Sweet on the Greek_An Interracial Romance Page 4

  “Efcharistó, fíle,” Nik said, grinning back at the waiter like they were old friends. He dug into a bowl of cornflakes while the guy backed away.

  “Did you order that?” she asked, while sitting in a hotel breakfast buffet where no-one could order anything.

  “No.” Nik bit into a slice of toast.

  “Do you… come here a lot?”

  He looked up at her, as if in surprise. “My mother owns the hotel.” He pointed to himself. “Nik Christou. Did I mention that? I thought I mentioned that.”

  She stared.

  He ate some fried tomatoes.

  “You… are… a hotel owner,” she said finally.

  “No. I’m a footballer. I’m a retired footballer.”

  “Well, Jesus, pick a wealth source. That’s just greedy.”

  He blinked. “The hotel isn’t mine. I don’t—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, never mind. Look, I don’t know what you want from me—”

  “But I told you. I want you to be my scary fake girlfriend during a week-long party at Alvaro’s house in Marbella.” He grimaced. “I’m not good with social situations, to be honest. If it weren’t for my position and my…” He waved a hand in the air, probably to indicate his excellent body, beautiful face, and general sex appeal. “Truthfully, I’d never get anyone into bed. I don’t know how to speak to people. All I do is kick balls around and make bad decisions. I certainly have no idea how to let people down gently.”

  He managed to say all this in a manner that sounded slightly self-deprecating, mostly amused, and somehow appealing. Or maybe that last part was more related to his smile, with those full lips and that strong, square jaw, and the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Whatever.

  “If I’m honest,” he said, leaning forward in a way that made his broad shoulders seem like a brick fucking wall, “I have lived a charmed life. It has made me quite thoughtless, I think. I would sit back and sex would fall into my lap. So I took it. But really, that’s no way for a grown man to behave, now, is it?”

  As if hypnotised, Aria found herself shaking her head slowly. “No,” she murmured, while her brain shouted, Why are you agreeing with him like any of this makes sense? He is everything you should be wary of in this world, and he is feeding you the biggest crock of shit you’ve ever been fed!

  Well. Except for the crock of shit Simon had fed her. Because nothing, Aria thought, could ever be so terrible as finding out that her boyfriend was actually a murderous stalker. So maybe she shouldn’t be too hard on Nik right now.

  “So, you agree!” he said. “You understand!”

  Of course she didn’t bloody understand. How could anyone possibly be so bad at saying No that they needed a fake fucking girlfriend to protect them from sex?!

  But then she remembered the panicked look on his face when she’d first seen him last night. And the way that soft, smiling mouth had turned grim when he’d thought he’d have to speak to whatsherface—Melissa. And, come to think of it, the way Melissa had chased him down, despite the fact that he was quite literally running away.

  Maybe there were some downsides to being rich and gorgeous. And, Aria realised, potentially famous. She had no idea. She wasn’t into football.

  “I kind of see where you’re coming from,” she admitted. “But ‘understand’ might be a strong word.”

  He smiled. “Fair enough.” For a moment his expression turned oddly serious. It transformed his face from sweet and gentle to painfully intense. She didn’t like intensity. Except, apparently, on him. “It’s just that this party is important. I want to see my teammates again and pretend my life hasn’t turned on its head. That’s all. I don’t need the complications.”

  Now, that she could understand. Aria was astonished to realise that she was starting to take him seriously, starting to actually consider this proposal. Which was absurd. And ill-advised. She shook her head irritably. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not running off to Marbella with some random footballer.”

  “I’m not random,” he said hotly. “I’ve never missed the World Cup squad.”

  She pursed her lips to hide a smile. “That’s great. Well done, sugar. I still have no fucking clue who you are, and ‘double-wealthy playboy beloved by all’ is not the greatest character reference.”

  Surprisingly, he seemed enthused by that rather than offended. “Get to know me, then. We have six weeks. Spend them with me.”

