One Night with a Gorgeous Greek: Doukakis's Apprentice / Not Just the Greek's Wife / After the Greek Affair

As they emerged into the restaurant they were met by the maître d’ and by Gérard himself, who had evidently arrived just moments before them.

Long-time acquaintances and sparring partners, Damon and the Frenchman greeted each other warmly while the front of house staff took Polly’s coat. Deep in conversation about the strength of the euro, it took Damon a few moments to realise that he had lost his audience. Gérard’s thoughts on currency fluctuations had clearly been sublimated by some higher priority that could only be female. Amused and exasperated in equal degrees, Damon turned his head to see who could have caused that degree of distraction.

His attention arrested by the woman behind him, it took him a moment to realise that it was Polly, minus the coat that she’d handed to the hovering staff. In the few seconds he’d had his back to her she’d gone from understated to unbelievable.

Transfixed by the dramatic transformation, Damon suddenly understood why she’d chosen to cover herself from head to foot. Had he seen her outfit he would have locked her in their hotel suite and thrown away the key. Abiding by his instruction to dress elegantly, she’d chosen to wear a black suit, but all hint of compliance ended with the colour. The tailored jacket was fastened by a single shapely button. A hint of black lace camisole was peeping naughtily from under the V of the lapels. The skirt was short, her legs showcased in a pair of exotic black stockings that shimmered and glistened in the candlelight. Mesmerised by those incredible legs, Damon saw that the shimmer was created by a pattern of tiny hearts embroidered in glittering silver thread and spiralling up from ankle to thigh.

They were cheeky and sexy and perfect for a hot date. Which made them completely unsuitable for a client meeting in his opinion.

‘Mademoiselle est ravissant.’ Apparently disagreeing with him, Gérard took her hand in a typically Gallic gesture and lifted it to his lips. ‘Once again I am impressed. Your decision to showcase the jewel in our new product range in this high-profile venue is yet more proof that I was right to hire you. I love these. They are my favourite and I consider myself a connoisseur.’

Both of them looked down at her legs and Damon felt his core temperature rocket to dangerous levels. He was about to snap something when he realised they were talking about the tights, not her legs.

‘I love them.’ Polly beamed up at Gérard, paying Damon no attention whatsoever. ‘They’re special, sexy and so affordable. They can transform a plain boring black suit with no originality whatsoever—’ her eyes flickered briefly to Damon ‘—into an outfit that makes any woman feel like a princess. They’re the perfect day-to-night accessory and what’s more they’re within the budget of every discerning woman. I adore them. All the girls in the office are crazy for them. They’re so very now.’ The corners of her mouth dimpled as she smiled up at the captivated Frenchman. ‘We’re going to make sure they’re the next big thing.’

‘And you have ideas for me about how to turn that adoration into a worldwide campaign that will propel High Kick Hosiery into the must-have fashion statement of the decade?’

‘Tons of ideas.’ Reaching into her bag, Polly pulled out her pink notebook and waved it under Gérard’s nose.

The notoriously hard-nosed businessman laughed indulgently. ‘Ah, the famous notebook and even more famous pink pen. The deadly weapon with which Polly successfully defeats the opposition. Had Napoleon had you and your pink pen by his side, history would have been changed.’ Smiling, he took her arm and led her towards the table. ‘I want to hear your ideas. Given your love of pink, I’m surprised you didn’t opt for our hot pink tights this evening.’

‘Mr Doukakis isn’t a lover of hot pink.’ Balancing on impossibly high heels, Polly was almost as tall as the Frenchman. ‘Apparently it makes him think of flamingos.’

Absorbing the fact that the hot pink tights had been another product in the High Kick Hosiery line, Damon wondered at what point his own agenda had obliterated his usual ability to think clearly. She’d chosen to showcase the sparkling tights at one of the most high-profile venues in Paris. Not only that, she’d worn the long black coat simply because she’d known he would have disapproved.

The fact that she could easily have told him she was wearing her client’s products was something he’d raise with her later.

Poised to offer reassurance to Gérard on what the takeover would mean to his business, Damon found himself taking a back seat as Polly presented ideas for a global campaign—a campaign that left Damon speechless with its scope and creativity.

It slowly dawned on him that her contribution to the company was far greater than even his glimpse into her notebook had suggested.

Intercepting his stunned look, Gérard lifted his champagne glass. ‘Incredible, isn’t she?’ There was a speculative look in his eyes as he looked at Polly. ‘Much as it pains me to compliment a man whose ego is already robust, I salute Damon for his astute business sense in locking you into his company. Talented people are rare. With you, it is like finding a precious uncut diamond in a bucket of gravel. I admit that when my colleagues recommended that we invite Prince Advertising to pitch, I refused. But then the word spread about the girl with the pink pen and the creative brain. Only Damon Doukakis would be bold enough to take over an ailing company in order to secure one member of staff.’

