She was ferociously chic, with head-turning looks, a well-connected background, an Oxbridge degree and a fashionable and highly paid career in the art world. Marissa Harcourt rated herself very highly. No matter how beautiful, how desirable, how highly they rated themselves. He chose the ones he wanted and then they did what he wanted-or they were out. The Nicolaides wealth had always meant that he could call the shots when it came to women. Doubtless she thought that an absence of a fortnight would have whetted his appetite for her so much that he would be complaisant to her whims.
Like insisting he take her to this opening.
But three months on Marissa, savvy as well as beddable, was evidently starting to think she could start making demands. Up till now she hadn't been much of a problem- no more than any woman was, for they all, invariably, wanted to outstay their shelf-life with him. Not here-and not even in bed.Įven as he stood there, an expression of growing irritation in his eyes, he made his decision.
Alexeis couldn't have cared less about either.Īnd with every passing moment he was caring less and less about Marissa, and about spending any more time with her. At this moment she was giving full throat to her knowledge of the art market and the financial worth of the artist on display. Instead, however, he had ended up in this overcrowded art gallery, bored rigid and surrounded by yapping idiots-among whom Marissa was the key offender. Then, once the bare niceties had been dispensed with, and they had made polite and completely empty enquiries about each other's well-being, he would have done what his fundamental interest in Marissa was: taken her to bed. He was only in London for a twenty-four-hour stopover, and when he'd got out of the day-long meeting in the City and returned to his hotel suite he'd simply wanted to find her waiting for him.
Alexeis Nicolaides glanced around him with displeasure.
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