The Greek's Virgin Bride Read online

  The Greek’s Virgin Bride

  Julia James

  Her wicked and nasty grand-father had kicked her mother and Andrea long before she was born..........

  PROLOGUE

  'You want me to do what?' Nikos Vassilis stared at the old man seated at the desk.

  Yiorgos Coustakis looked back with a level gaze. At sev­enty-eight he was still a formidable figure of a man. His eyes were still as piercing as they had been when he was young. They were the eyes of a man who knew the price of everything.

  Especially human souls.

  'You heard me.’ His voice was unemotional. 'Marry my granddaughter and you can go ahead with the merger.'

  ‘Maybe,' replied the younger man slowly. 'I just didn't believe you.’

  A twisted smile pulled at Yiorgos Coustakis's mouth. 'You should,' he advised. 'It's the only deal on the table. And a deal, after all,' he said, 'is what you've flown four thousand miles for, ne?’

  His visitor kept his hard, handsome face expressionless. Revealing anything in front of Old Man Coustakis was a major error in any kind of negotiation with him. Certainly he did not reveal the exasperation he had felt when the head of the Coustakis empire had phoned him at three a.m. in his Manhattan apartment the night before last to tell him that if he wanted a deal he'd better be in Athens this morning to sign it.

  If it had been any one else phoning him Nikos would have given him short shrift. He'd had Esme Vandersee with him in bed, and sleeping was not what they'd been doing. But Yiorgos Coustakis had attractions that even the spectacular Esme, queen of the catwalk, could not compete with.

  The Coustakis empire was a prize worth forgoing any woman for.

  But was it a prize worth marrying a woman for? Giving up his freedom?

  For a woman he'd never met? Never laid eyes on?

  Nikos shifted his gaze past the penetrating dark eyes and out through Ehl plate-glass window. Athens lay below—crowded, polluted, unique. One of the most ancient cities of Europe, the cradle of western civilisation- Nikos knew it as a child knew its parent - he had been raised on its streets, toughened in its alleyways, tempered in its unforgiving crucible.

  He'd clawed his way up off the streets, fighting tooth and nail, pushing poverty behind him deal by nerve-racking deal, until now, at thirty-four, it was as if he had never been that unwanted, fatherless boy running wild in the alleyways.

  The journey had been long, and tough, but he had made it— and the fruits of his triumph were sweet indeed.

  Now he stood poised on the edge of his greatest triumph-getting hold of the mighty Coustakis Industries.

  'I was thinking,' he said, keeping his face blank, 'of a share-swap.'

  He had it all planned. He would reverse Vassilis Inc into the far larger Coustakis empire, and take the lot in a cashless exchange of shares. Oh, Old Man Coustakis would need a lot of personal financial sweeteners, he knew that, but Nikos had mat covered too. He knew the old man wanted out, that his health—deny it officially as he would—was not good. But he knew Yiorgos Coustakis would never cede control of his busi­ness without a top-dollar face-saving deal—he'd go out like a lion, with a final roar, not like an old wolf driven from the pack.

  That didn't bother Nikos—when his time came to quit he'd drive a hard bargain too, just to keep his successor on his toes.

  But what Coustakis had just thrown at him had winded him like a blow to the gut Marry his granddaughter to get hold of the company? Nikos hadn't even known the old man had a granddaughter!

  Inside, behind the mask that was the carefully irel'ully schooled expression on his face, Nikos had to tip his hat to the old man.

  He could still catch his rivals out—even a rival who was posing as a friendly merger partner.

  'You can have the share-swap—on your wedding day.

  Yiorgos's reply was flat. Nikos kept his silence. Behind his composed appearance his mind was teeming. Racing.

  'Well?' Yiorgos prompted him.

  ‘I’ll think about it,' returned Nikos. His voice was cool.

  He turned to go.

  'Walk out the door and the deal is off- Permanently.

  Nikos stopped. He rested his eyes on the man seated at the desk. He wasn't bluffing. Nikos knew that. Everyone knew Old Man Coustakis never bluffed.

  'You sign now, or not at all.'

  Nikos's slate-grey eyes—a legacy from his unknown father, as was his un-Greek height of well over six feet—met with Coustakis's black ones. For a long, timeless moment, they held. Then slowly, unflinchingly, Nikos Vassilis walked back to the desk, picked up the gold pen Yiorgos Coustakis silently handed him, and signed the document lying there.

  Without a word, he set down the pen and walked out.

  On his brief journey down to ground level in the plush executive lift in the Coustakis HQ, Nikos tried in vain to rein his thoughts.

  Exultation ran side by side with anger—exultation that his longed-for goal was now within his grasp, anger that he had been outmanoeuvred by the wiliest fox he knew.

  He straightened his shoulders. Who cared if Coustakis had driven a bargain he hadn't even seen coining? No one could have. The man played his cards closer to his chest than anyone Nikos knew—himself included. And if he could suddenly pro­duce a granddaughter out of thin air that no one had ever heard of till now, well, what did it matter to him, Nikos Vassilis, who was going to get what he'd wanted all his life—a safe, secure, glittering place at the very top of the greasy pole he'd been climbing all his life?

