Constantine's Defiant Mistress

‘Don’t you ever walk out on me like that again!’ he bit out.

‘I’m a free agent and I can do exactly as I please!’

‘You think so?’ His mouth hardened with lust. ‘Well, in that case, so can I!’

Without warning, he pulled her right up against him—so close that she could feel every hard sinew of his body, which seemed to contrast against the softness of her own. A body which should have wanted to resist him—just as she was resisting his demand that she marry him. But it seemed that her body had other ideas. To her horror, she found herself wanting to sink against him. Into him.

Did he sense that? Was that why he gathered her closer still—with a small moan of what sounded like his own surrender?

In the pale light, he tilted her face up. ‘Now, this is a time when the word want is appropriate. And you want me, Laura—just as I want you. Don’t ask me why, but I do,’ he ground out, as he drove his mouth down onto hers.

Sharon Kendrick started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances, with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl! Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester— where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tiptoe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

Recent titles by this author:

BOUGHT FOR THE SICILIAN BILLIONAIRE’S BED

SICILIAN HUSBAND, UNEXPECTED BABY

THE GREEK TYCOON’S CONVENIENT WIFE

THE GREEK TYCOON’S BABY BARGAIN

ACCIDENTALLY PREGNANT, CONVENIENTLY WED

Constantine’s Defiant Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONSTANTINE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS hearing his name on the radio which made her senses scream. Laura never had time for newspapers—even if her dyslexia hadn’t made reading so difficult—she relied on the morning news programme to keep her up to date. Usually she only listened with half an ear, and usually she wasn’t remotely interested in anything to do with international finance.

But Karantinos was an unusual name. And it was Greek. And didn’t anything to do with that beautiful and ancient land put her senses on painful alert for very obvious reasons?

She had been busy making bread—sprinkling a handful of seeds into the dough before she popped the last batch into the oven. But with shaking hands she stopped dead-still and listened—like a small animal who had found itself caught alone and frightened in the middle of a hostile terrain.

‘Greek billionaire Constantine Karantinos has announced record profits for his family shipping line,’ intoned the dry voice of the news-reader. ‘Playboy Karantinos is currently in London to host a party at the Granchester Hotel, where it is rumoured he will announce his engagement to Swedish supermodel Ingrid Johansson.’

Laura swayed, gripping the work surface to support herself, her ears scarcely able to bear what she had just heard, her heart pounding with a surprisingly forceful pain. Because she had preserved Constantine in her heart, remembering him just as he’d been when she’d known him—as if time had stood still. A bittersweet memory of a man who still made her ache when she thought of him. But time never stood still—she knew that more than anyone.

And what had she expected? That a man like Constantine would stay single for ever? As if that lazy charm and piercing intellect—that powerhouse body and face of a fallen angel—would remain unattached. She was just surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner.

She could hear the sounds of movement from above as she took off her apron. But her heart was racing as she mechanically went through her morning routine of tidying up the kitchen before going upstairs to wake her son. She often told herself how lucky she was to live ‘over the shop’, and although helping run a small baker’s store hadn’t been her life’s ambition, at least it gave her a modest income which she supplemented with occasional waitressing work. But most of all it provided a roof over their heads—which was security for Alex—and that was worth more than anything in Laura’s eyes.

Her sister Sarah was already up, yawning as she emerged from one of the three poky bedrooms, running her fingers through the thick dark curtain of her hair, which so contrasted with her sister’s finer, fairer mane.

‘Mornin’, Laura,’ Sarah mumbled, and then blinked as she saw her older sister’s face ‘What the hell’s happened? Don’t tell me the oven’s gone on the blink again?’

Mutely, Laura shook her head, then jerked it in the direction of her son’s bedroom. ‘Is he up yet?’ she mouthed.

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

Laura glanced at the clock on the wall, which dominated her busy life, and saw that she had ten minutes before she had to get Alex up for school. Pulling Sarah into the small sitting room which overlooked the high street, she shut the door behind them and turned to her sister, her whole body trembling.

