Page 7 of Love Among the Ruins
CHAPTERTHREE
DOMINIC
The aroma of something warm and fishy wafted through the air over the bubbling chatter and laughter of the party goers.
Dominic declined the offer of artistically created and artfully arranged canapes when the server stopped by. However, the man he had been talking to could not resist and reached for an oyster before slurping it down. Then he reached for a prawn canape and shoveled that into his mouth.
Dominic pressed a finger to his temple and tried to unsee the man talking and chewing at the same time. He tried to ignore the little speck of prawn hanging at the corner of the man’s mouth as he boasted about the new multi-million-euro mansion he’d bought off the coast of Croatia.
With irritation creeping over him like an army of ants, Dominic couldn’t do it; he couldn’t stand and listen to it any longer. The sticky prawn only heightened everything he hated about these parties.
He wasn’t the partying type. These events were like pulling his teeth out with a pair of pliers. He wanted to return to his suite and deal with urgent matters, because ever since he’d arrived in Athens a month ago, everything in the Greek office seemed urgent.
But unfortunately, his father had insisted that he keep his head in the game, and it was at extravagant parties like this that the movers and shakers, the men with money, mingled and made deals. Deals could be made anywhere, his father often reminded him, but they were easier to clinch at social events where the lure of alcohol and pretty women lowered men’s guards.
He excused himself politely from Prawn Face and was about to head out for some fresh air, and to get away from people.
“Dominic.” Someone slapped him on the back and, before he knew it, a man he vaguely recognized was shaking his hand and grinning at him as if they were best friends. He reeked of alcohol, making Dominic flinch.
“You no remember me?”
Dominic tilted his head, the man’s face registered but he drew a blank at the name.
“Ioannis,” the buffoon said. “Written I-O-A-N-N-I-S but you say ‘YANNIS’, eh?”
The spelling bee specialist. Dominic remembered him now because he’d had the exact same conversation with this bore before. “How could I forget?” he commented, dryly.
“You Americans have a problem with Greek names.”
The man had been drunk the last time as well—at a dinner Hector Galatis was supposed to have attended, but instead he’d sent this guy who was a close associate. It meant Dominic couldn’t easily excuse himself and had to ingratiate himself instead. “What brings you here?” he asked, mentally reaching for his 101 social skills handbook. “Spetses isn’t your playground.”
Ioannis jabbed a finger in Dominic’s chest. “My playground.” He laughed. “I like to play, it is true.” He raised his glass tumbler and swirled something the color of bourbon. “I go where the parties are, and ... the entertainment.” He jerked his head over his shoulder where a group of women were dancing out on the deck. Long tanned legs, short tight dresses, big hair, big lips and big breasts.
Dominic lowered his head and fixated on the floor for a few seconds, trying to keep his fists clenched by his sides.
“You want one?” Ioannis asked, prompting Dominic’s brow to crease more than it had the entire day.
“Want what?”
A drink?
Someone to stab him and take him out of his misery?
The Greek winked at him and nodded in the direction of the women. “I make an introduction. A good-looking man like you should have some fun tonight, eh?”
Dominic grimaced, the pain of the conversation eating him from the inside out. He wasn’t sure of the man’s words; whether the women were paid escorts or guests, but either way he wasn’t interested. He detested the way this man alluded to those women as property he could have, as if the ownership of them was dependant on Dominic’s desire, rather than on the women’s interest.
He eyed the deck but no longer wanted to head in that direction for fear of the pimp following him. Casting a quick glance around, he looked for an emergency exit.
And found it.
Or rather, he foundher.
He peered for a second, unsure as the young woman server breezed past him. Her hair was tied up in a bun this time instead of a ponytail, but a glance at her side profile confirmed that it was her—the waitress from the taverna.
“I need a drink, excuse me.”
He cut through the crowd, expensive cologne and sickly-sweet perfume mingling into one heady scent as he brushed past people, keeping his eyes on the waitress. She moved fast, rushing down a long hallway which appeared to lead to a kitchen area.
