her hair, then selected a fashionable jacket and slid her feet into killer heels.
    Her intercom buzzed as she collected a clutch purse, and she picked up, clarified Loukas Andreou’s image on the security monitor, then uttered a brisk—‘I’m on my way down.’
    His height and breadth of shoulder seemed vaguely intimidating, his hard, strong-boned facial features arresting in the early evening light. Black tailored trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and a black butter-soft leather jacket lent a casual sophisticated look…one she knew to be deceiving, given the power he wielded in the business arena.
    â€˜Loukas.’ Her greeting was polite, almost formal as dark eyes seared her own, and for a moment she experienced the strangest feeling that time stood still. Then it was gone.
    â€˜Shall we get this over and done with?’
    Was that a faint edge of humour apparent, or simply a trick of the light? She couldn’t be sure in the brief instant before he stood to one side and indicated the black Aston Martin parked in the forecourt.
    She walked at his side to the car, aware of his close proximity as he opened the passenger door and saw her seated before crossing to slip in behind the wheel.
    There was an unwanted sense of nervousness she strove hard to hide as he fired the engine and eased the powerful car onto the road.
    A shared meal, during which she’d state her perspective, negotiate…and hopefully resolve the terms of Dimitri’s will to their mutual