‘Constantine Karantinos is in London,’ she began, the whispered words falling out of her mouth like jagged little fragments of glass.

Her sister scowled. ‘And?’

Laura willed her hands to stop shaking. ‘He’s throwing a party.’ She swallowed. ‘And they say he’s getting engaged. To a Swedish supermodel.’

Sarah shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say? That it’s a surprise?’

‘No… But I…’

‘But what, Laura?’ demanded Sarah impatiently. ‘You can’t seem to accept that the no-good bastard you slept with hasn’t an ounce of conscience. That he never gave you another thought.’

‘He—’

‘He what? Refused to see you? Why, you couldn’t even get a single meeting with the great man, could you, Laura? No matter how many times you tried. He’s never even taken your phone calls! You were good enough to share his bed—but not good enough to be recognised as the mother of his child!’

Laura shot an agonised look at the closed door, straining her ears as she wondered if Alex had done the unheard-of and managed to get himself out of bed without his mother or his auntie gently shaking him awake. But then, seven-year-old boys were notoriously bad at getting up in the morning, weren’t they? And they became increasingly curious as they got older…kept asking questions she wasn’t sure how to answer…

‘Shh. I don’t want Alex to hear!’

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t he know that his father happens to be one of the richest men on the planet—while his mother is working her fingers to the bone in a bread shop, trying to support him?’

‘I don’t want to…’ But her words tailed off. Didn’t want to what exactly? Laura wondered. Didn’t want to hurt her beloved son because it was the duty of every mother to protect her child? Yet she had been finding it increasingly difficult to do that. Just last month Alex had come home with a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek, and when she had asked him what had happened he had mumbled and become very defensive. It had only been later that she’d discovered he’d been involved in some kind of minor skirmish in the playground. And later still that she had discovered the cause, when she’d gone tearing into the school, white-faced and trembling, to seek a meeting with the headmistress.

It transpired that Alex was being bullied because he looked ‘different’. Because his olive skin, black eyes and towering height made him look older and tougher than the other boys in his class. And because the little girls in the class—even at the tender ages of six and seven—had been following the dark-eyed Alex around like eager little puppies. Like father, like son, she had thought with a pang.

Laura had felt a mixture of troubled emotions as she’d gone home that day. She’d wanted to ask her son why he hadn’t hit back—but that would have gone against everything she had taught him. She had brought him up to be gentle. To reason rather than to lash out. For two pins she would have withdrawn her son from the school and sent him somewhere else—but she didn’t have the luxury of choice. The next nearest state school was in the neighbouring town, and not only did Laura not have a car but the bus service was extremely unreliable.

Lately her son had been asking her more and more frequently about why he looked different. He was an intelligent little boy, and sooner or later he wouldn’t allowed her to fob him off with vague and woolly pieces of information about a father he had never seen. If only Constantine would just talk to her. Acknowledge his son. Spend a little time with him—that was all she wanted. For her beloved boy to know a little of his heritage.

She was distracted while she gave Alex his breakfast, and even more distracted during the short walk to his school. Although it was almost the summer holidays, the weather had been awful lately—nothing but rain, rain, rain—and this morning the persistent drizzle seemed to penetrate every inch of her body. She shivered a little, and tried to chatter brightly, but she felt as if she had a heavy lead weight sitting in the pit of her stomach.

Alex looked up at her with his dark olive eyes and frowned. ‘Is something wrong, Mum?’ he questioned.

Your father is about to marry another woman and will probably have a family with her. Telling herself that the blistering shaft of jealous pain was unreasonable under the circumstances, she hugged her son to her fiercely as she said goodbye.

‘Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong, darling.’ She smiled brightly, and watched as he ran into the playground, praying that the head teacher’s recent lecture on bullying might have had some effect on the little savages who had picked on him.

She was lost in thought as she walked back to the shop. Hanging up her damp coat in the little cloakroom at the back, she grimaced at the pale face which stared back at her from the tiny mirror hung on the back of the door. Her grey eyes looked troubled, and her baby-fine hair clung to her head like a particularly unattractive-looking skull-cap. Carefully, she brushed it and shook it, then crumpled it into a damp pleat on top of her head.

