Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(4)

I shrug. I’m wearing a bikini in the middle of a street full of bar hustlers. What did he expect?

The buzz of his phone in his pocket diverts his attention downwards.

Damn.

A gang of young blokes stagger up the street. This is the clientele I should be targeting, not older self-assured, devastatingly handsome guys who have a million better alternatives.

“I don’t understand,” Adonis shouts into the phone, his face creasing into a frown. “Speak slower.”

Ooh, he sounds angry. That voice is giving me a serious dose of the horn.

Adonis stands a few metres away from me and repeats himself on the phone. Speaking louder and slower, he repeats the same words but in different ways. He appears to be throwing out random Greek words in the hope that something will stick. Some of the words seem made up or…French? Yes, that’s definitely French.

As a result, the guy on the other end raises his voice as well, becoming more animated until the conversation is just a futile exchange of noise.

It gives me the chance to subtly ogle him. I wonder if he’s military or Marines. A fitness instructor maybe? His watch suggests he’s rich. The only reason I know it's a Cartier is because Dimitris is selling knock-offs next to his boat stall. I assume Adonis’s watch is the real deal rather than a Dimitris sale special.

I see my opportunity and step forward into his space. “Do you need someone to translate?”

His nostrils flare. “No.” Then he pauses and observes me warily. “Are you fluent in Greek?”



“Amongst other languages,” I reply, deadpan. I know he’s judging me based on my yellow bikini and red shorts ensemble. Hell, I would too. I smile sweetly back at him, thinking fuck you in five different languages.

I watch his mind ticking over.

Those eyes. The Law should force him to wear dark glasses so womankind can continue functioning.

“Okay.” He gives a curt nod. “Thank you, that’s very kind.” Adonis puts the phone on speaker, and I hear someone on the other end babbling in Greek.

“Excuse me, sir,” I cut in, in Greek. “One moment.”

I put the phone on mute and look at him expectantly. “Does your boat need fixing?”

A ghost of a smile flickers on his perfect lips. “I’m impressed.”

I shrug. “What do you need me to ask him?”

“Tell him he needs to send someone asap to look at the cooling system. The engine is overheating, and I need to sail back to Athens tomorrow.”

I translate to the guy on the phone, then listen. “He says he can’t get someone out until Wednesday afternoon.”

Two days from now.

Adonis curses under his breath. “Tell him I’ll pay him whatever it takes.”

I inform the guy that Adonis has an open chequebook. A sharp intake of air can be heard through the phone.

My brows crease as I listen intently. I’m not used to technical boating terms in English, never mind Greek. “He needs a part to come from Athens. I don’t know what the name of the part is in English. I can only repeat it in Greek.”

“Seriously?” Adonis rakes a hand through his dark, slightly wavy hair. “Tell him he needs to expedite it, or I’ll use another company.” Every word comes out in a gruff authoritative tone. Maybe he is military.

I feel like I’m being told off just as much as the boat guy. I wonder how long I can string out this phone call.

“He’ll try,” I translate as the man on the receiving end becomes panicked.

Adonis mutters something unintelligible under his breath and takes the phone. He disconnects the call before I can say goodbye. So, the guy doesn’t do goodbyes. I make a mental note to research personality disorders with that trait.

“Thank you.” For a moment his eyes hang on me. “I wasn’t expecting a Welsh accent. Are you part Greek?”

I shake my head, ecstatic for the conversation opener. “Nope. My mum’s Croatian but she spent quite a bit of time in Greece when she was younger. I learned Croatian and Greek from her. I don’t really have anyone to speak Greek to in Wales so I’m not fluent. This trip has really improved it though.”

His eyebrows jump up. “Three languages, impressive.”

“Four.” I smile innocently. “We learn Welsh in school. I helped you. Now will you help me in return?”

I watch him stare at the neon sign, grimace, then turn back to me. “I’d prefer to stick forks in my eyes.”

I nod, shuffling away from him. I gave it my all.

“But I’m a gentleman and it would be rude of me not to help a lady who’s done me a favour.” He exhales in defeat as I whip my head around, shocked. “One drink. Just because you helped. I’m assuming it doesn’t serve my brand of Scotch.”

“Doubtful.” I beam, bouncing back to him. “But for £1.50 a shot, you can get so drunk you forget how rubbish the place is.”

Like the Aphrodite that's got the Adonis, I beckon him to follow me.

“Fuck me,” he says as I lead him into the bar, our eyes adjusting to the intense strobe lights. Don’t mind if I do. “It’s actually worse on the inside than I imagined. This place is going to give me a headache.”

He’s not wrong. I was just in it forty minutes ago, and it's even worse than I remember.