Italian and Greek 6 ebook Bundle (EBOOK)

MISTRESS BY BLACKMAIL
When a headstrong artist storms a billionaire’s boardroom, sparks fly—leading to a scandalous arrangement neither expected and a love neither can resist.

WIFE BY FORCE
Trapped in a marriage of desperation, Lara refuses to surrender her heart—or her body—to the man who once betrayed her. But Dante is determined to win her back, no matter the cost.

BABY BY ACCIDENT
She’s ice. He’s fire. But one night of passion changes everything—and now this Italian bad boy won’t walk away from the baby or the woman he wants forever.

A PERFECT MAN
He wants revenge. She wants nothing to do with him. But their sizzling fake engagement may be the one recipe that leads to love.

A PERFECT WIFE
A ruthless mogul and a runaway reporter are forced together by fate—and a dark Greek past neither of them can ignore. But love wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan.

A PERFECT LOVE
Years after betrayal tore them apart, a ruthless billionaire and a determined woman clash over custody—and reignite a love neither dares to claim.

His brother was an idiot.

Marcus La Rocca rocked back on his heels and stifled the urge to yell. The damn kid knew what was at stake, knew his assigned role. He'd agreed to the marriage months ago. Dannazione, he agreed enthusiastically. So why was he playing with fire at this late date? If his younger brother stood in front of him right now, he'd wring his sorry neck. But what good would it do? Matteo had been a thorn in his side from the moment he entered his life and would continue in the role for the foreseeable future.

Or until he succeeded in dragging the idiot to the altar.

“He doesn't know what he's doing.” His mother, Serafina, sobbed into her lace handkerchief. She sat in one of several burgundy leather office chairs across from his steel-and-glass desk. The bright overhead light shined with a harsh glare on her dyed-black hair. 

With wry amusement, he noted there was no smearing of her makeup and her eyes weren’t red. His mother was a master at many things; she was pure genius at emotional manipulation. “He's twenty-five.”

“A mere baby.”

He snorted. Ten years ago, when he was twenty-five, he’d been running this company, making million-euro deals. Not running around and screwing around.

Her hands fisted and she threw him a glare. “You're never sympathetic.”

“I ran out of sympathy a long time ago.”

“You are always too hard on him.” Her voice rose. “This is all your fault.”

A phrase he'd heard so many times it could be tattooed on his brain. “Calm down.”

“How can I calm down when my baby is in a whore's clutches?” She jumped from the chair and began pacing, her thin body trembling with anxiety. 

Examining the photos his mother had provided, he silently questioned her conclusion. The woman seemed more like an innocent girl, not the seductive siren his mother seemed to fear. “She appears harmless.”

“Uffa!” She threw her hands in the air and stopped, pinning him with another glare. “Those are the women you have to watch out for.”

Assuming what she claimed held a kernel of truth, this was a problem. However, the last thing he needed was his fiery mother going off on a tangent. If he didn't rein her in, she’d likely screech to a tabloid, or worse, gossip with her gaggle of crows. The society crows would pass the information along faster than the tabloids could print their sheets. He had to tamp this down, buy some time so he could address this situation in his usual purposeful manner. 

He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a blank stare.

“You don't believe me,” she wailed.

“Momma,” he replied. “Be reasonable. Matteo is engaged.”

“Sì, sì, sì, and that is why—”

“For all my little brother's faults, he would not betray his commitment. Nor his family.”

“He wouldn't mean to.”

“Supposing what you say is true, he's only having a last fling. Irrelevant.” 

The handkerchief waved his words away. “She's moved in with him.”

“What?” He stiffened.

“Sì,” she proclaimed triumphantly. “One month before the wedding!”

Marcus paced to the wall of windows lining one side of the room. Looking down, he noted the London traffic coursing through the financial district where his office building stood. 

Maledizione. He did not have time for this. He had to fly to Madrid tomorrow and then to New York a few days later. Why the hell couldn't his kid brother keep his pants zipped? Didn't he understand what this marriage meant to the business? This deal ensured Rocca Enterprises would be a big player in the emerging equity markets in Eastern Europe. 

Hell, the kid liked the girl. Declared he was pleased. If Matteo had objected, Marcus would have let him off the hook and found another way to get the deal done. But he hadn’t, and this deal and marriage had been on the books for months. If the marriage fell through now, there’d be no way to salvage the contract. Not with the Casartelli bride’s pride and honor at risk. 

“You're sure of this information?”

“Sì.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You've been keeping an eye on him.”

“It's a mother's prerogative.” She met his amused look with a defiant one of her own.

He turned and leaned on the window. The cold November wind blowing outside cooled the glass. And his irritation. Slightly. “I want all the information you’ve collected.”

A gleam of victory lit in her dark eyes. “Now you are listening.”

“If what you say is true—”

“It is.”

“Then this is a problem that needs to be nipped in the bud before the Casartellis find out.”

“Sì! Sì!” His mother's arms waved in the air, her eyes flashing.

“Momma.”

His cool tone stopped her agitated movements and her gaze met his.

“I'll take care of this.”

The magic words she'd been waiting to hear. He knew it and she knew it. 

A smile beamed through her happy tears. “Marcus—”

“I need to get back to work.” He ran his hands through his hair, trying to stifle his irritation. 

Rushing over, she threw her arms around him. “Your father would be so proud.”

“Momma—”

“Matteo's father would be so thankful.”

Unlikely in both cases. But what did it matter? Both men had been dead for years and the responsibility for everything had been on his shoulders for what seemed like forever. It was his job to keep this financial empire intact and it was clearly his job to deliver his stupid brother to the wedding. The wedding that would ensure Rocca Enterprises’ continuing prosperity. 

Assuming his mother didn't babble and his brother didn't renege. 

“No talking to your friends, Momma.”

“Well, I don’t think—”

“Momma.”

She eyed him, gauged his temper as only a mother could do, and made the right decision. “I will leave all this in your capable hands, Marcus.”

“Grazie.”

With a flurry of lace and purse and flounce and drama, his mother left the room. Leaving him with the mess.

As usual.

* * *

Darcy Moran was a fighter. 

At first she'd had to be and now, it was second nature. This situation, obviously, called for a fighter. It made no difference that her knees were doing some serious knocking below the edge of her one good dress. And it made no difference that the office building standing before her was a bit more grand and glorious than she'd imagined.

She had a fight to win. 

It was the least she could do for her best friend. 

He'd come through for her many times—the latest being when her ugly old landlord had objected to another overdue rent payment. If not for Matt, she'd have ended up on the streets. She figured she’d take a couple of weeks to get her feet back under her and then she’d start searching for another flat. Until then, she’d bunk on Matt’s sofa. 

Last night, though, she found out she could have his whole place in a month. 

All to herself. 