  That the unknown granddaughter fated to be his wife was a complete stranger was an irrelevance compared with taking over the Coustakis empire.

  He knew what mattered in his life. What had always mat­tered.

  And Old Man Coustakis—and his granddaughter—held the key to his dreams. Nikos was not about to turn it down.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ANDREA could hear her mother coughing wheezily in the kitchen as she made breakfast. Her face tensed. It was getting worse, that cough. Kim had been asthmatic all her life, Andrea knew, but for the last eighteen months the bronchitis she'd got the winter before had never been shaken off, and her lungs were weaker than ever.

  The doctor had been sympathetic but, apart from keeping Kim on her medication, all he'd advised was spending the win­ter in a warmer, drier climate. Andrea had smiled with grim politeness, and not bothered to tell him that he might as well have said she should take her mother to the moon. They barely had enough to cover their living expenses as it was, let alone to go gallivanting off abroad.

  A clunk through the letterbox of the council flat she'd lived in all her life told Andrea that the post had arrived. She hurried off to get it before her mother could get to the door. The post only brought bills, and every bill brought more worries. Already her mother was fretting about how they would be able to pay for heating in the coming winter.

  Andrea glanced at the post as she scooped it off the worn carpet by the front door. Two bills, some junk mail, and a thick cream-coloured envelope with her name typed on it. She frowned. Now what? An eviction order? A debt reminder? Something unpleasant from the council? Or the bank?

  She ripped her thumbnail down the back and yanked open the paper inside, unfolding it. She caught a glimpse of some ornate heading, and a neatly typed paragraph—'Dear Ms Fraser....'

  As she read, Andrea's body slowly froze. Twice she re-read the brief missive. Then, with a contortion of blind rage on her face, she screwed the letter into a ball and hurled it with all her force at the door. It bounced, and lay on the carpet,

  Andrea had heard the phrase 'red-misting'—now she knew first-hand what it meant.

  Bastard!

  She felt her hands fist in anger at her side.
Then, with a deep, controlling breath, she made herself open her palms, bend down, and pick up the letter. She must not let Kim find it

  All that day the contents of the letter, jammed into the bot­tom of her bag, burned at her, the terse paragraph it contained repeating itself over and over again in Andrea's head.

  You are required to attend Coustakis at the end of next week. Your airline ticket will be at Heathrow for you to collect on Friday morning. Consult the enclosed itinerary for your check-in time. You will be met at Athens airport. You should phone the number below to acknowledge receipt of this communication by five p.m. tomorrow.

  It was simply signed 'For Mr Coustakis'.

  Dark emotions flowed through Andrea. ' Coustakis's.' Aka Yiorgos Coustakis. Founder and owner of Coustakis Industries, worth hundreds of millions of pounds. A man Andrea loathed with every atom of her being.

  Her grandfather.

  Not that Yiorgos Coustakis had ever acknowledged the re­lationship. Memory of another letter leapt in Andrea's mind. That one had been written directly to her mother. It had been brief, too, and to the point. It had informed Kim Fraser, in a single, damning sentence, that any further attempt to commu­nicate with Coustakis would result in legal action being taken against her. That had been ten years ago. Yiorgos Coustakis had made it damningly clear that his granddaughter simply didn't exist as far as he was concerned.

  Now, out of the blue, she had been summoned to his presence.

  Andrea's mouth tightened. Did he really think she would meekly pack her bags and check in for a flight to Athens next Friday? Darkness shadowed her eyes. Yiorgos Coustakis could drop dead before she showed up!

  A second letter arrived the next day, again from the London office of Coustakis Industries. Its contents were even terser.

  Dear Fraser,

  You failed to communicate your receipt of the letter dated two days ago. Please do so immediately.

  Like the first letter, Andrea took it into work—Kim must definitely not see it. She had suffered far too much from the father of the man she had loved so desperately—so briefly. A sick feeling sloshed in Andrea's stomach. How could anyone have treated her gentle, sensitive mother so brutally? But Yiorgos Coustakis had—and had relished it.

  Andrea typed a suitable reply, keeping it as barely civil as the letters she had received. She owed nothing to the sender. Not even civility. Nothing but hatred.

  With reference to your recent correspondence, you should note that any further letters to me will continue to be ig­nored.

  She printed it out and signed it with her bare name—hard and uncompromising.

  Like the stock she came from.

  Nikos Vassilis swirled the fine vintage wine consideringly in his glass.

  'So, when will my bride arrive, Yiorgos?' he enquired of his host.

  He was dining with his grandfather-in-law-to-be in the vast, over-decorated house on the outskirts of Athens that Yiorgos Coustakis considered suitable to his wealth and position.

  'At the end of the week,' his host answered tersely.

  He didn't look well, Nikos noted. His colour was high, and there was a pinched look around his mouth.

  'And the wedding?'

  His host gave a harsh laugh. 'So eager? You don't even know what she looks like!'

  Nikos's mobile mouth curled cynically.

  'Her looks, or lack of them, are not going to be a deal-breaker, Yiorgos,' he observed sardonically.

  Yiorgos gave another laugh. Less harsh this time. Coarser.

