The Cinderella Seduction
by Hope Tarr
Copyright © 2013 by Hope Tarr. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Old Town Alexandria, Virginia
“Happy Fourth, Stefanie!”
Personal chef Stephanie Stefanopoulos looked up from the tray of baklava she’d readied for baking to see her father standing on her kitchen threshold. “Hey, Pop, what’s up? You’re way early. The Fourth isn’t until next week,” she added with a smile.
Taking in his gaunt face and hollow eyes, she felt a queasy sense of unease plant itself in the pit of her stomach. Since falling prey to her former fiancé’s Ponzi scheme three months earlier, her father hadn’t been sleeping or eating much. And close though they were, it wasn’t like him to just show up, not without at least calling en route. Even with the traffic gods in your corner, his Northwest DC home was easily a half hour’s drive from Stefanie’s townhouse in Alexandria Virginia’s Old Town. Clearly this wasn’t a casual call. Something was wrong—very wrong.
Coming toward her, he circuited his gaze around her state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen, the granite-topped counter and modularized cooking stations buried beneath trays of pigs in a blanket, gourmet mini burgers, and bowls brimming with potato and macaroni salads. “You wouldn’t know it from in here.”
Several of her in-home catering clients were getting into the Independence Day spirit early, requesting picnic fare for their personalized menus. Stefanie didn’t mind. It was good practice for the two parties she’d signed on to cater for the Fourth, one a backyard barbecue at a congressman’s MacLean McMansion, the other a rooftop gathering at her best friend, Macie’s.
She swiped sticky hands on her once-white apron. “Usually business slows down after Memorial Day, but we’ve just added two new full-time clients.”
Despite the financial disaster that had exploded in their faces three months ago, she had a lot to be grateful for. Her personal chef business, Good Enuf to Eat, was thriving. Delivering readymade, healthful home-style meals to dual-career couples was proving to be surprisingly recession-proof. While on the surface her service looked like a luxury, the data she’d compiled for her website and brochures showed that signing up actually saved people money previously spent on carryout, prepackaged foods, and pricey dinners out. And all her ingredients, including the meats, were 100 percent organic, sourced from family farmers in Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania.
“You mean you added them,” he corrected, pulling out one of the high-backed stools to sit. “You’ve worked hard these past eight years.” The paternal pride in his voice didn’t quite cover the quaver.
Compliments had always left Stefanie feeling awkward, vaguely embarrassed, and now was no exception. “Thanks, but I had a lot of help, especially from you.” Despite being deeply disappointed that she wouldn’t be following him into the family real-estate business, he’d given her the seed money for Good Enuf to Eat.
He answered with a shrug, picking up a serving spoon she’d washed but forgotten to put away. Watching him turn it over again and again, she stepped out from behind the counter and slid onto the seat beside him. “Is…everything okay?” she asked, knowing it wasn’t.
A first generation Greek American, her father subscribed to the stiff upper lip school of manhood. If there was a problem or obstacle, the solution was to bulldoze through it. Complaining was a waste of time and in real-estate development, time meant money.
He let out a huge sigh and admitted, “I wanted to talk to you, father to daughter…without an audience.” By “audience,” he meant her stepmother and twin stepsisters; the latter had graduated from NYU in June and moved home for the summer.
Stefanie’s mother’s death had been hard on everyone, but her father’s remarriage a few years later to Jacquie, a divorced real-estate agent with twins, hadn’t done much to restore her faith in Happily Ever After. At first she’d tried welcoming her new family with food made from the Old World recipes her mother had passed down. But no matter how sizzling her souvlaki or how moist her baklava, her stick-thin stepfamily picked at their plates.
Fresh fear seized her. “Are you feeling all right? You don’t look so good.”
Still twirling the spoon, he shrugged. “I feel fine. It’s what’s happening with Olympia that’s sickening. I fear we may lose her. I may lose her.”
Olympia Development, the real-estate development firm founded by her immigrant grandfather to seize the opportunity afforded by the post–World War II building boom, wasn’t only a business to them. The company felt almost like another family member.
Stefanie dragged a hand through her hair, belatedly remembering the braid.
“You never have told me. Just how much did you invest with Pete?”