Pulling on her overall, she was still preoccupied as she walked into the shop, where her sister was just putting on the lights. Five minutes until they opened and the first rush of the day would begin—with villagers keen to buy their freshly baked bread and buns. Laura knew how lucky she was to have the life she had—lucky that her sister loved Alex as much as she did.

The two girls had been orphaned when Sarah was still at school, after their widowed mother had died suddenly and quietly in the middle of the night. A stricken Laura had put her own plans of travelling the world on hold, unsure what path to take to ensure that Sarah could continue with her studies. But fate had stepped in with cruel and ironic timing, because Laura had discovered soon after that she was carrying Alex.

Money had been tight, but they had been left with the scruffy little baker’s shop and the flat upstairs, where they had spent most of their childhood years. They had always helped their mother in the shop, so Laura had suggested modernising it and carrying on with the modest little family business, and Sarah had insisted on studying part-time so that she could help with Alex.

Up until now the scheme had worked perfectly well. And if the shop wasn’t exactly making a huge profit, at least they were keeping their heads above water and enjoying village life.

But recently Sarah had started talking longingly of going to art school in London, and Laura was horribly aware that she was holding her back. She couldn’t keep using her little sister as a part-time child-minder, no matter how much Sarah loved her nephew—she needed to get out there and live her own life. But then how on earth would Laura cope with running a business and being as much of a hands-on mum as she could to Alex? To Alex who was becoming increasingly curious about his background.

Sarah was giving the counter a final wipe, and looked up as Laura walked into the shop. ‘You still look fed up,’ she observed.

Laura stared down at the ragged pile of rock-cakes and boxes of home-made fudge under the glass counter. ‘Not fed up,’ she said slowly. ‘Just realising that I can’t go on hiding my head in the sand any longer.’

Sarah blinked. ‘What are you talking about?’

Laura swallowed. Say it, she thought. Go on—say it. Speak the words out loud—that way it will become real and you’ll have to do it. Stop being fobbed off by the gatekeepers who surround the father of your son. Get out there and fight for Alex. ‘Just that I’ve got to get to Constantine and tell him he has a son.’

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why the new fervour, Laura?’ she asked drily. ‘Is it because Constantine is finally settling down? You think that he’s going to take one look at you and decide to dump the Swedish supermodel and run off into the sunset with you?’

Laura flushed, knowing that Sarah spoke with the kind of harsh candour which only a sister could get away with—but her words were true. She had to rid herself of any romantic notions where the Greek billionaire was concerned. As if Constantine would even look at her now! He certainly wouldn’t fancy her any more—for hadn’t hard work and a lack of time to devote to herself meant that her youthful bloom had faded faster than most? At twenty-six she sometimes felt—and looked—a whole decade older than her years. And even if the fire in her heart still burned fiercely for the father of her son she had to douse the flames completely.

‘Of course I don’t,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I owe it to Alex. Constantine has got to know that he has a son.’

‘I agree. But aren’t you forgetting something?’ questioned Sarah patiently. ‘Last time you tried to contact him you got precisely nowhere—so what’s changed now?’

What had changed? Laura walked slowly towards the door of the shop. She wasn’t sure—only that perhaps she’d realised time was running out, that maybe this was her last chance. And that she was no longer prepared to humbly accept being knocked back by the tight circle which surrounded the formidable Greek. She was fired up by something so powerful that it felt as if it had invaded her soul. She was a mother, and she owed it to her son.

‘What’s changed?’ Slowly, Laura repeated Sarah’s words back to her. ‘I guess I have. And this time I’m going to get to him. I’m going to look him in the eye and tell him about his son.’

‘Oh, Laura, exactly the same thing will happen!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘You’ll be knocked back and won’t get within a mile of him!’