“Married?” She hadn't believed him at first. “Forced to marry?”

“I'm afraid it’s true.” Matteo Costa's big brown eyes shone with despair. She knew he used them all the time for effect, but still. Still.

“How could you let him do this?”

“He's the head of the family.”

Her hands fisted in her jeans pockets. “He's not your lord and master.”

“The next best thing.” Her friend’s expression grew more mournful. 

“You must confront him,” she instructed. “You need to tell him to go to hell.”

“You don't know my brother.”

“Thank God.”

He sighed. “It's about the families. The connection. This seals the deal. In many ways, the marriage makes sense.”

“You’re barmy.” Darcy frowned. “No one gets married to seal a business deal.”

“No one but me.”

“Don't give in,” she cried. “Don't you ever give in.”

“That's your rally cry, not mine.” He leaned his head back on the flat’s kitchen wall and closed his eyes. “At least Viola is pretty.”

“You have got to be kidding.” As if the pretty factor of his potential wife would have any impact on whether or not the marriage would work. Without love, it wouldn’t. “You need to stop this right now.”

“No,” he said, one eye opening to squint at her rigid figure. “She is pretty. And stop shouting.”

“You've got to tell your brother you made a mistake.”

“He'd kill me.”

“Better a quick death than a long protracted death by marriage.”

“Cynic.” Matt's stare turned shrewd. 

“Realist.” He'd asked and questioned, but she had no desire to confide about her past. He didn't know how she'd grown up and no amount of talking would ever give him a sense of what it had been like. What it had been like to see her parents fight and split and fight and split. What it had been like to land in foster care at the age of twelve. What it had been like to know she was all alone. Out of long practice, she'd shut the conversation down before the questioning went any further. She had more than enough information anyway.

By midnight last night, she made a decision.

The only decision she could make.

Matt had saved her many times. Now was the time she’d pay him back. She didn’t know exactly how she was going to convince his big brother to stop the marriage, still she’d figure something out. Once she met the guy, she’d find some way to wrap him around her finger or bring him to his senses by finding his weaknesses and exploiting them. She’d become good at both a long time ago. Sure, he was a billionaire, but that didn’t mean he had super powers. 

He was just a man.

Darcy lifted her chin and stared with fierce intent at the massive building in front of her.

Time to make this happen. 

She marched across the busy London street, ignoring the well-heeled crowd swirling past her. Marshaling her arguments, she lined up her words. She'd first have to get through the walls of security and secretaries before she reached her goal, still, she had charm. A quick tongue. Other talents.

ROCCA ENTERPRISES

The sign swept over the entrance, silver and elegant. Impressive. Intimidating. 

She found it hard to picture her best friend coming from this environment. When she met him, she'd assumed he was like her: poor. The news that his brother was a billionaire, who ruled an entire empire of various businesses, had been a huge shock. The Great Man, Matt called him. With annoyance, yet sometimes she noted a hint of affection underlining his words. 

There was nothing affectionate about this situation, however.

Her friend didn't have the courage to confront his brother. But she did.

Pushing through the doors, she entered the foyer. Sculptures of silver glass speared toward the cathedral ceiling. A wide wall of glimmering elevators lined the end of the foyer, swishing open and closed, filling and emptying with a dizzying number of women dressed to the nines and men dressed to impress. All rather overwhelming. For a moment.

Keep your focus. 

She peered past the girth of an elderly woman walking by her and spotted the first hurdle.

Security.

Planted behind a wide desk, four uniformed guards scanned the crowd with sharp attention. She was short, but not short enough to sneak past sight unseen. Plus, her dress didn't come close to competing with the high-fashion women surrounding her. If she didn't act fast, she'd be spotted and stopped.

“Not on your life,” she muttered. 

She'd managed to pry a few critical pieces of information from Matt, without letting him know what she planned for his benefit. For example, everyone who worked for Rocca got a blue ID card, which they had to wear to get past security. All she needed to flit past this hurdle was one of those cards. Too bad her friend didn't have one. His brother wouldn't even allow him on the premises without prior approval.

Another strike against the Great Man. What an egotistical tyrant he must be.

Focus. Focus.

Scanning the crowd, she found a promising target. A behemoth of a man ambled toward the elevators, his jacket slung across his arm, his blue card flopping on the polished wool.

Well, actually, it was her blue card.

She slipped beside him, her keen gaze focused on what she needed to know. “Hi, John.”

The man halted and looked down and down into her smiling face.

He blinked.

“How lovely to see you.” She beamed at him and angled herself so his large body stood between her and the security desk.

Blinking again, he smiled back. “I don't think I know you.”

“John, John.” She batted her eyes as her hand deftly did its work. “How could you forget what we had together?”

“We…we…” The man sputtered to a stop and blinked once more.

“Well, I guess I'll have to let you go, then.” She turned and walked away, swinging her hips as her mum had shown her long ago.

“Wait!” His voice didn’t stop her.

Darcy smiled and snapped the lovely blue tag on her lapel. Nothing ever stopped her.

The Great Man had no idea what was about to hit him.

* * *

“Boss.” Blake Reston, head of his security, stepped into his office. “She’s no longer at your brother’s flat. We’ve located her.”

Marcus had taken two days to calculate what needed to be done. After reviewing the information his mother had collected, within hours his security team had filled in the rest of the details on one Ms. Darcy Moran. In his methodical, careful way, he'd mulled over the situation when he’d been in Madrid and made a decision. Now it was only a matter of tracking down the prey and springing the trap. He glanced away from his computer screen. “Well?”

A gruff laugh escaped the blond man. “She's here.”

“What?”

“She's been able to glide through the security on the ground floor and is currently on her way to…” Blake focused on his phone, scanning his messages. “It appears she's here to see you, big guy.”

“Interesting.” Standing, he slipped on his suit coat. “I can’t remember the last time a person I was hunting came right to my door.”

“I wonder what she’s up to.”

“Whatever she’s up to, she’s playing right into my hands.”

The head of security stared at him with a knowing gaze. “You’ve figured out a plan.”

“Certamente.”

“Willing to share?”

Marcus gave him a wry grimace before sitting down once more. “Don’t I always share my plans with you?”

“Since I am usually a part of the plan, it’s smart of you to do so.”

“In this case, I don’t believe I’ll need your help.” Flipping open the lone file on his desk, he once again examined the report about his target. It never hurt to be thorough, although he’d committed all of the data to memory. “The information we’ve collected about Ms. Moran shows she’s got not a quid to her name.”

“That is a fact.”

“This would explain why she attached herself to Matt when they both were attending art school several years ago.”

“Your cynicism is showing. Maybe they became friends because they liked each other.”

“My cynicism is hard won and holds me in good stead.” He scanned the documents one more time. “She’s been playing her cards carefully, building rapport. However, the upcoming marriage has pushed her to act.”

