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The Wealthy Greek's Contract Wife(13)

By:Penny Jordan


‘Not all women are so insecure that they want to advertise their   sensuality to the world at large. Some of us prefer to keep that aspect   of ourselves private. In fact we take a pride in it,' she told him   fiercely.                       
       
           



       

‘Meaning what, exactly?' Ilios demanded. ‘Wearing dull clothes and so-called sexy underwear beneath them?'

Lizzie could feel her colour rising and bent her head over her wine   glass, hoping that the soft fall of her hair would cloak her blush, as   she absentmindedly ran her fingertip round the edge of the glass. The   fact was that as her sisters often teased her because she was a silk,   satin and lace undies fan, the more feminine the better.

Ilios observed her behaviour, knowing immediately the cause of her   flushed face and her reluctance to meet his gaze. What was a matter of   far more concern and disbelief to him was the effect knowing that   beneath her sensible clothes Lizzie Wareham deliberately chose to wear   sensual underwear was having on him physically. It might be over a year   since he had last had a lover, but that was no excuse for the images   that were filling his mind now, and the reaction they were causing   within his own body.

Ilios couldn't remember previously being so glad that he was seated at a   table, and was thus able to conceal from a woman's view his body's   reaction to her. To have such a painfully hard erection was territory   that belonged to young men not yet able to fully master their   sexuality-not men in their mid-thirties, and certainly not him. The mind   could play tricks on a person, he reminded himself, and his reaction   was probably not to Lizzie Wareham but to images he himself had created.   He did not desire her. He was, to put it bluntly, simply aroused. He   could have put any attractive female body into those images and felt the   same effect. Desiring Lizzie Wareham was not part of his plan, and   therefore must not be allowed to happen.

‘I have work to do, so I suggest that you take the opportunity to go to bed have an early night,' he informed Lizzie.

He didn't want her out of the way because her presence was disturbing   him on an intensely personal and sensual level that he didn't like. Not   for one minute.

Lizzie's head lifted, her face burning even more hotly as her body   immediately responded to the word bed-and not in a way that had anything   to do with going to sleep. Somehow her senses refused to accept that   anything as mundane as sleeping could take place in a bed that was in   any way connected to Ilios Manos. Which was, of course, totally   ridiculous. She was reacting like some hormone-flooded pubescent   teenager, quivering with embarrassingly super-strength lust.

‘Yes, I am tired,' she managed to respond. She was doing the mental   equivalent of running past something dangerous without risking looking   at it, determinedly avoiding re-using the word ‘bed', Lizzie derided   herself. But what else could she do, with her body signalling with   increasing intensity the excited pleasure with which it viewed the   prospect of going to bed with Ilios Manos? Not that that was going to   happen. He had told her so already. Theirs was purely a business   arrangement, that was all, and that was the way it was going to stay.   Somehow she would find the strength to make sure that it did.





Chapter Six



‘I HAVE a meeting in half an hour.' Ilios stood up to finish the cup of   coffee he was drinking whilst Lizzie remained seated, seeing him glance   at his watch before continuing.

‘I've ordered suitable clothes for you via an online concierge service.   They should arrive within the hour. Have a look through them. If  there's  anything that doesn't fit, let me know. There's no need to  thank me.'

‘I wasn't going to,' Lizzie assured him grimly.

Ignoring her comment, Ilios continued, ‘We shall be attending a gallery   opening this evening, so you'll need to wear an engagement ring. I'm   having a selection couriered over to my office. Maria should arrive at   some stage to do the cleaning.' He reached into the inside pocket of his   suit jacket and removed his wallet, opening it and removing what  looked  to Lizzie like an obscene amount of one-hundred-euro notes.

‘You'll need this, I dare say. And I've put my mobile number into your   mobile's address book. I should have thought that in view of the fact   that you're an interior designer you would have had a more stylish one.   Appearances count, after all.'

‘I agree, but paying for luxury gizmos costs money,' Lizzie defended,   Her out-of-fashion mobile was nonetheless perfectly effective.

Five minutes later, left to her own devices in a space in which the   smell of rich coffee and maleness lingered dangerously to torment her   senses, Lizzie decided to explore her new surroundings-starting with the   garden.

She could see now in daylight that the living space did not overlook the   city, as she had expected, but instead had views towards the  mountains.                       
       
           



       

The intercom buzzing had her heading for the entrance of the apartment,   mindful of what Ilios had told her. When she opened the door there was   no sign of a delivery person, but there were several large boxes  stacked  next to the door.


Nearly two hours later, standing in the guest bedroom surrounded by the   clothes she had unpacked, Lizzie wished more than anything else that  her  sisters were here with her, to stare in awe at the beautiful  garments  now covering the bed.

The clothes were beautiful, and in exactly the kind of style she had always secretly coveted.

Out of the corner of her eye Lizzie caught sight of the deliciously   pretty and feminine underwear she had hastily pushed out of sight under   some of the day clothes, her face warming. Obviously he had noticed her   reaction to his observation the night before. Stunningly sensual  undies  in soft cream silk and satin, trimmed with lace-or rather laces,  she  amended ruefully, remembering the boned corset that laced up at  the back  which had been in one of the boxes. That was something that  would quite  definitely be going back! After all, she had no one to  fasten her into  it, even if she had wanted to wear something so  constricting. Neither  was she entirely sure about the French knickers  that were little more  than a satin gusset-cum-G-string attached to  fluted sheer lace panels.  On the other hand the pure silk-satin  low-rise boxer shorts and matching  bras were so delicious they had made  her mouth water.

And as for everything else-how was she supposed to resist the allure of   silk cashmere cut into the most flattering skirt and trousers she had   ever seen, in her favourite shade of warm beige? The trench coat, in a   sort of off-white-not grey, and not beige either-carrying a very famous   label, was the exactly the kind of coat she had secretly lusted after   ever since she had realised what good clothes were, and it fitted her   perfectly.

There were sweaters and shirts, tops, beach clothes, evening clothes,   new jeans by an über-fashionable designer, and shoes so plain and yet so   beautiful that Lizzie had simply wanted to hug them tightly to her.   These were clothes that spoke an international language-and that   language was the language of discreet style and elegance and an awful   lot of money.

Lizzie stroked the silk tweed of a three-quarter-length Chanel coat in   black and white, with the trademark Chanel camelia attached to an   equally trademark Chanel chain fastening. How could she accept all of   this? She couldn't. It was too much. She needed clothes, yes-but far   less than this.

With a small sigh she began to repack what she thought were the more   expensive items, retaining only what she felt she would genuinely need.   Packing away the silk cashmere skirt and trousers and the Chanel coat   and skirt and blouse wasn't easy, but it had to be done, Lizzie told   herself firmly.

She had just finished, and was about to carry the boxes to the front door, when she heard a firm knock on the bedroom door.

Maria, the cleaner, must have arrived, Lizzie guessed-but when she went   to open the door it was Ilios, who was standing in the corridor,  looking  impatient.

‘I'm sending these back,' Lizzie told him, indicating the boxes she had just packed.