There was a pause. Laura could hear the ticking of her wristwatch echoing the beating of her heart. ‘Only if I go the conventional route,’ she said slowly.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

Laura hadn’t really known herself up until then, but it was one of those defining moments where the answer seemed so blindingly simple that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. Like when she’d decided that they ought to start making their own loaves on the premises rather than having them delivered from the large bakery in the nearby town—thereby enticing their customers in with the delicious smell of baking bread.

‘The radio said he’s giving some big party in London,’ she said, piecing her whirling thoughts into some kind of order. ‘In a hotel.’

‘And?’

Laura swallowed. ‘And what industry has the fastest turn-over of staff in the world? The catering industry! Think about it, Sarah. They’ll…they’ll need loads of extra staff for the night, won’t they? Casual staff.’

‘Just a minute…’ Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning—’

Laura nodded, her heart beating faster now. ‘I’ve done waitressing jobs at the local hotel for years. I can easily get a reference.’

‘Okay, so what if you do manage to get on the payroll?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Then what? You’re going to march over to Constantine in your uniform, in the middle of his fancy party, and announce to him in front of the world, not to mention his soon-to-be wife that he has a seven-year-old son?’

Laura shook her head, trying not to feel daunted by the audacity of her own idea but her fervour refused to be dampened. ‘I’ll try to be a bit more subtle about it than that,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to leave until he’s in full possession of the facts.’

She reached up and turned over the sign on the shop door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. Already there was a small cluster of shoppers waiting, shaking off the raindrops from their umbrellas as they filed into the shop.

Laura pinned a bright smile to her lips as she stood behind the counter and took her first order, but the irony of her plan didn’t escape her. After all, she had been waitressing when she’d first met Constantine Karantinos, and had tumbled into his arms with embarrassing ease.

Afterwards she had looked back and wondered how she could have behaved in a way which had been so completely out of character. And yet it had been such a golden summer in those carefree months before her mother had died, and she’d felt as if she had the world at her feet as she saved up to go travelling.

She had been an innocent in every sense of the word—but a few months of waitressing in a busy little harbour town had trained her well in how to deal with the well-heeled customers who regularly sailed in on their yachts.

Constantine had been one of them, and yet unlike any of them—for he’d seemed to break all the rules. He’d towered over all the other men like a colossus—making everyone else fade into insignificance. The day she had first set eyes on him would be imprinted on her mind for ever; he had looked like a Greek god—his powerful body silhouetted against the dying sun, his dark and golden beauty suggesting both vigour and danger.

She remembered how broad his shoulders had been, and how silky the olive skin which had sheathed the powerful muscle beneath. And she remembered his eyes, too—as black as ebony yet glittering like the early-morning sunlight on the sea. How could she have resisted a man who had seemed like all her youthful fantasies come to life—a man who had made her feel like a woman for the first and only time in her life?

She remembered waking up in his arms the next morning to find him watching her, and she had gazed up at him, searching his face eagerly for some little clue about how he might feel. About her. About them. About the future.

But in the depths of those eyes there had been…nothing.

Laura swallowed.

Nothing at all.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YES, Vlassis,’ Constantine bit out impatiently, as he glanced up at one of his aides, who was hovering around the door in the manner he usually adopted when he was about to impart news which his boss would not like. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about the party, kyrios,’ said Vlassis.

Constantine’s mouth flattened. Why had he ever agreed to have this wretched party in the first place? he found himself wondering. Though in his heart he knew damned well. Because there had been too many mutterings for much too long about people in London wanting to enjoy some of the legendary Karantinos wealth. People always wanted to get close to him, and they thought that this might give them the opportunity. And it was always interesting to see your friends and your enemies in the same room—united by those twin emotions of love and hate, whose boundaries were so often blurred.

‘What about it?’ he snapped. ‘And please don’t bother me with trivia, Vlassis—that’s what I pay other people to deal with.’

Vlassis looked pained, as if the very suggestion that he should burden his illustrious employer with trivia was highly offensive to him. ‘I realise that, kyrios. But I’ve just received a message from Miss Johansson.’