“Snag Matteo while she can.”

“Correct.”

“And now we come to your plan.”

“My plan is to offer Ms. Moran a bigger prize.”

The blond man eyed him, then laughed. “You.”

“I plan to sweep her off her feet.”

“Which you have quite a lot of experience doing with women.” 

“True.” His smile faded. “Once Matt is safely married and our business deal is done with the Casartellis, Ms. Moran will be given a nice piece of jewelry and told to take a hike.”

Blake walked to the window and looked down. “There is a chance she’ll refuse.”

“Not likely. But if she’s stubborn enough to say no, I’ll use the other key bit of information you found out about her.”

The man stilled. “Her father.”

“Si.”

“You are one ruthless bastard.” Blake said the words as he shook his head, yet the undertone of respect told Marcus what he needed to know. The head of his security thought his plan was solid.

“Do I detect judgment in your tone?” 

His friend waved the question away. They’d gone through too many tense situations not to know what the other really thought.

He leaned back in his chair and contemplated what he had to do in the next few weeks. His voice hardened with resolve. “I do what I have to do to protect my family and my business.”

“There is a chance she’s actually in love with him.”

His sardonic chuckle filled the office. “Please.”

Blake surveyed him with amusement. “At some point this cynicism of yours is going to trip you up.”

“I doubt it.” 

The desk phone buzzed. “Mr. La Rocca?”

“Yes, Angie.”

“There’s a woman here to see you.” His PA’s voice held annoyance. “She’s not on your schedule, sir. Yet, she’s very insistent.”

Marcus threw a  mocking grin at the other man. “I love insistent women.”

“Sir?” Angie’s voice blurred into confusion.

“Show her in.”

“Yes, sir.” The phone went dead.

“Want me to stay?” Blake gave him an ironic smile.

“I don’t believe I need your supervision to seduce a woman.”

The head of his security snorted. “Then I’m out of here. I wish you luck.”

“I don’t need luck. I merely need to follow through with my plan.”

Shaking his head again, the blond man slid through the private side door leading into the conference room. At the same time, the main office door opened with a crash. 

To his PA looking irritated and flustered. Which was unusual.

And behind her stood…

A fairy sprite.

A dainty ninfa.

A sublime elfin creature.

She would barely reach his shoulder. Even in high heels. Certainly not in the clunky, plodding shoes she had on. The dress she wore did nothing for her—brown, ugly. Yet, it could not hide the body beneath. All lithe and elegant. Fine boned, but still with a delicious womanly curve to the hip and bust. The photos his mother brought him had not done her justice. Did not show the reality of her true beauty.

Every inch of his skin tightened and a particular part of his anatomy hardened. A flashing thought crossed his mind: He was glad he was sitting.

“Sir.” Angie regained some of her moxie and stepped forward. “This is—”

“Darcy Moran.” The delicate ninfa stomped into his office, her dark, feathered brows furrowed in a deep frown. “I have something to say to you.”

Struggling to regain his control, Marcus eyed his prey. “I can see that.”

“Mr. La Rocca—”

“You may go, Angie.” His gaze never left the tiny woman who’d stopped stomping and now stood inside the room in rigid anger.

The door shut with a soft thump.

Her face was a lovely oval, her chin slightly pointed. Her black hair was cut short and curled around her petite ears. Her mouth was pure perfection. Plump, pink, and lush. Her eyes flashed with fire. He couldn’t quite pick out the color across the length of the room, but they were light. Filled with the light of battle at the moment.

Remarkable. The air between them sizzled. He would not have been surprised if electric shocks sprang from both of their bodies.

Dio. He could almost forgive Matteo for moving this piece of art into his flat.

The woman crossed her arms in front of her. “You have a lot to answer for.”

“I usually do.” His tongue felt thick. His mouth dry.

“You can’t force Matt to marry this Viola woman.”

“Mmm.” He clamped down on his libido and focused on the task at hand. The task at hand that had become remarkably more desirable in the last few minutes. This was no longer a chore; it would be a pleasure to take this woman to bed. In fact, having sex with her was now his primary aim. How lucky for him this coincided with his ultimate goal of detaching her from his brother.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Matteo has been whining? In his usual way?”

“He isn’t whining. He’s upset.” Her graceful hands lifted and sliced the air with curt, angry movements. “He’s in despair. Because of you.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He watched, fascinated as her whole body vibrated with energy.

“No, you’re not. Or you’d do something about the situation.” She began to pace. “Whatever I have to do, I’ll stop you from doing this to him.”

The passion in her voice when she talked about his brother sliced fury right through his lust. The sudden picture of Matteo and this ninfa in bed together pulsed through his brain, sending him into a full-throttled rage. Which astonished him. He rarely lost his formidable temper. Yet, it was definitely temper knotting in his throat. He couldn’t help the biting words spitting from his mouth. “You are close to Matt.”

Her eyes widened at the tone of his voice. “Definitely.”

“My brother is a lucky man.”

Something, a spark of shrewdness or cunning, flashed across her face. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He is lucky to have me.”

“So you have come to plead for your love.”

Her body tensed. A pause of breathless silence passed between them. Then she finally nodded. “That’s right. That’s exactly right.”

The knot in his throat grew, still he couldn’t help tightening it further. “You love Matteo.”

“Yes.” She walked to the edge of his desk, staring at him across the shiny surface. “And for the sake of this love, I’m asking you to call off the marriage.”

Her eyes were blue. The deep, vibrant blue of a Tuscany night sky. They were filled with emotion. Love. Something he long ago stopped believing in.

“No.” He stared right into her eyes. “Never.”

“Please,” she whispered. “This would make me very happy.”

“I will make you happy.” He stood with an abrupt jerk. “But in an entirely different way.”

 

The anger surprised her.

This rush of pure rage. Of bitterness she thought she’d erased long ago.

She’d practiced this meeting for years. Rehearsed how she’d act, what she’d say. But it all fell out of her head and heart. Slipped away from her mouth and tongue.

His hand held hers in a light, formal grip. Yet, his heat overwhelmed her senses, pulsing down her arm into the core of her—the old, cold pain. Everything around her faded: the warm night air behind her, the noise of the party behind him. A haze of unreality blurred everything around her.

Except for his heat.

“Ah,” he finally said. “Little Lara Derrick. All grown up.”

She looked at him, looked into hooded eyes set in a face of stark angles and planes. For a moment, she saw only a stranger. This was a man’s face—a ruthless man, tough and implacable. Exactly as she remembered from the last time they stood together.  

Nothing like the boy she once thought of as her best friend.

His eyes narrowed. Something sparked between them. The old bond, the feeling she’d carried through her childhood…of belonging…of being loved…

No. Wait.

