He hadn’t been the first Greek male to find her combination of long wheat-gold hair and vivid blue eyes an instant attraction by any means. She had formulated a nice line in cool, composed rejection of all take-over bids, which had stood her in pretty good stead up until then. Dion, however, was made of sterner stuff. Instead of moving on, he’d laughed and taken a seat, introducing himself with a charm calculated to melt the most resistant of hearts.
The name alone had been enough to dry any protest she might have made, the discovery by dint of carefully casual questioning that he was indeed a relative of the man so many had tried and failed to interview a potent force.
Even so, if she hadn’t liked Dion as a person that would have been it, Chelsea assured herself now. She’d enjoyed every minute of the time they’d spent together-especially after Dion had proved himself unexpectedly willing to accept their relationship on her terms. His announcement that he had to return home in order to attend his young cousin’s fifth birthday celebrations, and his invitation to accompany him, had elicited mixed feelings, but the enticement had proved too strong in the end. This would be the closest anyone from her part of the world had ever managed to get to Nikos Pandrossos the man. If she could manage to talk him into granting her an interview, it would be a real feather in her journalistic cap.
They were coming into a small bay where a graceful twin-masted yacht already rode at anchor. Trees backed the curve of sand, giving way to one side to reveal what looked like the start of a narrow roadway-if the car parked there was anything to go by. A man alighted from the vehicle as Dion cut the engine to bring the launch in to a well-timed stop at the jetty built out from a rocky platform, lifting a hand in brief greeting.
“Cousin Nikos,” said Dion. “He must have just got in himself.”
Chelsea made no reply, aware of her suddenly increased creased pulse-rate as she studied the waiting figure. Taller than the average Greek, with shoulders like an ox beneath the tautly stretched white T-shirt, he looked intimidating even from this distance. He was wearing jeans, close-fitting about lean hips and outlining the muscular strength of his thighs. Masculine as they cameand dangerous with it, came the mental rider.
Dion leapt out and tied up the boat before extending a hand to assist her onto the jetty.
“I’ll take your bag,” he said, reaching for the holdall that was the only luggage she had allowed herself this trip. His eyes sparkled devilishly at her involuntary protest. “Must I fight with you for it?”
Laughing, Chelsea gave way. “I suppose I’m too used to doing things for myself,” she said, falling into step at his side along the jetty.
The laughter faded as they descended the carved steps from the rocky platform and trod the stretch of sand to where Nikos Pandrossos awaited their coming. Dark as Dion’s, his eyes scanned her from the toes upwards with a thoroughness that brought faint flags of colour into her cheeks, taking in the shapely length of leg revealed by the brief white shorts, the curve of hip and slender waistline-lingering for a deliberate moment on the firm thrust of her breasts beneath the halter-necked top-before lifting to meet her blue regard with a faint but unmistakable curl of a lip.
“This is Chelsea Lovatt, Nikos,” declared Dion, sounding just a mite confrontational to Chelsea’s ears. “An English friend come to spend a few days.”
“Chelsea?” queried the older man, not having shifted his stance. “You’re named after a district of London?”
“I’m named after a character in a book my mother read while she was carrying me,” Chelsea answered lightly, gathering her wits. “I think she hoped I might turn out the same.”
The curl increased a fraction. “And did you?”
“I’ve no idea,” she parried. “I never read the book.” She put out a hand, registering the surprise that sprang momentarily in his eyes. “I’m honoured to meet you, Kirie Pandrossos.”
The dark head inclined, revealing the merest hint of grey at the temples as a shaft of sunlight touched the thickly curling pelt of his hair. His hand was cool to the touch, fingers closing over hers in a grasp of tempered steel, sending a thrill like an electric shock the length of her arm.
“The honour is all mine, despinis,’ he mocked.
Chelsea resisted the urge to snatch her hand away the moment he released it, feeling the tingle still in her fingers as she thrust them into the pocket of her shorts. Having met the man, she was beginning to realise just how formidable a task she had set herself. She was here under false pretences to start with, which was hardly going to help her case. There was every likelihood that he would have her deported-from the island, at leastthe moment he discovered her real purpose.
Never say die, she told herself firmly, refusing to give way. Challenge was her lifeblood.
“Will you give us a lift to the house?” asked Dion.
“I’d scarcely leave you to await other transport,” returned his cousin. He turned to open the Range Rover’s front passenger door, noting Chelsea’s involuntary hesitation with a sardonic little smile. “I don’t bite. Not unless I’m provoked. If you’d feel more comfortable in the rear, however…”
“I’m happy to sit anywhere,” she said airily, mentally girding her loins again. “Thank you, kirie.”
“You may call me Nikos,” he declared as she slid into the seat.
“Thank you, Nikos, then.” Chelsea took care to eradicate any hint of irony from her tone. “I’m not much for formality either.”
Dark eyes dwelt for a meaningful moment on the long stretch of lightly tanned leg, even further revealed by the pull on her shorts. “So it may be assumed.”
He closed the door before she could come up with a response, leaving her feeling more than a little overexposed. Dion had donned his shirt again before leaving the boat, but had given her no reason to believe herself inadequately dressed. Considering the scanty wardrobe she had with her, she was probably going to have a problem meeting the criteria anyway, she reflected ruefully. The things she’d packed had been chosen for their lightness of weight and washability rather than propriety.
Dion got into the rear seat, leaving his cousin to go around and slide behind the wheel. The car was turned about in three short, sharp moves and headed up the curving incline between the trees. Acutely aware of the muscular thigh she could see on the periphery of her vision, Chelsea turned her attention to the view from the side window as they breasted the final rise and emerged from the tree line.
From here she was looking directly towards the mainland, some five or six miles distant, the mountainous horizon line hazed by heat. Close by lay another, very much smaller island, bearing what looked like the crumbling remains of a small tower on its highest point.
“Does the ruin over there have any significance?” she asked with interest, anticipating some historic provenance.
“It’s just a ruin,” said Dion.
“All that’s left of what was once a tiny chapel,” expounded his cousin. “We’ve never taken the trouble to explore its origins, but you’re at liberty to do so, should you wish it.”
Chelsea gave him a swift glance, struck by the strength of the carved profile with its high-bridged nose and clean jawline. His mouth was well-shaped, lips firm. Wonderful to kiss, came the unwonted thought, hastily discarded.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, “but I’m hardly going to be here long enough to start looking into historical detail.”
“You have other commitments?”
“Well, no. At least, nothing concrete. I’m just going where the fancy takes me for the next few weeks-seeing as much of the islands as I can.”