The Greek's Virgin Bride

I could teach her…

Another image swept into his mind. That of this flame-haired beauty lying in his arms as he taught her some of the more essential things that a Greek bride needed to be able to tell her husband—such as her desire for him…

He let his imagination dwell pleasantly on the prospect as they began to dine.

Through his long lashes, Nikos watched with amusement as Andrea began to eat appreciatively. Though he was pleased to see her take evident sensuous delight in fine food—Esme’s gruelling diet had always irritated him, and Xanthe was picky about what she ate as well—he would have to keep an eye on his bride’s appetite. At the moment she could get away with hearty eating—her figure was lush and queenly, and she carried no surplus pounds at all, he could tell—but if she continued to put food away like that for the next twenty years she would be fat by forty! A thought struck him. How old was she, exactly? When he’d first set eyes on her he’d taken her for twenty-five or so, but surely Yiorgos would not have kept her unmarried for so long? She must be younger. Probably her English mother and that sophisticated aristocratic society she doubtless enjoyed had served to make her appear more mature than she really was.

Yet another thought struck him, less pleasant. If she’d been brought up in England just how sure could he be that she was coming to him unsullied? English girls were notoriously free with their favours—every Greek male knew that, and most of them took advantage of it if they got the chance! Upper-class English girls were no longer pure as the driven snow—some of them started their sexual lives at a shamefully early age. Could she still be a virgin? He thought of asking Yiorgos outright, but knew what the answer would be—Do you care enough to walk away from Coustakis Industries, my friend?

And he knew what his own answer to that would be.

Virgin or no, he would marry Andrea Coustakis and get Coustakis Industries as her dowry.

Eating the delicious dinner—there seemed to be an endless array of courses—served to take Andrea’s mind a fraction off the man opposite her. But only by a minute amount. Then, just as she was beginning to calm, he started talking to her.

‘What part of England do you live in, Andrea?’ he asked her civilly, clearly making conversation.

‘London,’ she replied, daring to glance across at him briefly.

‘A favourite city of mine. Your life there must be pretty hectic, I guess?’

‘Yes,’ said, thinking of the two jobs she held down, working weekends as well as evenings, putting aside every penny she could to help pay off those debts hanging over her mother. Kim worked too, in the local late-night-opening supermarket—neither of them got much time off.

‘So what are the best clubs in London at the moment, do you think?’ Nikos went on, naming a couple of fashionable hot-spots that Andrea vaguely recognised from glossy magazines.

‘Clubbing really isn’t my scene,’ she answered. Not only did she get little free time to go out, but the kind of nightlife available in her part of London was not the kind to feature in glossy magazines. Anyway, dancing was out for her, and Kim had brought her up to appreciate classical music best.

‘Oh,’ replied Nikos, realising he felt pleased with her answer. Clubbing was strongly associated with sexual promiscuity, and he found himself reassured by her answer. ‘What is your “scene”, then, Andrea?’

She looked at him. Presumably he was just making polite conversation to his host’s granddaughter.

‘I like the theatre,’ she said. It was true—the biggest treat she could give Kim, and herself, was to see the Royal Shakespeare Company, visit the National Theatre, or go to any of the great wealth of other theatres London had to offer. But tickets were expensive, so it was something they did not indulge themselves in often.

Nikos named a couple of spectacular musicals running in the West End currently—obviously he was no stranger to London, Andrea thought. She shook her head. Tickets for such extravaganzas were even more expensive than for ordinary theatre.

‘I prefer Shakespeare,’ she said.

She could tell, immediately, she had given the wrong answer. She glanced warily at her grandfather. His eyes had altered somehow, and she could sense his disapproval focussing on her. Now what? she wondered. Wasn’t it OK for her to like Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake?

She got her answer a moment later.

‘No man likes a woman who is intellectually pretentious,’ the old man said brusquely.

Andrea blinked. Liking Shakespeare was intellectually pretentious?

‘Shakespeare wrote popular plays for mass audiences,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘There’s nothing intellectually élite about his work, if it isn’t treated as such. Of course there are huge depths to his writing, which can keep academics happy for years dissecting it, but the plays can be enjoyed on many levels. They’re very accessible, especially in modern productions which make every effort to draw in those who, like you, are put off by the aura surrounding Shakespeare.’

Yiorgos set down his knife and fork. His eyes snapped with anger.

‘Stop babbling like an imbecile, girl! Hold your tongue if you’ve nothing useful to say! No man likes a woman trying to show off!’

Astonishment was the emotion uppermost in Andrea’s reaction. She simply couldn’t believe that she was being criticised for defending her enjoyment of Shakespeare. Automatically, she found herself glancing across at Nikos Vassilis. Did he share her grandfather’s antediluvian views on women and their ‘intellectual pretensions’?

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