Her wits stirred to life and with them the hard-won truths she’d learned over the past years. There had never really been anything. All her fantasy, all silly girlhood imaginings. Not reality. He’d made that brutally clear with his actions against her. 

In a rush, the fury surged once more. Surprised again at its power, she sucked in a deep breath and stiffened her spine. A nod at the man in front of her was the only thing she could manage. If she started to talk, she might yell. If she moved another muscle, she might hit. If she looked at him again, he might see what was in her eyes.

And then, he would know what he’d done to her.  

“Nothing to say?” His hand still held hers and it surprised her that his touch was soft. “If I remember correctly that is unusual for you.”

The slight teasing in his tone made her itch to strike out. She jerked her hand from his, and a wave of relief welled inside when her father stepped up from behind, providing needed distraction, stopping her from doing anything stupid. But for a long moment, she still felt the coolness of the man’s dark gaze, felt the heat of his body.

The haze threatened to blur her surroundings once more.

In a flash, it was gone with her father’s booming hello, the lighter tones of her brother’s laughing joke. The man’s deep, smooth voice, greeting them and welcoming them into his home without a trace of warmth, cleared the haze inside her like a good gale of icy English wind.

Thank God.

Lara walked past him into the cool marble foyer. Laughter and chatter drifted out of the large drawing room on the right and she moved quickly, losing herself in the crowd of neighbors and friends celebrating the upcoming nuptials of his youngest sister. Exchanging a wave of greeting with a cluster of friends across the room, she ignored his sister’s invitation to join them. Instead, she swiped a glass of champagne from a waiter, leaned on the wall and sipped.

Her fingers shook as they clutched the crystal.

A fresh spurt of anger, at herself this time, swelled. He meant nothing to her.  He’d meant nothing to her for a long time. She’d made sure of that. 

So why? 

Why was her stomach churning, why were her hands damp, her eyes blurry with tears? This reaction gave him too much credit. Too much power. Something she would not tolerate. 

She needed some air.

With a stiff gait she walked through the crowd, past the laughter and talking, and eventually out onto the terrace. Closing the door behind her, she let the Italian night surround and soothe. The gentle lap of the Mediterranean Sea, meters away, slid through and around her. Calming, comforting.

It was over. She’d met him again and survived the experience.

“He doesn’t matter to you,” she whispered to herself.

So he’d changed the course of her life and certainly not for the better. Yet, she’d managed to come through her experiences stronger and smarter.

The beat of her heart throbbed in her chest.

She was a foolish kid then, bent on destroying any link to him. Systematically, she cut herself off from her childhood, isolated herself in a new life. Done exactly what he’d wanted her to do…disappear.

How stupid she’d been.

Because this place, these people, were part of her and always would be. Not him. Never him. Everything else, though, she wanted back. Her life in Italy, her family, the friendships she held with his sisters.  

She also had a goal now, something not tied to a man or his wishes and desires. Her school would be the declaration of her power as a survivor. For the foreseeable future, it would be her life. 

Precisely as she wanted it to be.

Lara turned and looked through the pane glass of the terrace doors. The colors of the women’s dresses blended into a kaleidoscope of silk and satin and status. The men’s dark suits, white dress shirts, black tuxedoes, offered contrast. The flash of diamonds, the sparkling light of the chandeliers, the glint of class and glamour, all combined into a picture of pure luxury.

Her bittersweet memories blurred her gaze for a moment.

She’d played dolls in this elegant room, with the rain splashing on the terrace doors. She and his sisters had used the chic settees as castles, the antique tapestries lining the walls as backdrops, the marble statues as pawns in their play. The room was merely their playground, nothing to be impressed with. 

Not aristocratic or haughty or intimidating.

Like he’d shown himself to be. 

Then, and now.  

He moved through the room as if he owned it all, which he did, and owned everyone who scattered before him. He never smiled; instead he nodded with cool arrogance. Lara watched as grown men almost genuflected before him. He accepted it as if it were his due. 

What pride. 

What an ego. 

Nothing like years ago when he was a lanky teenager who grinned and laughed. A boy who hadn’t hidden everything he was thinking behind a cold mask.  

Who hadn’t been capable of betraying those who loved him.

Except that had been a lie too—her memory of him as someone other than an imperious aristocrat. Another of his lies. Or maybe she’d been lying to herself.

Not anymore. Never again. 

She was no longer a dreamer. She was a realist.

Lara took a deep sip of champagne and swiveled away to stare at the rolling lawn darkened with night shadows. She would get through this week, suffer his presence at his sister’s wedding, and then odds were, she’d rarely see him. After all, since she arrived back in Italy, she hadn’t seen him once until tonight. He’d been wheeling and dealing in Dubai or someplace exotic. Inevitably, he’d leave for another important business deal somewhere else in the world. Leaving her free to make a new life where she belonged.

The click of the door opening made only a slight sound, but it shot through her. The air immediately hummed with life, catching her off guard. It was him. She knew it. The realization shook her—she still felt this old instinctive bond.

It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t happen.

“So,” he said from behind her. “You are back.”

A flutter of panic slid across her skin at the thought of being alone with him. She considered running down the steps, into his park, away from this. But she’d learned to confront now, learned to stand instead of run. 

She turned around to face him.  

The golden light spilling from the terrace doors slid across his shoulders, highlighting their broad length. Gilding his black hair, the glow brushed along the tough edge of his jaw. The rest of his face was hidden in shadows.

“Yes.” She looked at the shadowed garden once more. She would ignore him. Ignoring wasn’t running. And honestly, she had nothing to say to him, not anymore. He’d made clear he felt nothing except contempt for her. 

Why was he here, though? Why had he followed her out here when he could so easily be surrounded by the adoring crowd inside? What could he possibly say to her that hadn’t already been said?

She breathed in the warm air, redolent with honeysuckle and the tang of salt. Pulling her wayward emotions together, she reminded herself of what she’d practiced over and over. The words she’d say, the actions she’d take when she at last saw him. 

Distance. Disdain. Dismissal. 

He moved to stand beside her. A faint whiff of his cologne drifted to her, the clean bite of citrus mixed with a deeper cut of spice. Beneath it lurked the smell of him, musk and man. Unique to him. His impact on her defied her determination to pay no attention to him. She hadn’t planned for this awareness of him, this draw, hadn’t realized how hard this would be.

“Back for good?” he murmured.

“I’ve been here for more than three months. This isn’t a holiday.” 

She needed some space. She wasn’t running away, she only needed to find her composure. Setting the empty champagne glass on the terrace ledge, she moved past him, stepping down the marble steps onto the gravel of the garden path. 

Cravenly, she hoped and prayed he would stay behind. 

He didn’t. 

The crunch of his shoes on the gravel told her he was following.

