So why on earth had he insisted that she had to accompany him? Those extremely confidential business plans he was so fired up about, this pretending to be interested in one company while being interested in another, she recalled in exasperation. She wished she understood how that data could be as hugely important as he seemed to think it was.
A spy, she thought afresh, shaking her head in wonderment. police and robbers. Thriller territory. Way beyond anything she could even imagine. But then Dior Harlequin lived in a gilded world of immense wealth and privilege. He wheeled and dealt in incredibly high-powered circles.
Even the night before his own father's funeral he had still been talking business. Had it been a very sudden death? Whatever, on reflection, Stella was surprised that he hadn't already been to Greece.
Even before she had entered the equation and complicated matters, hadn't he been cutting things a bit fine? It was after seven in the morning and a bright and beautiful day when Dior Harlequin and Stella finally walked into Athens airport.
Wearing the suit combined with the long dramatic gloves, the extravagant-brimmed hat and the designer sunglasses which Dior had given her, Stella felt as if she was taking part in a fancy dress parade. They were waved on by grave-faced officials.
But as they passed through the barriers a wave of shouting men with cameras surged forward, held at bay only by a squad of equally determined security guards. Stella just froze in the glare of flashing cameras.
Dior closed a powerful arm around her and carried her on through the crush as if it wasn't there, impervious to the questions being thrown in several different languages. 'Who's the woman?' she heard a man roar loudly in English. Stella was unnerved by the aggressive behavior of the paparazzi.
Dior was coming home to his father's funeral. What had happened to privacy? The giving of a little respectful space? For Lord sake, was Dior hounded like this everywhere he went? Stella hadn't the slightest idea. But during breaks in evening shifts, she had frequently heard her co-workers discussing Dior's private life in the most lurid of terms. He lived in the fast lane.
He featured in glossy magazines and made endless gossip column headlines. Having enjoyed affairs with a string of gorgeous, high-profile women, he was a real sex god to the cleaning staff. But Stella had always felt rather superior during those sessions. She hadn't had the slightest interest hi the exploits of a male she neither knew nor ever expected to meet. So she hadn't listened any further.
They changed terminals and ended up in a small, plainly furnished waiting room. Stella was still trembling. 'Is it always like that for you?' Dior shrugged a broad shoulder. Dark, deep-set awesomely beautiful eyes briefly touched her.
Yes...but I'm afraid I overlooked the more extreme interest your presence would excite.' 'I hope to heaven I'm not going to be recognizable in any of those photos,' Stella confided tautly. Dior said nothing. 'What are we waiting for now?' 'A flight out to the island where the burial will take place.' Another flight. She suppressed a groan.
The journey seemed endless. 'The island?' she queried. 'Chandos. You do know nothing about me,' Dior remarked with a slight frown. 'I'm not used to that.' 'But I bet it's good for you...puts a dent in your belief that you are the sun around which the entire world must turn,' Stella muttered and then froze in dismay. She grimaced.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just thinking out loud!' "That disastrous lack of tact must get you into trouble.' Dior surveyed her with a shadowy suspicion of a smile momentarily softening the hard line of his expressive mouth. Stella swallowed hard, grateful he hadn't exploded.
It's been known.' 'Why are you always in search of a fight?' Dior scanned her with penetrating eyes that tightened her very skin over her bones and made her shift uneasily on her seat. 'You look so wonderfully feminine and delicate—' Stella winced.
'Not delicate...please!' 'Cute?' 'Worse,' she censured without hesitation. 'Men refuse to take me seriously. It's a big drawback being small and blonde—' 'But you're not blonde. Your hair is the color of platinum. It's extremely eye-catching,' Dior informed her with definitive derision and the distinct air of a male unimpressed by her protest.
If you genuinely don't want to invite that type of male attitude, you shouldn't dye it that shade.' Stella dealt him the wary glance of a woman who had heard it all before. 'My hair's natural. My grandmother was Dutch and very fair.' 'Natural? I don't believe you. Take your hat off,' he urged, startling her. After a moment's hesitation, Stella did so and flung back her head as if she was challenging him.