Page 20 of The Heir Affair (Claimed by a Greek #1)

‘When you mentioned eating, I thought we’d be having pizza in a local trattoria, not a five-course meal in a private suite in one of the most famous hotels on the Amalfi Coast,’ she murmured, trying for amused, rather than overwhelmed.

The hotel itself—its grandiose fin-de-siècle architecture a throwback to a bygone era of elegance and exclusivity—had been a sight to behold perched on the cliffs overlooking the port as they’d driven through the streets in the chauffeur-driven car that had appeared on the quay that morning when they’d disembarked.

Discovering Sorrento, with Xander as her guide, had been exhilarating, the bustling streets and alleyways both picturesque and yet buzzing with life.

And with the summer season over, the locals had started to outnumber the tourists.

She’d loved browsing the artisan shops and stalls selling everything from hand-painted ceramics to the finest extra virgin olive oil.

And the weather was still warm enough for the stylish summer dress she’d found in a second-hand boutique.

Xander had made a face about her paying for the dress herself, of course, and she’d ignored him.

But as their car had arrived at the gates of the opulent hotel and the hotel’s manager had rushed out to greet them personally, the panic caused by their almost-kiss in the market had begun to ramp up again.

As the older man escorted them through a secret garden of citrus and orange groves, then staterooms decorated with impressionist art and antique furniture and crystal chandeliers, before guiding them up a sweeping staircase to this enormous private suite, Poppy had begun to wonder if she’d been thrown back in time, too.

She knew luxury hotels such as the Excelsior Vittoria existed, but she’d never even worked somewhere this exclusive, so the idea of being a guest made her stomach clench. The view from the suite’s wide terrace and the table elegantly set for two only made the experience more overwhelming.

Imposter syndrome, much?

If Xander was trying to intimidate her again he was doing a very good job.

‘We needed privacy for our conversation,’ he said, with typical pragmatism. ‘But I am sure pizza may be arranged,’ he added. ‘If that is what you wish to order.’

She smiled at his puzzled expression, and her panic receded, even as the hot blush climbed into her cheeks.

Apparently he was trying to be a bit less intimidating.

‘If it’s not too much trouble, that would be great.’ Perhaps putting a slice of pizza on the gold-rimmed plate would make her feel less like a scullery maid playing dress-up… Enough that she might actually be able to swallow some of it.

Xander was extremely wealthy. She needed to deal with her inferiority complex because that wasn’t going to change.

And what exactly was so intimidating anyway?

Maybe she wasn’t rich in money, but she had rebuilt her confidence from the ground up since her mother’s death, and there was no need to feel threatened just because he could afford a suite in a place like this.

She was his equal, but only if she didn’t allow his wealth to intimidate her.

‘I’ve never had real Neapolitan pizza,’ she added, filling the silence a little desperately, because the brooding look as he studied her was starting to make her feel like a bug under a microscope. ‘I’ve heard it’s amazing.’

Plus pizza was much more her vibe than cordon bleu cuisine.

His frown relaxed and his lips curved. Which unfortunately drew her gaze to his mouth… She shivered involuntarily at the memory of those same lips sucking the fig juice off her fingertips in the market square.

Hmm, perhaps the wary tension in her tummy wasn’t just about the exclusivity of their venue, and also about the far too vivid memory of him sucking her fingers earlier—which had almost made her spontaneously combust in front of a few hundred tourists and local market-goers.

‘Real Italian pizza is indeed delicious,’ he said, his gaze darkening again as it had during Fig Gate, making her wonder if they were still talking about their menu options.

Apparently, Xander’s wealth was not the most intimidating thing about him. Not even close.

‘Although it is not as delicious as freshly made souvlaki from Nico’s in Piraeus,’ he finished.

‘Piraeus, that’s in Athens, right?’ she asked, trying to redirect the conversation to something less incendiary… But also intrigued by the affectionate tone.

He didn’t strike her as a sentimental man but clearly he had fond memories of the restaurant he’d mentioned.

‘Piraeus is the city’s port and the largest passenger port in Europe, yes,’ he replied. ‘It is where Caras Shipping’s container business is based.’