Damon didn’t correct him. ‘She has some truly original ideas,’ he agreed smoothly, ‘and fortunately within the group we have the muscle to turn those big ideas into reality. We’ll put out top team onto your account.’

‘I don’t care who is in the team.’ Gérard dug his fork into marinated scallops. ‘I just want Polly. You’re a crafty dog, Doukakis. I was about to recruit her myself.’

Reflecting on the news that Gérard had intended to offer Polly a job, Damon frowned, but Polly had abandoned her meal and was scribbling over her pad, absorbed by the ideas she was creating.

‘We’ve plenty of time to agree tactics, but the overall strategy should establish the brand image. Then the emphasis needs to be on social media. It isn’t just about getting across a message and selling, it’s about relationship-building—engaging with our customer … I’ve got his brilliant idea for using YouTube—’ Her suggestions were clever and intelligent and she charmed her client so completely that by the end of the meal he’d agreed to triple the budget and hear her ideas for two other major brands.

Damon watched her in action, unable to think of anything other than how her mouth had felt under his. His view of her as his baby sister’s disruptive friend had somehow morphed into something dramatically different. He remembered the way she’d stood up to the board and challenged them. At the time he’d assumed her defence was driven by self-interest, but now he understood that her behaviour stemmed from the fact that she had a deep commitment to the people who worked for the company. Guilt stabbed him hard. It was gradually dawning on him that, far from being lazy, she worked every bit as hard as he did. She cared about the employees as much as he did. Even now, she was ignoring the throb in her head to honour a meeting with this important client when ninety nine percent of staff would have stayed in bed and called in sick.

Unaccustomed to being wrong about people, Damon was forced to admit that he’d allowed his anger with her father and his past experience of her to colour his judgement.

Brooding on how that could have happened, it took him a few moments to notice that Gérard was increasingly attentive to Polly. Recognising sexual interest when he saw it, Damon felt a flare of outrage. When Gérard suggested ending the evening with a trip up to the viewing platform, Damon immediately vetoed that idea, appalled at the thought of the notorious French playboy accompanying Polly to a destination favoured by those seeking romance.

Shaken by the depth of that primal response, a devotee of rational, logical decision-making, Damon shocked himself by launching himself out of his seat and demanded their coats. It wasn’t rational or logical, but he wanted her covered up as fast as possible. He wanted that coat back on, buttoned to the neck, concealing those amazing legs. The thought of the whole of Paris following the spiralling upward path of those tiny sparkling hearts made him sweat like a man running a marathon in a desert.

‘We’ll send you a full proposal in the next few days, Gérard.’ Taking control, he ended the evening and then guided Polly back down to the waiting limo.

As his driver opened the door for them she stopped and shook her head. ‘I want to go for a walk. It’s been a horrible week and it’s so beautiful here. It would be nice to get some air.’ Behind her the Eiffel Tower was illuminated against the dark sky and he saw her glance wistfully towards the tourist attraction. ‘You go. I can find my own way back to the hotel.’ Balancing on one leg like a stork, she removed her stilettos and replaced them with her flats.

Knowing that if he left her alone for two minutes she would be mobbed by Frenchmen, Damon took the shoes from her, handed them to his driver and held out his arm.

Her gaze lifted from his arm to his face and he acknowledged her astonishment with a faint smile.

‘Truce. I’m protecting my asset. Clearly I should have your pink pen insured for an astronomical amount.’

Her sudden smile knocked the breath from his body.

‘I know I ought to do it all electronically, and I do once I know what I’m doing, but I just can’t be creative on a screen—I need to draw. I was the same at school. The only way I remembered anything was by drawing spider diagrams and mind maps.’

She hesitated just briefly and then slid her arm through his. Dismissing his driver with a discreet movement of his head, Damon led her away from the crowds hovering at the foot of the iconic tower and across the road to the river. Strains of music and laughter drifted up from the Bateaux mouches as they floated under the bridge and Polly snuggled deeper inside her coat and stared down at the reflection of light on the water.

‘I always wanted to stand on a bridge in Paris in the sun set.’ There was a wistful note in her voice that drew his attention.

‘But with a lover, not your enemy.’

‘This may surprise you, but I don’t dream of lovers, Mr Doukakis.’ There was a brief pause and then she turned her head, the lights from the boat turning her hair to a gleaming shimmer of gold. ‘And I don’t see you as the enemy.’

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