  Spend six weeks with a guy who’d gotten her wet with a single fucking kiss? And then spend another week as his fake girlfriend at some millionaire party in Spain? Aria had a history of making poor decisions—very poor decisions—but she wasn’t completely lacking in brain cells. “No.”

  His face fell. “No?”

  He looked so adorably disappointed, it almost hurt her heart. In fact, it did, like a tiny little arrow digging into vital flesh. Which was odd, since she didn’t actually think she had a heart. Just a gaping hole in her chest that was always ravenous, eternally empty, no matter how hard she tried to fill it.

  See, this was why she embraced the whole princess of darkness thing. Sometimes, her brain came out with shit so depressing, it was almost poetic.

  Still, the look on Nik’s face was unsettling enough that she found herself trying to fix it. “Maybe we could… email?” she offered. That was safe, right? Because, sure, when she looked at him, her pulse hummed with a rhythm that sounded a lot like Mine—but if he wasn’t actually there, that pesky beat would stop.

  “Email,” he agreed. “Yes. Yes. Let’s do that. You’re smart.”

  Aria had been fawned over by many men, but never one quite so handsome as him. Definitely not one who radiated raw sexuality like it was fucking cologne. The experience almost distracted her from the question she’d finally thought to ask.

  “I’m assuming this… position would be paid.” She knew it would be paid. It better be paid. Because he was clearly loaded and slightly soft, and she had bills to deal with. So, so many bills.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ve never really done this before, but I was thinking £100,000.”

  She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth to hide the fact that her jaw had dropped. Then she thought about the fact that, since Jen had moved out of their shared flat—and since a murderous stalker had covered their walls with blood—Aria was now living with her parents. Her Bible-bashing parents who quoted Leviticus every time she got a new tattoo, along with her teenage sisters, who were, at best, shrill. Then she thought about the tattoo apprenticeship she’d completed, and, for that matter, how much she wanted to open her own studio.

  Also, she thought about the latest lip gloss collection from Dior.

  She said, “£350,000.”

  “Okay,” he replied. Just like that.

  Fuck. Fuck. He was a footballer, for Christ’s sake. He probably made millions. She should’ve asked for more.

  Wait—what the hell was she doing? Aria shook her head sharply, the reality of her situation falling like a ton of bricks. “You can’t be serious. This is not serious. This—”

  “Google me,” he sighed. “I have the money. I play for Colston City. Google me.”

  “I don’t want to fucking Google you,” she hissed across the table. “I don’t care if you have all the money in the fucking world! In fact, that just makes this even worse! Worse, and incredibly weird, and frankly dangerous!”

  He stared at her as if she’d just climbed on top of the table and laid an egg. “Dangerous?”

  “Yes! Because you are a man, and you’re wealthy and powerful. You giving me a lot of money for an incredibly odd arrangement would create a questionable situation between us. You could probably defend yourself in court by saying we agreed upon all kinds of shit, and that’s why you paid so much—”

  “Wait, wait,” he interjected, brows shooting up. “Court? What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do,” she shot back. “That’s the point! I don�
��t know you, I don’t trust you, and I wouldn’t have any guarantees in an arrangement like that!”

  “First of all,” he said calmly, “you’re friends with Keynes, right? Well, so am I. He knows I’m not a secret murderer, or anything. And secondly, you would have guarantees. You’d have a contract.”

  Aria sat back as her adrenaline drained away, leaving something shaky and anti-climactic in its wake. “A… contract?”

  “Of course. I’m not just going to give you all that money out of nowhere. My accountant would throttle me, for one thing. This is a job. I’m totally prepared to do this aboveboard.” He paused. “Although there would be an NDA, I suppose. You have a lawyer, right?”

  She almost laughed at that. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a normal person. You know, poor. Poor people don’t have lawyers.”

  He appeared to be holding back a smile. “I know. I was talking about Keynes.”