‘And Nico’s is a restaurant there? That you frequent?’ she prompted, keen to get him to talk about himself.

Other than the incident he had mentioned with his father, she really knew very little about him.

During their day together in April she had done nearly all the talking because he’d encouraged it, apparently fascinated to hear about everything, from her holidays in Greece with her mum, to her taste in music.

And while she’d talked incessantly, basking in his attention, Xander, or rather the man she had known as Alex, hadn’t really told her anything about himself, except that he was from Athens originally.

She had realised how dopey she had been not to get more information out of him that day when she had discovered the pregnancy.

When she had found out his true identity, she had convinced herself he had been deliberately evasive.

But now, seeing his expression tense at her questions, she wasn’t so sure.

Perhaps his reticence to talk about himself had a much deeper root than just the desire to keep his identity a secret from that smitten girl.

He stared at her for the longest time, saying nothing, even though her question had been innocuous. She could almost sense him weighing up whether he would be giving away too much information if he answered her. But then he shrugged.

‘Nico’s wasn’t a restaurant, it was a stall, on the docks.

Nico sold souvlakis to the dockworkers.’ The warm expression softened the harsh planes and angles of his face.

‘My brother and I would celebrate with souvlaki whenever we had extra coin to spend—and Nico always gave us extra, probably because we were both so skinny.’ He sighed.

‘Nico was also one of our first investors—he lent us money to buy our first tugboat. It is a good memory.’

Her stomach muscles clenched at the wistful tone. And the suspicion that most of his childhood memories were not good ones.

‘You grew up in Athens?’ she prompted, keen to push for more. She wanted to ask about his father, about what had happened to him and his brother after the terrifying night he had described. But she sensed the shutters lowering again. And heard the careful distance in his voice when he replied.

‘Yes. I was born there,’ he said, stiffly, as if he was bracing himself for more intrusive questions.

‘What happened to you and your brother, after your father left?’ She made herself ask the question that had been bugging her since that morning, despite the frown reforming on his brow. ‘How did you survive? And stay together?’

‘Why do you wish to know these things?’ he countered, not answering the question. ‘When it is ancient history now?’

Ancient? She didn’t think so. Not when he was so reluctant to talk about it.

‘Don’t we need to know more about each other? To build trust,’ she replied.

Why beat about the bush? She had given him so much of herself that day on Parádeisos, while he had kept so much of himself hidden, which put her at a huge disadvantage now.

‘Isn’t that why you wanted to have lunch on neutral territory?

’ she added. ‘So we could talk in private? About our plans for the future? But how can we plan what happens next when we’re virtual strangers? ’

He let out a rough chuckle. ‘I wanted to return to the yacht and lick fig juice from your breasts. Eating here was my idea of a compromise,’ he countered.

The brazen statement and the intent in his gaze sent erotic shivers through her body she did not need.

The memory of Fig Gate was still far too fresh.

The breasts in question then puckered into tight points, almost as if he had his lips on them already.

She crossed her arms over her chest, but when his gaze darkened she had the awful thought he had already seen her reaction.

The blush burned her cleavage, which suddenly felt far too exposed in the light summer dress, and she was reminded all over again how her innocent offer of a bite of her fig had turned into a moment charged with passion.

But then pretty much everything Xander did and said was passionate, and seductive. The man was a walking sex machine.

Reaching across the table, he held one of her wrists and gently unfolded her arms.

‘There is no need to hide your reaction, Poppy,’ he said, the sensual smile making it clear she had not been wrong about his powers of observation. ‘I am already aware of how responsive your nipples are. And how much you enjoy having my mouth on them.’

‘Xander!’ The blush exploded into her cheeks.

‘Would you please stop trying to derail everything with sex?’ she added, exasperated now, and far too aware her nipples were pressing against the bodice of her dress like torpedoes ready to launch.

What she wouldn’t do right now for a padded bra.

Or better yet an armour-plated one. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten that completely inappropriate thumb suck in the piazza,’ she continued, then felt annoyed he’d made her sound like a prude. ‘Which I did not appreciate at all.’