Even having had three months to digest the fact that she’d been engaged to a white-collar criminal, saying her ex’s name still made her voice hitch. The Ponzi scheme he’d perpetrated on her pop, among others, was under investigation by the feds. In the meantime, fantasies of grinding him into meat pies a la Sweeney Toddcame up with frightening frequency. Safely beyond the reach of her serrated forks, poultry shears, and cast-iron bacon press as well as US law, he was likely roasting his larcenous lily-white hide on a beach in the Caymans.
The spoon stilled. Still staring down at it, her father let out a poof of breath. “Enough…too much. Three million.”
“Three million dollars?”
He nodded without looking up. “I’m going to have to start selling off our assets, starting with Acropolis.”
At the mention of Acropolis Village, a lump lodged in her throat. “Not Acropolis! But it’s your dream.”
Nestled on the Chesapeake Bay’s western shore in Southern Maryland, the mixed-use waterfront retirement village was to have been an oasis for Greek and Greek American seniors wishing to continue their cherished traditions into their golden years. Residents could transition from independent living in snug terracotta bungalows to sunny assisted-living condo-style apartments as needed. Once the final phase of construction was completed, amenities would include a private beach, coffeehouse, bakery, festival ground, and a clubhouse modeled on a traditional taverna. Stefanie had even planned to put a Good Enuf to Eat food truck onsite for the weekends.
Unfortunately, the project had proven to be a monumental money pit. In the aftermath of the 2008 global recession, construction had stalled. Currently more than 70 percent of the units remained empty. Despite the affordable pricing, it was hard to sell seniors on the promise of “someday.” All the construction scale models and architectural plans in the world couldn’t disguise that much of the property was still an open construction site. When Pete had assured them he could quadruple Olympia’s cash reserves in nearly no time, the “opportunity” had been too tempting to refuse. Like a hungry fish offered a juicy worm, the board, on which Stefanie sat along with her stepmother and their corporate attorney, had unanimously approved the deal.
“Dreams change,” he said sadly, broad shoulders slumping. “These days my ‘dream’ is to figure out a way to stay solvent and have some legacy to pass onto my grandchildren—your children.”
Stefanie swallowed against the emotion thickening her throat. It was bad enough that she’d been the one to introduce Pete to her father. That she hadn’t exactly been madly in love with him made her unwitting collusion seem even worse. Looking back, she saw that what she’d loved most was the notion of taking herself off the dating track.
DC wasn’t exactly fertile fields for a Junoesque personal chef whose clients were mostly couples. At twenty-nine, she’d started to wonder if putting all her eggs in one basket—work—had really been so smart. By the time Pete had pushed his way into her life, she’d jumped at the chance to be in a committed relationship. She should have known that a single, attractive man strolling into her shop and signing up on the spot for six months of weekly personal catering was too good to be true. Thinking of the oily way he’d ingratiated himself first with her and then with her father set off a salvo of guilt and fury.
Fitting his hand over his brow, he admitted, “It gets worse.”
She shifted to face him. “You’d better tell me everything.”
“You remember Costas International?”
She thought back to several board meetings ago. “Yeah, sure, it’s the Greek resort development company based out of Athens, right?”
He nodded.
“They loaned us the capital for phase two of Acropolis,” she added, casting her thoughts back to about two years ago. Other than sitting in on the quarterly sessions, she wasn’t actively involved in the company’s operations.
“They did. And now the new CEO has called in the loan. In full,” he added ominously.
Stefanie groaned. “Let me guess—thanks to Pete, we don’t have the money to repay it.”
He nodded again, this time darting a sideways look at her. “I’d hoped to recoup the losses through rentals and pre-purchases, but with two-thirds of the site still a mud pit, it’s hard to attract home buyers.”
According to the contract, if he defaulted, Costas could acquire Olympia and sell off the assets piecemeal. The prospect of her grandfather’s company being raided for parts like a junked car tore at her heart—and her family pride.
“There’s got to be something we can do.”
Eyes bleak, he shook his head. “Unless the CEO of Costas can be persuaded to grant me more time, losing the company is inevitable. Bankruptcy may not be far behind.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Two and a half million.”
Stefanie felt her mouth fall open. It was close to the amount Pete had swindled, damn him. “Can’t you appeal to Mr. Costas, explain your circumstances, and ask for a modification of the contract?”
He eyed her. “What would you have me say? That I let a slick college boy make a fool of me?”