Walking with a measured pace, she tried to impose a tight ball of discipline on herself. Except her brain buzzed with scattered thoughts and her emotions bubbled in her heart with a frantic beat. Stopping at the fountain, she dipped her hand in, hoping it would cool her down. 

“Your father is happy you are back.”

He wanted to make small talk. Chat. Overlook all the harsh words lying between them. Bitter antagonism flashed through her, pulsing. 

“I know,” she managed through gritted teeth.

“He missed you during these years.”

Her head came up. “Do I detect criticism in your tone?”

“I merely made an observation.”

“Keep your observations to yourself.” The snap of her words spat into the night. 

“Ah.” The burn of his dark stare singed her face. Watching her. Analyzing. Stupidly, she’d let him see into her, note her resentment.

Yet, only for a moment, and she could easily correct the impression.

“I didn’t mean to be so sharp.” She forced herself to give him a smile.

The moonlight slanted over his face, emphasizing the strong jut of his nose and the stark line of his jaw. He was not a pretty man. He hadn’t been a pretty child either. At the time, she hadn’t cared. What were mere looks to a child’s pure heart? Still, that fateful night many years ago, she’d seen something cruel and brutal, and the impact never left her. His manner tonight reinforced what she’d realized in that last confrontation between them. 

He was cold to the core.

What did it really matter? He was not a part of her new life and never would be. He’d made that decision for both of them and she heartily agreed with it. Now. “I’m a bit tired. It meant nothing.”

“Nothing? I would say it’s at least interesting.” He put his hands in his pockets and her gaze tracked the movement, noting how the linen of his pants stretched across narrow hips and strong thighs.

“Not interesting at all.” She moved around the fountain.

He followed. “I detected a bit of irritation in your voice.”

“Not true—”

“Maybe even a touch of dislike.”

Lara managed a laugh. “I don’t know you. How could I dislike you?”

“We grew up together.”

“That was a long time ago.” Memories flooded her heart in a poignant wash. “I’ve been gone for twelve years.”

“True.” He stopped, inches from her side. “This is why I find it interesting you are irritated. I would say even angry. At me.”

His distinctive smell reached her for a second time, spice mixed with man. 

He was too near, too close. 

Legs trembling, she sat on the fountain ledge. This couldn’t be.  She couldn’t let this man, of all men, cause a physical reaction in her. As the years passed, she became accustomed to being immune to men. Immune from desire or need or want. 

Her dead husband made sure of that, hadn’t he?

Brushing the thought aside, she stared at her clenched hands. Why was this old attraction for this stranger from her past still alive? This was awful, horrible. Not only did it worry her, yes, it made her angry. “I’m not angry. With you or anyone.”

The night shadows played around them. The trees whispered above, the fountain sparkled and spat, a roosting pigeon warbled. Why didn’t he go away? The man appeared completely content to let the silence continue. He stood, a tall silhouette upon the night sky, his arms now crossed on his chest.

“Carlotta appears happy.” Maybe mindless chatter was her best defense against everything he stirred inside.

“My sister will be happy with Sandro. She listened to my advice about marrying him.”

“What?” she bristled. “You chose your sister’s husband? And she agreed?”

A dark brow arched. “That’s not quite what I said.”

“But close.”

“I knew Sandro through business. I liked what I saw and checked him out—”

“You had him investigated?” Disbelief filled her voice.

“Sì.”  He gave her a calm look. “We are talking about my sister’s happiness.”

“And once he checked out, you put them together.”

“I introduced them. That is all.”

“Let me guess.” Lara heard the hostility in her words, yet couldn’t help it as they splattered from her mouth. “You chose every one of your sisters’ husbands.”

“I met them through business, true, but—”

“Let me guess one more time.” Antagonism burned in her throat. “They are all very successful in business or have family wealth.”

“Naturalmente.” He slid his hands into his pockets once more.

“Is that one of your rules?” she shot back. “You would only allow your sisters to marry successful and rich men? Only allow them to marry the right sort of man?”

“Right sort of man?” His words came out slowly as if he couldn’t understand them. “Rules?”

“Or perhaps I should say commandments.”

“I do not follow—”

“God forbid if one of them fell in love with a simple teacher.” The harshness of her accusation cut through the soft night air. “With no aristocratic heritage of a thousand years.”

“As you did?” His tone iced with sudden derision.

“It wasn’t your business then, and it isn’t now.” 

The old familiar rage filled her; yet she managed to push away the memory of his scathing words before she reached up and hit him. The message he’d left for her to find when she got back from the honeymoon had never been forgotten, and it still made her blood roar. 

She’d been so close to admitting her mistake.

But that one message changed her mind. 

Which led to—

Not anything she needed to think about at the moment. 

“We aren’t talking about my decisions, though, are we?” She managed a calm tone. “We’re talking about your sisters.”

“My duty is to make sure my sisters are well taken care of.” His hands fisted in his pockets. “It is important they marry men of honor and integrity who can provide for them.”

“Honor and integrity only reside in men with money?” 

“That is not what—”

“Your sisters aren’t capable of providing for themselves?”

“They will be busy with the children.” He looked at her as if he were talking to an imbecile.

The sudden ache in her heart at the word children competed with the fury his words caused. She’d yearned for years, knowing there was no hope for babies. She clamped down on the old pain and instead focused on the clear condescension in his voice. 

No one, certainly not this man, would ever again be allowed to talk to her like she was stupid. 

Her emotions spilled over into her mouth and she lost control of her tongue completely. “In your world everyone is placed in the box you’ve created for them and you expect them to do as you say.”

He stilled. “You appear to have made many conclusions about me. In such a short time, and especially since, as you say, we no longer know each other.”

“Conclusions are easy when they stare you right in the face.”

“And your conclusion about me…is?”

“You’ve turned into an arrogant ass.”

The cool air seemed to heat between them. She felt him, felt his coolness turn to fire. The words had spat from her before she could stop them. A nearly uncontrollable compulsion ran through her to take a stick and poke him until he turned into a human. Into the boy she remembered. Which was crazy. That boy had been a figment of her imagination. 

She could poke for a lifetime and find only ice.

“A fascinating conclusion.” His voice held no emotion, only a dry edge. “How quickly you have sized me up.”

She was stupid to bait this man. If she kept going at him, it might appear she still cared. Better to offer another olive branch and make a wise retreat before she let any more of her inner turmoil spill out for his inspection. “That was uncalled for.” 

“Yet, it is good to know where I stand.”

A grim silence settled between them.

She made a move to rise, to escape, but he had moved too close. For some reason, she couldn’t take the chance of actually touching him. Not even a whisper of a touch.

She wiggled back onto the hard stone. 

The silence continued. The man made no attempt to cut into it with light chatter or pleasant commentary. 

In desperation, she struggled to find a neutral subject. “I can’t believe all five of your sisters are married, or almost. It seems like only a few years ago we were just kids.”