  'Bed her in the dark, if you must! I had to do that with her grandmother!'

  A sliver of distaste filtered through Nikos. Though no one would dare say it to his face, the world knew that Yiorgos Coustakis had won his richly dowered, well-born wife by dint of getting the poor girl so besotted with him that she'd agreed to meet him in his apartment one afternoon. Yiorgos, as am­bitious as he was ruthless, had made sure the information leaked to Marina's father, who had arrived in time to prevent Yiorgos having to undergo the ordeal of sex with a plain, drab dab of a girl in daylight, but not in time to save her reputation. 'Who will believe she left my apartment a virgin?' Yiorgos had challenged her father callously—and won his bride.

  Nikos flicked his mind back to the present. Was he insane, going through with this? Marrying a woman he hadn't set eyes on just because she happened to have a quarter of Yiorgos Coustakis's DNA? Idly he found himself wondering if the girl felt the same way about marrying a complete stranger. Then he shrugged mentally—in the world of the very rich, dynastic marriages were commonplace. The Coustakis girl would have been reared from birth to know that she was destined to be a pawn in her grandfather's machinations. She would be pam­pered and doll-like, her primary skill that of spending money in huge amounts on clothes, jewellery and anything else she took a fancy to.

  Well, Nick acknowledged silently, glancing around the op­ulent dining room, she would certainly have money to spare as his wife! Once he'd taken over Coustakis Industries Ms income would be ten times what it already was—she could squander it on anything she wanted! Spending money would keep her busy, and keep her happy.

  He paused momentarily. With a wife in the background he would obviously have to keep his personal life more low-profile. He would not be one of those husbands, all too familiar in the circles he now moved in, who thought nothing of flaunt­ing their mistresses in front of their families. Nevertheless, he had no intention of altering the very enjoyable private life he indulged himself in, even if he would have to be more discreet about it once he was married.

  Oh, he was well aware that as a rich man he could have been as old as Methuselah and as ugly as sin and beautiful women would still have fawned on him. Wealth was the most powerful aphrodisiac to those kind of women. Of course even when he'd been dirt-poor women had always come easily to him—another legacy from his philandering father, no doubt. One of Esme's many predecessors had said to his face, as she lay exhausted and sated beneath him, that if he ever ran out of money he could make a fortune hiring himself out as a stud. Nikos had laughed, his mouth widening wolfishly, and turned her over...

  He shifted in his uncomfortably ornate chair. Thinking about sex was not a good idea right now. His razor-sharp mind might not have objected to kow-towing to Old Man Coustakis's sum­mons that night, but his body was reminding him that it had been deprived of its customary satiation. Even though he'd put in extra time these last lew days at the gym and on the squash courts in the exclusive health club he belonged to, Nikos could feel a familiar tightening that presaged sexual desire.

  As soon as he decently could he'd take his leave tonight and phone Xanthe Palloupis. She was an extremely complaisant mistress—always welcoming, always responsive to his physical needs. Even though it had been three months since he'd last visited her—Esme Vandersee had replaced her over two months ago—he knew she would greet him warmly at her dis­creetly located but very expensive apartment, confident that he would tell her in the morning she could go to her favourite jeweller's and order something to remember his visit by.

  Would he keep her on when he had married this unknown granddaughter of Yiorgos Coustakis? She had other lovers, he knew, and it did not trouble him. Esme, too, right this moment was doubtless consoling her wounded—and highly devel­oped!—ego by letting another of her crowded court do the honours by her. As a top model she always had men slavering after her, but for all that Nikos knew perfectly well that he would only have to snap his fingers and she would come in­stantly to his heel—and other parts of his anatomy.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. He definitely needed some energetic physical release before his wedding night! The Coustakis girl would be a virgin, of course, and bedding her would be more of a duty, not a pleasure, though he would be as careful with her as was possible. He'd never taken a virgin—he would have to make totally sure he was not sexually frustrated on his wedding night or she'd be the one to suffer from it, however plain she was.

 
Just how plain was she? Nikos wondered, his mind running on. He had a pretty shrewd idea that from the tinge of open malice in Yiorgos's expression when he'd made that coarse comment about bedding her in the dark she had no looks at all. The old man probably thought it amusing that a man who was never seen without a beautiful woman hanging on his arm should now be hog-tied to a female whose sole attraction was as the gateway to control and eventual ownership of Coustakis Industries.

  Another thought flitted through his mind. Just who exactly was this unknown granddaughter of Yiorgos Coustakis? One of the main attractions of taking over Coustakis Industries was that Yiorgos had no offspring to fight him for control. His only son had been killed in a smash-up years ago. Marina Coustakis had had some kind of seizure, so the gossip went, and had become a permanent invalid—though not managing to die until a few years ago. That meant that Yiorgos had not been free to marry again and beget more heirs. But then, mused Nikos, if the son had indeed been married when he died, and the grand­daughter already born, maybe that hadn't mattered too much to Yiorgos. The son's widow had presumably married again and was out of the picture, apart from having dutifully reared the Coustakis granddaughter to be a docile, well-behaved, well-bred Greek wife.