Ouch. Grasping for straws, she said, “But I thought you and Mr. Costas were old friends.”
“My relationship was with Maximos, the founder. Max retired last year and turned the company over to his son, Nikolaos.”
She sucked on her bottom lip, thinking. “Can’t you blame it on the economy? It’s not like you’re the only developer who’s been hit hard by the recession.”
He shook his silvered head. “Considering the Greek economy has been in the toilet for years, I doubt that would win any sympathy. And Max’s heir conducts business…very differently. He’s a lawyer,” he added, making a face, “with fancy degrees from Cambridge and Yale and a reputation as hard-nosed despite being a playboy.”
“A playboy?” Stefanie couldn’t help but smile at the old-fashioned word.
He nodded. “According to Max, Niko has a different girl for every night of the week—skinny girls, curvy girls, tall girls, short girls. Movie stars, models, cocktail waitresses, a coach from Dancing with the Stars—it’s like he can’t make up his mind.”
Stefanie hated to admit it, but Costas’s inclusive appreciation of female beauty was kind of refreshing, especially for someone in his privileged position.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a bad kid—no drinking or drugging—but he definitely has a weakness when it comes to women. Max used to worry he’d never settle down. He hoped turning over the business to him would ground him. Little did I know I’d end up in being the one grounded—buried alive.”
Stefanie settled a hand atop his arm. “Don’t talk like that, Pop. There must be a way out, something we can do.”
“That’s what I told myself, too, until I got…this.” He stuffed a hand into his pocket, pulled out a folded paper, and passed it to her.
Feeling queasy, Stefanie unfolded the e-mail and scanned the few curt lines. Nikolaos Costas was coming to the US to meet with his American business partner—Olympia. He expected a face-to-face meeting with its CEO—her pop—and his money repaid in full before he left for home. But it was the final line that sent a shaft of shock straight through her.
“He’s due into DC on July second? The Independence Day holiday week, seriously?” The ballsy timing solidified her emerging picture of Nikolaos Costas as a spoiled trust-fund brat, a selfish asshole who expected everyone else to clear their calendars at his command.
Gaze bleak, her father nodded. “I know it’s a busy time for you, but I need your help.”
The buck, or in this case all 2.5 million of them, stopped with her. “Anything—you know that.”
“I need you to act as my hostess, show Max’s son around town, stall while I work on raising the repayment. I’ve already gotten in touch with my banker about extending my line of credit and I may be able to bring on additional investors by selling shares in the project. I just need time.”
“Playboy” cycled back into Stefanie’s consciousness, and a kernel of an idea, totally crazy, of course, began taking shape in her mind. If Nikolaos Costas had a “weakness” for women, might that weakness be used against him? If he only went for stick-thin models, she’d be shit outta luck, but from what her pop had said, he didn’t have a type. She bit her lip and glanced down at herself. Her jeans were dusted with flour and the unpainted toes peeking out from her sandal-style Crocs were in dire need of a pedicure.
Confidence flagging, she looked up. “Maybe we’d be better off getting Lena or Leslie to take him around. They have the summer off and they love going out.”
Dazzling men with their model looks and killer wardrobes was what her stepsisters lived for. Coming of age in a pond of Paris Hilton-styled swans, Stefanie had always felt like an ugly duckling.
His fist came down on her granite countertop, sending party platters jumping. “You are my blood. You are my heir just as Niko is his father’s.”
Alarmed by his reddening face, Stefanie reached for his hand. Unfurling the taut fingers, she said, “Pop, please, remember your blood pressure.”
He nodded, blowing out a breath. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to lose my temper. It’s just that I’m sick and tired of watching you take a backseat to Jacquie’s girls. You have a good brain, a big heart, and your own beauty, the best kind of beauty, the kind that starts on the inside. Just like…your mother,” he added, laying a palm to his heart.
Chastened, Stefanie gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Dropping his hand, he sighed. “All I’m asking is that you keep Nikolaos Costas fed and entertained while I work this out. He won’t have had a home-cooked meal since he left Greece. C’mon, little one, it’s only for a few days.”
Little one—talk about pulling out all the stops.
Still, he was right. She was the one who’d brought the wolf, Pete, into their family fold. It wasn’t her stepsisters’ responsibility to clean up the mess she’d made. It was hers.