  Oh, yes. Their mutual friend Keynes, who was, incidentally, a solicitor. “Whatever,” she muttered. “Fine. Yes, I have a lawyer.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “But I’m telling you now.” Aria waved her fork threateningly. “Don’t fuck with me. You’ll regret it. My uncle is a big-time gangster, you know, back home.” Her uncle was a used car salesman with an overbite from Lowdham.

  Either way, Nik didn’t appear scared. Instead he seemed… concerned. His dark eyes turned gentle, almost as if he knew why she felt the need to say all this. As if he knew something had happened to her, that she’d once been a fearless woman and now she was only ever afraid.

  “I’m asking you to help me,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I’d never hurt someone who was trying to help me. And I’d rather die than hurt you.”

  He looked so sweet, with those huge brown eyes, that soft, smiling mouth, and those big hands clutching a tiny mug of tea. She almost believed him.

  But Aria, she reminded herself, was a terrible judge of character.

  Dear Aria,

  You mentioned (correctly) that we should get to know each other before we do this thing. And I thought, what better way to show you my deepest, truest self than a compilation of my favourite Vines? Please find attached.

  Yours,

  Nik

  DEAR NIK

  You are, of course, right about me being right. And I agree that Vines are an important insight to the soul.

  Which is why I’m sadly disappointed to find key, iconic Vines missing from your compilation. Either your research was shoddy, or your soul is underdeveloped. Please find attached a reflection of my own soul, and a far superior offering.

  Best,

  Aria

  DEAR ARIA,

  I want to argue, but your compilation is, in fact, way better than mine. See, I’m all about sportsmanship. I can lose gracefully.

  However, I will not take this loss lying down. You may regret the day you ever dared to best me in anything remotely resembling a competition. Because you and I will now be trapped in this contest forever, while I do everything I can to prove myself the ultimate Vine master.

  To that end, please find attached another compilation. If you can give better than that, hit me.

  Nik

  DEAR NIK,

  It’s on.

  Chapter Five

  Six weeks later

  Jen: Remember to text me the address!!!

  Aria: Don’t worry, I will. We just arrived, so I’ll send it soon. x

  Jennifer wasn’t usually a triple-exclamation-mark kind of gal, but she was clearly feeling anxious about her best friend travelling to Spain with a retired footballer to pose as his fake girlfriend. Well, actually, Jen didn’t know about that, because Aria had signed an NDA. So she was really anxious about Aria, known lover of fuck boys and literally murderous men, flitting off on a ‘romantic holiday’ with a ‘new boyfriend’ no-one but Keynes had ever met.

  Which meant that Aria had to text Jen constantly this week, just to confirm her continued survival and ease her poor friend’s worry.

  It was a damned good thing she was getting paid for this, or she’d be annoyed already.

  Of course, the sultry heat of a Spanish afternoon went some way to alleviating that annoyance. So did the massive 4x4 whose passenger seat she currently occupied, and the huge gated villa the car was pulling up to… and even the man in the driver’s seat.

  Not that she liked Nikolas Christou, or anything—even if he was kind of funny over email. She didn’t like him at all. Theirs was a strictly professional relationship. But God, on a physical level… On a physical level, Aria liked him a hell of a fucking lot.

  From behind the cover of her Victoria Beckham-esque shades (circa 2006, since Nik was a footballer and all), Aria devoured the man sitting beside her. His attention was on the cool, shadowy garage they were rolling into. His head was tilted back slightly, and his full lips were parted in a way that reminded her of, say… a guy looking down at her as she sucked his cock. Just for example.

  He had one big hand wrapped around the gearstick, the other on the wheel. His forearms were golden-brown and dusted with dark hair, thickly muscled and lined with veins she’d love to run her tongue over. Theoretically, of course. Just like she was theoretically wondering which of the many toys in her sox—aka her sex box—might be the exact same size as his long, thick fingers. All in the name of science, you understand.

  But Aria did not like Nik at all.