At the mention of Ingrid, Constantine leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together in reflective pose. He knew what the press were saying. What they always said if he was pictured with a woman more than once. That he was on the verge of marrying, as most of his contemporaries had now done. His mouth flattened again.

Perhaps one of the greatest arguments in favour of marriage would be having a wife who could deal with the tiresome social side of his life. Who could fend off the ambitious hostesses and screen his invitations, leaving him to get on with running the family business.

‘And?’ he questioned. ‘What did Miss Johansson say?’

‘She asked me to tell you that she won’t be arriving until late.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘Something about her photo-shoot overrunning.’

‘Oh, did she?’ said Constantine softly, his black eyes narrowing in an expression instinctively which made Vlassis look wary.

Unlocking his fingers, Constantine raised his powerful arms above his head and stretched, the rolled-up sleeves of his silk shirt sliding a little further up over the bunched muscle. Slowly he brought his hands down again, lying them flat on the surface of the large desk. The faint drumming of two fingers on the smooth surface was the only outward sign that he was irritated.

Ingrid’s coolness was one of the very qualities which had first attracted him to her—that and her white-blonde Swedish beauty, of course. She had a degree in politics, spoke five languages with effortless fluency—and, standing at just over six feet in her stockinged feet, she was one of the few women he had ever met who was able to look him in the eye. Constantine’s mouth curved into an odd kind of smile. As well as being one of the few natural blondes he’d known…

When they’d met, her unwillingness to be pinned down, her elusiveness when it came to arranging dates, had contrived to intrigue him—probably because it had never happened before. Most women pursued him with the ardour of a hunter with prized quarry in their sights.

But over the months Constantine had realised that Ingrid’s evasiveness was part of a game—a master-plan. Beautiful enough to be pursued by legions of men herself, she had recognised the long-term benefits of playing hard-to-get with a man like him. She must have realised that Constantine never had to try very hard, so she had made him try very hard indeed. And for a while it had worked. She had sparked his interest—rare in a man whose natural attributes and huge wealth meant that his appetite had become jaded at an early age.

She had been playing the long game, and Constantine had allowed himself to join in; Ingrid knew what she wanted—to marry an exceptionally wealthy man—and deep down he knew it was high time he took himself a wife. And surely the best kind of wife for a man like him was one who made few emotional demands?

He didn’t want some clingy, needy female who thought that the world revolved around him. No, Ingrid came close to fitting almost all his exacting criteria. Every hoop he had presented her with she had jumped through with flying colours. Why, even his father approved of her. And, although the two men had never been close, Constantine had found himself listening for once.

‘Why the hell don’t you marry her?’ he had croaked at his son, where once—before age and ill-health—he would have roared. ‘And provide me with a grandson?’

Good question—if you discounted his father’s own foolish views on love. Didn’t there come a time when every man needed to settle down and produce a family of his own? A boy to inherit the Karantinos fortune? Constantine frowned. Circumstances seemed to have been urging him on like a rudderless boat—and yet something about the sensible option of marrying Ingrid had made him hold back, and he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

How long since they had seen one another? Constantine allowed his mind to flick back over the fraught and hectic recent weeks, largely filled with his most recent business acquisition. It had been ages since Ingrid had been in his bed, he realised. Their paths had been criss-crossing over the Atlantic while their careers continued their upward trajectory. Constantine gave a hard smile.

‘What time is she arriving?’ he questioned.

‘She hopes before midnight,’ said Vlassis.

‘Let’s hope so,’ commented Constantine, as a faint feeling of irritation stirred within him once more. But he turned to a pile of papers—to the delicate complexity of an offshore deal he was handling. And, as usual, work provided a refuge from the far more messy matter of relationships. For Constantine had learned his lesson earlier than most—that they brought with them nothing but pain and complications.

He left the office around six and headed for the Granchester, whose largest penthouse suite he always rented whenever he was in town. He loved its glorious setting, overlooking lush green parkland, its quiet luxury and the discretion of its staff. And he liked London—just as he liked New York—even if they were too far from the sea for him to ever let complete relaxation steal over him….