“You married too.” His voice matched his body language—cool and composed. “Even after my advice against it.”

“Was that advice?” Every thought of keeping things neutral fled. “I took it as a threat.”

“Either way, you ignored it.”  

His reaction astounded her. Although he was putting on a good front, his words were filled with fury. His tone was crisp, but she heard it, the burn beneath the words. All these years and he was still angry she hadn’t immediately fallen in line with his instructions. He had the gall to be mad after a decade of silence between them because she hadn’t run home to Italy when he demanded it. “Unlike the rest of your world, I don’t have to follow your commands.”

“You’ve developed a sharp tongue.”

“Which isn’t to your liking, is it?”

“Sarcasm. Delightful.”

His rejoinder ripped at the last remnant of her determination to stay distant. “Clearly, we don’t like each other.”

“Another conclusion. You make them so quickly, I am impressed.”

“You do sarcasm well yourself,” she countered. 

His black stare pinned her to the stone seat. “Tell me about your husband.” 

His change of subject shook her. Gerry was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Especially with him. “What is this? Why should you care?”

“I care.” The two words slipped from his mouth, dark and almost desperate.

A shiver of something, something astonishing or horrifying slid down her spine.

He stepped back. Cleared his throat. “I am merely trying to have a conversation.”

His voice had returned to calm, cool. Not an iota of anything that spelled out emotion or feeling or caring. Her shiver stopped, turning into a block of ice at the bottom of her gut. Obviously, she’d read his tone all wrong. This man’s idea of caring for people was ordering them around. She, better than anyone, knew that.

However, he had given her one thing she wanted. He’d given her enough space to leave without touching him in any way.

“I’m not interested in conversation with you.” With an abrupt jerk, she came to her feet.

“There it is. Once more.” His stare was sharp and assessing. “The anger. At me.”

She couldn’t take any more. She would admit this only to herself. He was too much for her. Bloody hell, she didn’t have to take anything from this man. Ever again. “I’m going to return to the party.”

“Un momento.” His hand encircled her elbow and brought her to a halt right beside him. 

Staring down at the broad male hand, a shot of pure heat zipped through her bloodstream, making her mouth turn dry. “Let me go.”

“Not until I experience something I have been contemplating for quite some time.”

Resentment surged at his high-handedness. The emotion gave her enough courage to meet his calculating gaze. “I’m not interested in experiencing anything with you.”

“I am afraid we will have to disagree then.” With a twist, she found herself in his embrace.  

His overwhelming presence hit her with stark clarity. The warmth of his body enwrapped her. The strength of his arms stilled her involuntary struggle. “Are you crazy?”

“I might well be,” he said.

And his mouth came down on hers.

This kiss was nothing like before. Nothing like her fevered memories. Before, she'd searched despairingly for a reaction from him, for some slight response that would tell her he felt what she felt. But there’d been nothing.

Now? Now was completely different.   

His kiss didn’t match what she knew him to be. Instead of controlled and cool and in command, it was passionate and hot and—desperate. 

The kiss splintered every one of her perceptions of him. 

His arms tightened around her. A thick wall of heated muscle and searing passion burned along her body. One hand grasped her hip, dispensing with any finesse or kindness. No, this was a total taking, her hips pressed so closely to him the imprint of his belt buckle pinched the softness of her belly. And below—

She wrenched herself from him to take a gasping breath. “I want you to—”

His lips moved back over hers, taking advantage of her words to slip his tongue deep into her mouth. He tasted of the intoxicating champagne served at the party and something unique to him—some spice of wildness mixed with pent-up frustration. Beyond this, a calling, not to her brain, but to her blood. 

The kiss, the call, her response was too overwhelming to take in. 

She let him sip and taste until her mind went misty and she sagged in his arms. She’d lived with this dream for so long, aching in her memory. This kiss, his kiss, pulled all the old strings of her heart she’d been sure she cut long ago. So she did something very stupid.

She took one willing sip, one tiny nip of his mouth.

His big body stiffened in reaction. He raised his head to stare at her. The black of his eyes blazed with a blinding light of...victory.

Victory.

She gulped. Gulped in a deep, deep breath of complete horror. With it came some sense, some realization of how foolish she was being. “Wait.”

He ignored her, dipping his head to reach for her mouth once more.

Which was exactly what she needed. Animosity immediately vibrated inside. Never being listened to, never being respected. Merely a chattel, an object to be won and used. 

She pushed hard against his chest with both hands, trying to disregard the lure of the heat spilling from him. “Stop.”

The inflection of her one word must have alerted him. He lifted his head, a grimace on his face. Clearly, victory had turned into his defeat. “Lara.”

“No more.” Pushing out of his arms, she took a step away. 

His hands fisted by his sides as if he were ready to grab her.  

She took another step away.  

The edge of his mouth quirked. “Do not worry, bella. I have control over myself. I will not pounce. For now.”

The old nickname twisted inside her. “Don’t call me bella. And don’t pounce.”

“Something you must remember about me—”

“I don’t want to remember anything—”

“I do not follow directions well if I don’t agree with them.” The quirk appeared once more on his mouth. “Actually, I don’t follow them at all.”

“Listen to me, Dante Casartelli.” She glared at him from several safe feet back. “I want nothing to do with you. I’m not interested in you. Leave me alone.”

Meeting her glare with a bland look, he stood silent.

“Did you hear me?”

“Sì,” he murmured. “I heard you.”

“Good.”  She turned and walked away without looking back.

Drunk. Quite, quite drunk.

Not ever having had the experience before, Lise Helton couldn't be absolutely sure, but she'd sat down on this barstool with the intention of getting drunk and she always achieved her goals. 

She looked down at the remnants of her third…or was it her fourth?…drink. A screaming something. A screaming…she tried to focus on the last part of the drink’s name except the fuzzy, floating edge of her brain now seemed to have fuzzily floated everywhere, clouding everything. A screaming…

“Well, well, well.” The deep, accented voice slid straight through her fuzzy, floating brain. “What do we have here?”

A shot of iced horror straightened her spine and cut through the fog in her brain. Her blurry gaze swept over the dark oak paneling of the fashionable London pub, over the small crowd of laughing, talking customers, over the bartender who eyed her with annoyance. Looking anywhere other than at him.

No, it couldn't be. Not him. Not here. Her luck could not possibly be this awful.

“I am all astonishment.” A wicked lick of tease lined his tone. As usual. “Who would have thought the cool, collected Ms. Helton had a secret life?”

Her brain refused to clear. Closing her eyes, she tried to pull back out of the haze.

“As a—drunk?” The question whispered in the words, barely there. A tool to poke her, push her. Prick at her pride.

“No,” she muttered under her breath. 

“Sì.” His voice lowered, the accent rich. “As you know, I call them as I see them.”