Her thoughts boomeranged from the congressman’s high-profile party to Macie’s rooftop picnic. Being in two places at once had seemed a tough enough trick to pull off, but now it seemed she’d need to find a way to be in three. She chewed on her lower lip, mentally maneuvering food preparation, deliveries, and employee schedules.
“I suppose I can get Karen to cover the MacLean barbecue and Eli can do the drop-offs for the weekly regulars, but there’s also Macie’s party. She’ll kill me if I don’t show.”
She stopped, anticipating his objection. Surely for the Fourth he would want to host his VIP visitor at his home, the gracious Cleveland Park Tudor Revival where she’d grown up.
Instead, his grin reached from ear to ear. “Perfect, you’ll take him with you. A traditional American Fourth of July with your friends could be just the thing to soften him up. Besides, you haven’t taken off a holiday since you started eight years ago. As they say, all work and no play—”
“Makes Stefanie a dull spinster girl, yeah, I get it.” Dull and desperate, or so she’d been until three months ago.
He shrugged. “I’d like grandchildren someday. So sue me.”
Stefanie groaned. “Yeah, well, here’s hoping Nikolaos Costas doesn’t do it first.”
The earlier crazy kernel of an idea sprouted to a full-blown stalk. Her father needed Nikolaos Costas “softened up.” Plying him with her authentic Greek cooking could be a strong first step toward winning him over, but would it be sufficient? His weakness wasn’t for food but women, and Stefanie was certainly that as well as 100 percent Greek and a good—okay, awesome—chef. She knew how to dress a lamb and set a table to perfection.
But up until now, she’d been too busy to bother applying that aesthetic to herself. It had been easier—and safer—to take the backseat, as her father had pointed out. Could she maybe channel some of her culinary self-confidence to her life once she took off the chef’s jacket?
Thanks to Pete’s Ponzi scheme, she didn’t really have a choice. Beyond righting wrongs and familial duty, she had something to prove—to herself. With Pete she’d been easy prey, gulled by his glib tongue and smooth moves and her own sadly sagging self-esteem. But when it came to Costas, she knew in advance who and what she was dealing with—a player. A player for whom variety was the spice of life—and Stefanie’s life could definitely do with some spicing up. Only this time she would be prepared. She would be in control. She would be the wolf, not the sheep, the seducer, not the seducee.
She wouldn’t go all the way, of course, just far enough to whet his appetite—and win his sympathy for Acropolis Village. Taking him to the brink and then retreating once she’d gotten what she wanted would be even more satisfying than going through with the sex. Sleeping with Pete so soon had been the first of several big mistakes. Unveiling herself had made her vulnerable, blinded her to her better judgment. If she’d held back, she doubted she would have bought into his good-guy act for much longer, let alone set him up with her father. So long as she kept her clothes on—or mostly on—with Costas, she’d never have to worry about what he thought of her full thighs or less than six-pack stomach. Sheathed in SPANX and wreathed in worldly smiles, she’d stay invincible, ethereal, a goddess in total control.
She felt anticipation—excitement—building. She’d been a good girl for twenty-eight years. She’d not only read The Rules cover to cover but had played by them. Now after nearly a decade of sifting through Match.com profiles and suffering through bad blind dates, she was finally going to play a new game, one in which she got to turn the tables—and mind fuck the man.
Her pop’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. “Why are you so smiley all of a sudden?”
Composing her features, Stefanie shrugged. “I’m just thinking about what I’m going to serve for Costas’s welcome dinner, that’s all.”
What are you hungry for, Mr. Costas?
A growl greeted the statement. A thick finger wagged in her face. “You’re a good girl, you don’t forget that. You make him some meals, you show him around town—and that’s all you do for him. Understood?”
Another smile teased the corners of her mouth, but this time she made sure to flatten it. “Right, of course, Pop, so long as you promise to handle all the financial stuff upfront when you meet with him.”
He flattened a hand over his heart. “Stefanie, you wound me. I am a Stefanopoulos. My word is my bond.”
“Great, now how about I make you a plate? You look like you could use a good meal.”
He gave a grudging nod, and Stefanie slid off the stool. Ducking his watchful gaze, she stepped back behind the counter. Sprinkling paprika atop a platter of deviled eggs, it was hard not to hum. Nikolaos Costas liked variety, he liked spice—well, she would give him that and then some.