To the sound of opera playing loudly on the sound system, he took a long, cold shower before dressing in the rather formal attire which the black-tie dinner warranted. His eyes glittered back at him as he cast a cursory glance at himself in the mirror.

Slipping on a pair of heavy gold cufflinks, he made his way downstairs, his eyes automatically flicking over to his people, who were discreetly peppering the foyer. He knew that his head of security would be unable to prevent the paparazzi from milling around by the entrance outside, but there was no way any of them would be getting into the building to gawp at the rich and the powerful.

Ignoring the gazes of the women who followed his progress with hungry eyes, he walked into the ballroom and looked around. The Granchester had always been a byword for luxury—but tonight the hotel had really surpassed itself. The ballroom was filled with scented blooms, and chandeliers dripped their diamond lights…

A soft voice cut into his thoughts.

‘Could…could I get you a drink, sir?’

For a brief moment the voice stirred a distant memory—as faint as a breath on a still summer’s day. But then it was gone, and slowly Constantine turned to find a waitress standing staring up at him—chewing at her lip as if she hadn’t had eaten a meal in quite a while. His eyes flicked over her. With her small, pinched face and tiny frame she looked as if she probably hadn’t eaten a meal in ages. Something in her body language made him pause. Something untoward. He frowned.

‘Yes. Get me a glass of water, would you?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Miraculously, Laura kept her voice steady, even though inside she felt the deep, shafting pain of rejection at the way those black eyes had flicked over her so dismissively. She had tried to hold his look for as long as was decently possible under the circumstances—willing him to look at her with a slowly dawning look of incredulity. But instead, what logic told her would happen had happened. The father of her son hadn’t even recognised her!

Yet had she really bought into the fantasy that he might? That he would stare into her eyes and tell her that they looked like the storm clouds which gathered over his Greek island? He had said that when he had been charming her into his bed, and doubtless he would have something suitable in his repertoire for any woman. Something to make every single woman feel special, unique and amazing. Something which would make a woman willingly want to give him her virginity as if it were of no consequence at all.

It had been her moment to tell him that he had a beautiful little son—while there was no sign of the supermodel girlfriend all the papers had been going on about—and she had blown it. The shock of seeing him again, coupled with the pain of realising that she didn’t even qualify as a memory, had made her fail to seize the opportunity. But surely you couldn’t just walk up to a man who was essentially a total stranger and come out with a bombshell like that?

Laura hid her trembling fingers in her white apron as she quickly turned away—but the emotional impact of seeing Constantine again made her stomach churn and her heart thump so hard that for a moment she really thought she might be sick.

But she couldn’t afford to be sick. She had to stay alert—to choose a moment to tell him what for him would be momentous news. And it wasn’t going to be easy. Getting an agency placement to waitress at the Karantinos party had been the easy bit—the hard stuff was yet to come.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ demanded a severely dressed middle-aged woman as Laura walked up to the bar to place her order.

Laura smiled nervously at the catering manager, who had summoned all the agency staff into a cramped and stuffy little room half an hour earlier to tell them about the high expectations of service which every Granchester customer had a right to expect. ‘I just offered the gentleman a drink—’

‘Gentleman? Gentleman? Do you know who that is?’ the woman hissed. ‘He’s the man who’s giving this party which is paying your wages! He’s a bloody world-famous Greek shipping tycoon—and if anyone is going to be offering him drinks then it’s going to be me. Do you understand? I’ll take over from now on. What did he ask for?’

‘Just…just water.’

‘Still or sparkling?’

‘He…he didn’t say.’

The manager’s eyes bored into her. ‘You mean you didn’t ask?’

‘I…I… No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t.’ Inwardly, Laura squirmed beneath the look of rage on her supervisor’s face, and as the woman opened her mouth to speak she suspected that she was about to be fired on the spot. But at that moment there was some sort of hubbub from the other end of the ballroom, as the harpist arrived and began making noisy demands, and the manager gave Laura one last glare.