If she kept her eyes closed, perhaps he’d disappear. He was a figment of her drunken imagination. Every morning she awoke and banished him from her dreams. She’d do it again now.

“Trying to ignore me?” he said. “Ignoring your boss is never a good idea, Princesse.”

“Don't call me that.” 

He’d only called her princesse once before, in a meeting. He’d muttered the word under his breath, still she caught it. 

And caught his meaning. 

The word had been a slur, a put-down. The lilt of his accent hadn’t hid the bite of contempt underneath.

He chuckled and sat down. She sensed his bulk, the solidness, smelled the whiff of his disturbing cologne right beside her. ”I suppose you wish me to call you the usual Ms. Helton.”

“I wish…” Her thoughts and emotions tangled around her words. What did she wish for anymore? A sharp grief, effectively doused by alcohol mere moments ago, rose once more to clutch at her throat. 

“Sì? What would a woman like you wish for, I wonder?” 

“Nothing.” Every one of her dreams of happily-ever-after was gone. “Absolutely nothing.”

He stilled. 

Why had she said those words? Why had she given him an insight into her pain? The last thing she wanted to do was give anything away to this man, of all men. 

Too late. 

Lise squeezed her eyes shut until they hurt. She’d done something very stupid. She’d opened her mouth and given him another weapon to use in their ongoing war. Until he left, she needed to open her mouth and put something in it, and not let anything else out. She opened her eyes, took her drink in a shaky hand, and drank every last drop.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

She needed another drink. 

“I cannot reconcile the woman I see before me with the cool creature who is my oh-so-professional CFO.”

“Bugger off.” She managed to form the words and push them from her numb mouth.

“I believe this is a public pub.” He waved at the bartender. Ordering a bottled beer, he glanced over. “I hesitate to order you another. I think you've had enough.”

“No.” She pushed her empty glass forward. “Another.”

The bartender grimaced. “Are you sure—”

“Another.”

Her nemesis cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time to stop. After all, you wouldn’t want to ruin your ladylike reputation.”

The ever-present mockery laced his words. Again, misery slammed around inside her. A lady. A Princesse. A woman without a heart. Could it be true? Could this man be right about her? Even more importantly, could Robert be right about her? 

What had he called her mere hours ago? 

The memory came back like a kick in the gut. 

Ice Queen. 

Not a woman. Not someone who needed love. No, someone to put on a pedestal like a stone statue. Or in Robert’s case, dismiss as someone as cold as marble. 

A nauseous wave of hurt swept through her. 

Now, to top it off, as if she hadn’t suffered enough today, the Italian jerk beside her insinuated the same thing. A lady with a reputation, not a heart. A Princesse who couldn’t be hurt by nasty nicknames or spiteful scorn. An Ice Queen, completely frozen inside. 

All of this must be true because the man she’d loved for months and who knew her better than anyone had told it to her straight. 

She could easily dismiss her boss’s insult. 

She couldn’t do the same to Robert’s. 

However, it still didn’t mean she had to take anything from this man next to her. The bitter taste in her mouth bubbled into her throat. “Bite me.” 

A choked laugh escaped him. “This is an amazing transformation.”

“Get me a drink.” She managed to glare at the bartender, if not him.

With a sigh, the man beside her nodded his agreement. “I will take care of her.”

If she did stand on a pedestal, then she’d take the experience and make it work in her favor. She’d build the pedestal so high, it would be impossible for any man to touch her. Touch her in any way. Take care of her in any way. “I don't need to be taken care of.”

“Aha! The formidable woman I know makes an appearance.”

Lise stared at her left hand, clutched on the wooden roll of the bar. Her focus zoomed in and out, in and out, making her hand appear large and then small. Large and small. Large and small. 

And ringless. 

She sucked in a breath. A dizzy spray of grief mixed with pure rage shifted her center of gravity. Dimly, she noticed she wasn’t centered on her stool—she…she…

“Hold on.” The Italian jerk’s warm hand grasped her elbow and righted her. The heat of him cut through the linen of her suit, making her even dizzier. 

“Uh.” She closed her eyes again, trying to bring her concentration back into focus.

“You are finished, Princesse.” 

She really needed another drink.

“No, you do not,” he said. 

Had she said something? A male body suddenly pressed hot along her side and her feet came out from under her. Her eyes flew open to meet his. 

Tawny tiger eyes. Twinkling with wicked, delighted triumph.

“What are you doing?” She tried to struggle, tried to make the words crisp and clear.

“I am rescuing you.” His arms tightened around her, quelling her feeble rebellion. “An astonishing development.”

Her head flopped back on his arm. “Wait—”

He lifted her, swung her—

“No.” A surge of nausea ran up her throat and she barely swallowed it back. Her head spun, her eyes closed, and she gave up the fight. A dark fog filtered into the dizzy alcoholic fizz in her brain and everything went completely black.

* * *

She was as beautiful in disarray as she was in her usual cool perfection.

Vicenzo Mattare stared down at her. Blond hair mussed around her head, strands catching at her mouth, curls shadowing her eyes. Her arms were outstretched on his bed, opening her jacket to show an un-tucked white shirt, giving him a glimpse of creamy skin along the waistline. The grey color of her wool suit contrasted with his black sheets, highlighting every line of her body and the abandonment of her pose. 

It was a shock to see her this way. He'd imagined, obsessed. Yet, it was invariably the calm, composed woman who walked through his brain. Not this abandoned creature. Except it didn't seem to matter either way. His body reacted as it always reacted to her. 

With lust.

He swung around to his full-length closet and bit out a short, sharp curse. Sliding off his tie, he concentrated on what he needed to do next. And what he needed to do next had nothing to do with standing over her, panting with lust. He had to put her in her place once and for all. Like a ripe plum, she’d dropped into his hands this evening and he aimed to take advantage of the situation. Going out for an after-work beer had turned into a lucky coincidence. 

He’d been mildly astonished to find her seated in his favorite pub. 

Completely amazed when he quickly understood she was drunk. 

Totally astounded when she passed out in his arms. 

And when the perfect Lise Helton spilled most of the alcohol she’d consumed onto the curb before he stuffed her into his limo and made her drink some water, he laughed. Never in his wildest imagination had he dreamed of the Princesse being brought so low. 

Brought so low as to be almost human. 

Laughter disappeared, though, when she cuddled into him and promptly fallen back into her sleepy stupor. The dark, wicked part of his body leapt to life, as always, against his will. 

The impact she had on him, even in a drunken state, was unforgivable.

With that realization stinging his pride, his dark, wild scheme for tonight had slithered into his thoughts. 

The scheme would not work if he let his lust master his brain. Wicked and wild he might be; nevertheless the importance lay in remembering this whole inspired setup was designed to show her who was really in control. Out-of-control was out of the question for him. He needed to stuff her back into the compartment of his mind where he'd placed her at the moment he met her. 