Who knew…she might even like it.
…
The Isle of Crete, Greece
“Papa, will I like America?”
Nikolaos Costas paused in packing and turned away from the suitcase lying open on his bed to his daughter. Her question made him smile. “I hope so, Mara. America is a very big country. We are traveling first to New York and then to its capitol city. Do you know the name of America’s capitol?”
Twirling the end of her ponytail, she shook her head.
He went down on one knee on the woven rug, putting them on eye level. “It is Washington, named after a great general who later became the first president.”
“Like Mr. Papoulias?”
Pleased that she knew that much, given how limited her life had been until recently, he nodded encouragingly. “It is similar, yes. Greece is a parliamentary republic; America a constitutional republic. We will have plenty of time on the plane to discuss the similarities and differences between our two countries.”
Nick had studied law at Harvard, but this would be his first trip to DC. He’d spent most of his summers in the exclusive resort community of Martha’s Vineyard. Standing out as exotic amongst the blue-blooded denizens, he’d seduced plenty of daughters of industry captains, entertainers, and politicians. During one such pleasure-seeking summer, Mara had been born back in Greece.
The revelation that he was a father—to a seven-year-old!—had come out of the blue four months ago. Before then, he hadn’t even known Mara existed, hadn’t had the vaguest suspicion he was a father, certainly not by the pretty Cretan art student with whom he’d hooked up on a holiday visit home. Fueled with Mythos beer and the stupid sense of immortality that accompanied youth, he’d foregone a condom. When he’d later heard Alexia had left for London to marry a British banker, his only thought had been to be happy for her. Tragically, her happiness had ended in a fatal car crash on the way home from a beach weekend in Brighton.
The news had come in an e-mail from Alexia’s mother. Before leaving Greece, Alexia had borne an out-of-wedlock child, a girl, in secret. At her parents’ urging, she’d given the baby up at birth to the nuns at a Cretan convent orphanage.
At first Nick had written off the e-mail as a hoax, but like puzzle pieces, the dates and details had begun fitting together, the gaps filled in by his sketchy memory and sudden gnawing guilt. It was possible, even probable, that Alexia’s child was his. Either way, he’d resolved to find out.
The mother superior who oversaw the orphanage had been gracious at their private meeting. She well remembered the distraught young woman who’d come to her all those years ago, pregnant and afraid, her furious family threatening to cast her out. When asked of her child’s father, the girl’s pretty young face had hardened. Refusing to name him, she’d explained he was a rich man’s son, a party boy studying law in the States. Hearing himself so described, Nick had felt his first true remorse.
She’d regarded him over steepled hands. “Mara is playing with the others in the garden. Are you prepared to meet her?”
Nick doubted he’d ever be fully ready, but he nodded nonetheless. A bell summoned a black-habited sister. Nick followed her out. The convent was a serene but poor place, the adjacent orphanage immaculate yet crumbling and small. The children ceased playing at their approach. Approaching, the nun announced, “Mara, this gentleman has come to see you.”
A little girl with coltish limbs, sun-streaked brown hair, and dirt-smudged cheeks lifted her face to Nick’s, and he found himself staring into thickly lashed hazel eyes—his eyes.
Heedless of the dusty stones, he’d dropped down on both knees. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mara. My name is Niko.”
Beaming, the nun put in, “Mr. Costas is your papa, Mara.”
Throat thick with emotion, he directed his words to his daughter. “You also have a grandpapa and a grandmamma and three aunties as well as many cousins, a few near your age.” What age was she? Knowing next to nothing about children, he’d looked up at the sister, who’d mouthed seven.
Stunned, Nick could scarcely believe it. His daughter was seven. For seven years this creature—this angel—had occupied the same earth, the same country, the same island as he, having birthdays and Christmases and saints’ days and ordinary days, all of which he’d missed.
That day, four months ago, he’d made a pact with himself. Going forward, he would be a stronger man, a better man. A father.
A soft knock sent them turning to the open door. His mother, Hermione, stood on the threshold, her abundant silver hair piled atop her head, a richly embroidered silk shawl draped about her shoulders and pinned with a jewel-inlaid starburst broach, his father’s fortieth anniversary gift.
“Ya-ya!” Mara ran to her grandmother, wrapping her arms about her waist.