  He parked the car and looked at her. It wasn’t the way normal people looked, with eyes and general attention and all that. It was some next-level, ridiculously intense look that she’d only ever seen from Nik. He met her gaze and she felt like she’d been slapped in the face with feelings. Like he was telepathically pushing shit into her brain, shit like, You’re special, and You’re the centre of my world, and Holy fuck, I care so much about everything that comes out of your mouth.

  He put all that in her head with a sweep of those thick lashes, and then he followed it up with the utterly mundane: “You good?”

  Nik, Aria had quickly realised, was one of those men. You know; the ones who’d been born with the superpower of effortless seduction, who could make you believe they’d fallen in love by fucking accident. She’d decided to keep that fact at the forefront of her mind all week, like armour in the battle against those big brown eyes. “I’m good,” she nodded.

  He smiled at her as they got out of the car, and Aria’s so-called armour collapsed. Oh, dear Lord, why did he have to be so fine? Why? What was the reason? Who made him? Where did he come from? It simply wasn’t natural.

  “Everyone will be asleep,” he said while she had a mental crisis over his hotness. “Except G, maybe. She gets up early.”

  Aria cast a doubtful look at the bright Spanish sun beyond the opening of the garage. “Asleep?”

  “Party started yesterday, technically.”

  She hadn’t expected Nik to grab her luggage at the airport—rich men were generally thoughtless—but he had. So she wasn’t surprised when he did the same thing now, hauling both their suitcases out of the car as if it were nothing. His might actually be pretty light, but Aria knew full well that hers was weighed down by vital outfit changes, shoe options, assorted belly bars, and a hell of a lot of sex toys. Like she’d ever leave the sox at home when she was fake-dating the guy who’d melted her knickers off with a kiss. What did she look like, a fool?

  He led the way into the house, its air conditioning delicious against her slightly sweaty skin. Was Spain supposed to be this fucking hot? It wasn’t that far from home. She stretched out her arms as they wandered through cool, dim hallways. “Who’s G, by the way?”

  Before Nik could answer, a sickly-sweet voice came from a nearby room. “I’m G! Who’s you?” A second later, a figure appeared in the doorway.

  A very short, very thin figure in a tiny red bikini that matched her scarlet lipstick and complimented her waist-length, golden hair. The woman widened incredible baby blues at the sigh
t of them. Then, without waiting for a response to her question, she gave an excitable squeal and ran up to Nik with open arms.

  Which was when Aria’s travel-fatigued brain made use of the info Nik had been feeding her for weeks. ‘G’ must be Georgia, Nik’s best friend’s girl, a woman firmly on the ‘safe’ list. Which meant Aria didn’t have to beat her off with a stick.

  Good thing, too. It’d be pretty damn hard to get a stick, or a ruler, or a blade of fucking grass, between Nik and Georgia’s bodies right now.

  Not that Aria was jealous. Her concern was purely professional. She was, after all, a professional girlfriend.

  As if he’d heard that thought, Nik stepped back and turned to Aria. He held out a hand, flashing a smile that would have turned her brain to mush if she weren’t in possession of certain important facts. Like the fact that everything about to occur between them would be 100% staged.

  Still, his hand sliding into hers felt real enough. In fact, it shocked her system like a bolt of lightning.

  “Ri,” he said, and she realised he was talking to her. Ri? Fucking Ri? Aria would have been disgusted by such rampant shortening of her name, if it didn’t vaguely connect her to the legend that was Rihanna. “This is Georgia,” Nik went on. “Georgia, this is my girlfriend, Aria.”

  For a second, Georgia’s mouth hung open. It was a rather impactful sight, what with all the red lipstick involved. But a heartbeat later she pulled herself together and gave Aria a smile that seemed… totally genuine, actually.

  “Oh my God!” she trilled. “Girlfriend?” But not in a bitchy kind of way. More like the way someone would shout, “Oh my God, is that a fresh pack of Digestives?” Then she threw herself into Aria’s arms just as she’d thrown herself at Nik. It was quite a strange sensation, having a tiny, half-naked stranger hanging on to her waist, but Aria decided it wasn’t completely unpleasant.