Greek Tycoon, Waitress Wife. Julia James

she pushed the thought aside. It would come, but not yet. Not yet. Not today—not tonight.

      But come it did. When Alexeis’s final day in New York arrived, Carrie was still determined not to think of it. Yet it seemed that there was a hard, heavy stone inside her chest. At breakfast she was subdued, picking at her food.

      ‘You are not hungry?’ Alexeis eyebrows rose in surprise. Carrie always ate heartily in the morning—but then, like him, she needed to restore her energy levels after the exertions of the night.

      ‘No, not really,’ she answered, and set down her fork, abandoning half of the delicious Eggs Benedict that she usually polished off. But she had no appetite—only that hard, heavy stone inside her.

      ‘You don’t feel well?’ he asked. There was concern in his voice.

      She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘It’s just because it’s the last day,’ she said.

      ‘So New York has enraptured you?’ he commented. ‘Even though—’ a note of mock severity came into his voice ‘—you have hardly made the most of all the shops! Well, perhaps those in Chicago will tempt you more, ne?’

      ‘Chicago?’ Carrie’s voice was puzzled.

      ‘Our next destination,’ said Alexeis. He looked at her. ‘You have no urgent need to go back to London, do you?’

      Carrie stared at him. The hard, heavy stone inside her seemed to be poised on the brink of melting away like snow in summer. But did she dare believe what he might be saying?

      Alexeis watched her expression. It was something he found very enjoyable to do—and not just now. He had enjoyed watching her expression on their first evening in New York, when she’d gazed at her reflection, wearing an evening gown that had cost five thousand dollars. Her face had come alight with disbelief and wonder at the image she had made. And when he’d escorted her to cocktails on the rooftop terrace of a skyscraper, or to a party on a multi-million-dollar yacht on the Hudson, to dress circle seats at the latest Broadway musical. Wherever he took her, whatever the experience, the location, her face was so very, very expressive.

      And not just as she was experiencing what life was like when she was at his side. What he enjoyed most of all was watching her face as he made love to her. He took almost as much pleasure in her pleasure, as he took in his own.

      And he took pleasure, too, in just being with her. That was strange for him, he knew. With other women, their primary value to him was as a sexual partner, skilled and experienced. Sophisticated in their tastes and expertise, they were social partners too, who could be relied on to move easily in his world. But not otherwise to spend time with. But Carrie—well, she was different. She seemed just to—to be there—part of his daily life.

      He frowned minutely. He’d never thought of women in that way—as companions. His frown deepened. When he was alone with Carrie, what did they do? What did they talk about? He tried to think. Obviously a great deal of their time together they were in bed, but, even so, there was a lot of time when he was not making love to her. When he was simply having breakfast with her, chatting, relaxed, or late at night or in the early morning, together in bed, embracing her, half asleep, half awake, talking of… Well, what did they talk about? Nothing specific, nothing memorable. Yet the very fact that he could not recall was in itself notable.