Nick stood. “Mara and I were just discussing the differences between Greece and the United States.”
His mother gently eased Mara away. Cupping her cheek, she said, “That is wonderful, my clever one, but it is time for you to go to bed. You and your papa have an early day tomorrow. You need rest.” She slanted a look to Nick as if including him in the admonition.
Mara dug in her bunny slipper shod heels. “But I’m not sleepy.”
Nick intervened, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Brush your teeth and say your prayers and I will be in very soon to say good night.”
“And read me a story?” she wheedled, grinning up at him.
Defeated, he nodded. “Yes, and read you a story.”
Hugs and kisses made the rounds and Mara padded out of the room.
Watching her go off, his mother said, “It is not too late to change your mind and take the private jet. More than sixteen hours on a crowded aircraft is a great deal to ask of a seven-year-old.”
The sixteen-hour flight would take them directly to New York’s Kennedy Airport. They would spend several days touring the city before continuing on to their final destination, Washington, DC.
“I know, Mama, but we will be fine.”
“Are you certain you will not reconsider and leave Mara here with us until you return?” she said, brushing a no doubt imaginary speck of dust from his black shirtsleeve.
Having Mara with him meant curtailing—eliminating—any partying, but that didn’t bother him as it once would have. He’d seen sufficient A-list clubs, casinos, and five-star resorts to last a lifetime. Now that he was a father with his family’s corporation to run, indulging himself that way would be beyond irresponsible—it would be a betrayal of all he held sacred.
Nick nodded. “Mara and I have already endured seven years of separation. Where I go, she goes.”
Disappointment flickered over his mother’s face but in it he read respect, too. “Hearing you speak with such devotion, I cannot argue further. You are a good father, Niko.”
Nick paused, grateful for the praise but unsure that he’d as yet earned it. “I am trying to be. Whether I succeed or fail, know this: I am a changed man.”
Her hands found the tops of his shoulders. Holding him at arm’s length, she searched his face. “No, my son, you are the man you were always meant to be, the one who has been inside you all along.”
Humbled, Nick bowed his head. “Thank you, Mama.”
She dropped her hands and stepped back. “I will leave you to finish packing. Please bring Mara by before you leave in the morning. I have a small going-away gift for her.”
Nick groaned. “Mama, you promised.”
Like him, his parents were desperate to make up for the lost years, and inundating their newly discovered granddaughter with presents was an understandable temptation to which they yielded far too frequently. Her room at the villa, painted “Cinderella Pink,” was stuffed with the spoils of his parents’ recent retail rampage through Disneyland Paris.
Frowning, she clicked her tongue. “I know, but she is my only granddaughter, my one little rosebud amidst a brood of boys.”
“Very well, we will come to say good-bye,” he conceded, reminded of how fortunate he was to have a warmhearted family who’d taken in his love child without hesitation. “But I hope your gift is indeed small. The overhead compartments of commercial planes are not large, and I plan to do some shopping as well.”
She laughed. “Why is it I have the feeling your papa and I are not alone in being wrapped around Mara’s little finger?”
Nick didn’t deny it. Mara brought out all his soft spots, vulnerabilities he hadn’t known he had.
But in business, he had a spine of steel and a will of iron. The man he was traveling to Washington, DC to meet, Christos Stefanopoulos, owed his family two and a half million US dollars, monies Nick had earmarked to fund the new state-of-the-art orphanage he meant to build for the convent. As the mother superior had told him, many homeless infants and children were turned away for lack of space. It was a heartbreaking situation. Nick couldn’t undo the past, but he could do his utmost to build a brighter future for unwanted and unclaimed children as Mara once had been.
But given the recessionary state of Greece’s economy, his plan for the orphanage hinged on him retrieving the money from the American real-estate developer. So far the bastard had yet to repay a single Euro. Instead he’d answered Nick’s numerous e-mails and letters with excuses and evasions.
In such a situation, with such a man, Nick knew exactly how to deal. He would show no mercy, cede no quarter. He would return to Greece with the loan repaid in full or Olympia Development transferred to him, the latest of Costas International’s foreign acquisitions. Given what he’d so far discovered of the company’s financials, he expected repayment to be the latter. Either way, his family’s honor would be restored and ground broken on the mother superior’s new orphanage.
Fatherhood was as yet a mystery, but business he understood.
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