Milos was standing by the white marble fireplace when she re-entered the room, but Helen moved to the windows, to stand looking down at the lights of Knightsbridge sparkling thirty floors below. It was quite a view, even though a light rain had come to slick the pavements. It blurred the image, making her feel as if she were watching it through a mirror.
She was so absorbed that she got quite a shock when Milos put his hand on her shoulder. She’d been unaware of him coming to stand beside her, and the warm strength of his fingers caused a ripple of excitement in her stomach.
She turned towards him a little breathlessly, her agitation showing in the eyes she turned up to his lean face. Her lips parted in an unknowing invitation and she saw the way his eyes darkened as they identified her expression.
‘Signomi. I’m sorry,’ he said, his low voice with its distinctive accent like velvet on her skin. ‘Did I frighten you?’
‘You—startled me,’ she amended, aware of the quickening beat of her heart. She nervously cleared her throat. ‘I—er—I was admiring the view.’
‘So was I,’ he said softly, and her stomach wobbled at the realisation that he wasn’t talking about the scene outside.
‘Um—I suppose I should be going,’ she said, half afraid of her own reaction to his words. He was only being polite, she told herself, trying to remember how she’d felt when he’d turned up on her doorstep. This man was not her friend, she reminded herself. Her mother would be horrified if she ever discovered that Helen had had dinner with him in his suite.
‘Oh—you must stay and have coffee,’ he protested now, nodding towards the sofa, and she saw the tray she hadn’t noticed before residing on the low table close by. ‘Come,’ he added. ‘Let us sit down. And don’t worry about getting home. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to be available when we need them.’
Helen hesitated only a moment before doing as he suggested. But as she sank into the soft cushions she couldn’t help wondering when he’d ordered a car. Had he intended her to have dinner with him all along?
It was a disturbing consideration and her teeth dug into her bottom lip as Milos seated himself beside her. What did she really know about this man? she asked herself uneasily. How did she know she could trust him?
Milos’s weight depressed the cushions deeper than hers did, and she felt herself slipping closer. It took all her ingenuity to sustain a little space between them without his being aware of it. Or perhaps he was. She couldn’t be sure.
‘Will you …?’
He indicated the cups and Helen drew a deep breath and moved forward. There was a tall jug of coffee and another smaller one of cream, and two white porcelain cups that seemed almost transparent.
The delicacy of the operation was not lost on her, and Helen couldn’t help her hand shaking as she lifted the pot and attempted to pour. Dear God, she was going to spill it all over the white linen cloth. Either that, or drop the pot on the fragile china.
She was aware of Milos watching her and her gaze was drawn irresistibly in his direction. Which was definitely a mistake. As she’d feared, the coffee cascaded over the side of the cup, filling the saucer and splashing hotly onto her jean-clad legs.
‘Oh, shit!’ she exclaimed, as much in pain as frustration, and without hesitation Milos took the pot from her trembling fingers and replaced it on the tray.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said roughly, snatching up a napkin and dabbing at the damp spots on her trousers. ‘Theos, this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been watching you.’
Helen would agree with that, but she couldn’t let him take the blame for something that was really all her own doing. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she insisted, pushing her hands over her knees in an effort to deflect his efforts. ‘Really. I knew I was going to make a mess of it.’
Milos tossed the napkin onto the tray, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement. ‘Well, you certainly did that,’ he agreed, nodding at the stained tray cloth. ‘Never mind. I’m not fond of English coffee anyway. So long as you’re not burned, that’s all that matters.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said ruefully, dragging her eyes from his. ‘My—er—my jeans took the worst of it.’
Milos’s eyes dropped to her knees and Helen’s stomach did a nervous somersault. There was such a look of tenderness in his gaze and her limbs turned to liquid when he captured her hands in both of his.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, and for a moment Helen hadn’t the first idea what he was talking about. When he’d touched her shoulder earlier, she’d been startled by her reaction, but that was as nothing compared to the way she felt when he raised one of her hands to his lips. He bestowed a fleeting kiss on her knuckles before turning her hand over and caressing her palm. His thumb massaged the moist centre in a deliberately sensual motion and she felt the heat he was generating spreading to every extremity. It was an almost physical invasion and she hardly dared to identify its effect.
Her eyes had been drawn back to his, but now she tried to look away. She didn’t want him to see how vulnerable she was, how easily he had breached barriers she had had years to erect.
She didn’t understand it. She’d been Richard’s girlfriend for almost two years and he’d never come close to arousing her in this way. Oh, they’d kissed and petted, of course they had, and just occasionally she’d been tempted to find out what all the fuss was about. But she’d always been in control of her emotions and Richard had known she didn’t sleep around.
Yet now, the melting sensation in her stomach was causing all sorts of problems. There was a tightness in her breasts, a moistness between her legs, and the blood that had been pounding through her veins now seemed to have congealed just beneath her skin. She was hot and cold by turns, sweating one minute and shivering the next, while a wave of goose-bumps enveloped her in a rippling cloak of excitement.
She was beginning to realise how reckless she had been in coming here, yet she also knew Milos wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. Despite her earlier doubts, she thought she could trust him. The trouble was, she didn’t trust herself.
As if sensing her confusion, Milos chose that moment to release her hands. ‘You are very sweet, agape mou,’ he said, patting her knee with what she recognised was genuine affection. ‘And so innocent,’ he continued, looking into her flushed face. ‘You make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.’
Helen’s lips parted. ‘What things?’ she asked naïvely, but she knew. She just wanted him to say them, to admit that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling the intimacy between them.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do. I do.’ She gazed up at him eagerly. ‘Please; you have to tell me.’ She paused and then added provocatively, ‘Do you think I’m attractive?’
Dear God! Helen almost cringed then. Where had that come from? She’d thought the meal had banished the worst effects of the champagne from her system, but she’d been wrong. Terribly wrong.
Milos, however, chose to answer her. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I find you very attractive.’
‘Was that why you wanted to see me again?’ In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Helen recklessly. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about my father.’
‘I did. I should,’ he amended, a little roughly. ‘But—we’ve talked about other things.’
‘Me,’ said Helen ruefully. ‘Were you bored?’
‘Very,’ he said drily. ‘That’s why I asked you to have dinner with me.’
Helen