Out-of-bounds. Off-limits.

The day he’d met Lise Helton still echoed in his mind and in his body.

“Mr. Mattare.” The receptionist had jumped from her chair like a jumping jack as soon as she spotted him and his entourage walking through the plate-glass doors. “Welcome to HSF Financial.”

He hadn’t been surprised that she recognized him. The news of the takeover of one of the biggest English financial firms by an upstart Italian billionaire had spilled over all the front pages of Europe’s tabloids and newspapers. “If you could direct me to the conference room, I believe management is waiting for me.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

His solicitor murmured various suggestions in his ear as the elevator rose to the top floor. His suggestions were not necessary. Vico knew exactly what he needed to do as a first step.

Clean house.

The firm was top-heavy and filled with a variety of people he’d call con artists using nepotism or cronyism to game their way into the money. Well, now HSF was his and the money was his. His duty was to fire them all.

Lise Helton was at the top of the list. 

No twenty-nine-year-old woman held the CFO position in this kind of company on the strength of her resume or talent alone. Considering the fact her father had been the “H” in the firm’s name, Vico was sure her position derived entirely from this connection. 

The conference room’s double oak doors opened in front of him and the whispers coming from the crowd inside went silent. 

“Mr. Mattare.” James Forrester, the last of the founders of HSF who was still alive, stepped forward. “Welcome. This is my…the management of HSF.”

His bland brown eyes and sloping shoulders told a tale Vico had heard throughout the past four months of negotiations with this man. A tale of tired refrains and dusty excuses. Forrester was glad to let go of the reins and Vico was glad that this was the last he’d see of the man. 

“Grazie.” He stepped forward, right to the front of the room, right to the head of the long oak table where a dozen of his new employees sat slouched in lazy abandonment. 

He gave them all a pointed look.

They rose at once in a halting, jerky pattern, their pasty faces going white, their blank eyes suddenly wide and filled with fear.

Buona. Molto bene.

His gaze moved over each one, taking stock and making judgments. Not until he got to the end of the table did he spot her. Lise Helton. This had to be her because no one else appeared to be younger than forty years old. 

She hadn’t risen. Of all of them, she should be the most obsequious and deferential since she carried not much more experience than a college graduate. Yet, she hadn’t risen.

She’d arched a brow when he frowned at her and kept her seat.

Then, all at once, he’d really taken her in. 

Her stark beauty stunned him. The clean line of her jaw, the blond glow of her hair, the ice blue of her eyes. One look at her and he’d wanted to yank her into his arms. Ruffle her composure. Put fire into those ice eyes. 

Make her wild for him.

The memory of those instinctive reactions made him burn with disgust even now, even two months later.

“Dio.” He stared blankly into his dark closet, remembering. Remembering the stillness of the moment. The realization of his vulnerability to the woman. 

His reaction had been unacceptable and contemptible. No woman would be allowed to have such a hold on him. He'd thrust his lust and shock away, replacing it with cold determination. She wouldn’t last a day, much less the month he’d been willing to give her. However, his decision ran into a formidable wall of opposition surrounding her with protection. 

Today was the day he’d finally breached that wall.

Ironic. Ms. Helton would have many surprises waiting for her tomorrow.

An evil chuckle rumbled from his throat.

Shrugging out of his suit coat, he hung it carefully in the closet. His silk shirt came next, and then, his linen pants. Not even now, after many years of wealth, did he take anything for granted. His possessions reminded him of how much he'd achieved. All of them told him daily how far he’d come from his childhood, roaming the dirty slums of Naples.

Vico padded into the sumptuous bathroom he’d designed himself and turned on the shower. The warm sandstone tile contrasted nicely with the black-and-gold fixtures. Steam instantly billowed, filling the large room, enveloping the sunken tub and long length of mirrors in a fine mist. 

This had been a long day of tough negotiations with the other main stockholders of HSF. Still, he’d convinced the majority of them to fall in with his ideas. Lise Helton might hold her father’s stock, but she didn’t have enough to stop his plans. The company would go in a new direction, focusing on the core competencies of derivatives and futures contracts, moving away from the old standbys of stocks and bonds.

Ms. Helton would not be happy. 

Perhaps she would quit.

He stepped under the warm spray of water and let the heat soak into his skin, relaxing the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck. Sighing, he leaned his head back letting his long hair stream down his spine in a wet slide.

She wouldn’t quit.

Luck had consistently been his lady in business. In this case, though, with this particular haughty lady, luck had vanished. Lise Helton would not make his life easy by quitting in a huff and walking out of his life. No, he’d come to know her well. There’d be a battle royal with the Princesse as soon as she woke up from her drunken state.

Drunk. On an out-and-out bender.

He shook his head in disbelief, drops of water flying from his hair. Could she possibly have hidden a penchant for alcohol behind the prim and precise persona she presented to him every day at work? His gut told him no. But the mystery behind her behavior still intrigued him. Which provided him with one more reason to bring her here instead of let his security team drag her to her own flat. He wanted to see what she’d say when she awoke. 

Hell, admit it, Vico.

More than anything else, he wanted to look into those ice-blue, bloodshot eyes tomorrow morning and see them widen in horror at the realization he saw her at her worst and she’d slept the night by his side.

Snickering, he turned and slathered his chest and sides using the almond-scented soap he specially imported from Italy. It had been the first luxury he bought when he made his first real deal. Dirt and filth were a part of his childhood. His momma had tried, but the boy she loved was intent on living on the streets, intent on having his own way. 

Intent on falling into the ugly world of crime. 

And the inevitable shame which followed. 

Nevertheless, for fifteen years now, he’d paid any price in order to rise above his past, his sins. Forgiveness, relief of his guilt, could not be bought. But at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d obtained the money to pay penance.

He wrenched the shower off and stepped out, wrapping a warmed towel around his waist. Staring into the mirror, he debated only a moment. No, he would not shave his five-o’clock shadow. Not for the woman in his bed. Ms. Helton had made her opinion of him clear from the moment they met.    

Predator. Peasant. Playboy.

Being who he was, he played to her expectations. He whispered sinful putdowns. He grinned in the face of her contempt. He hid his tough demeanor and sharp mind behind the playboy she pegged him as. He'd been exactly what she expected these past two months. 

A coarse barbarian playing with his new toy. 

He knew what she anticipated. She waited for him to grow bored. However, she waited in vain. The woman had miscalculated. 

She’d underestimated him.

Vico leaned over the sink and brushed his teeth. Turning off the water, he wiped his face with a towel, grimacing at the tightness of his jaw. He’d been angry for months, though he successfully kept his resentment banked until he evaluated his enemy and decided how to handle her.

Within a week of his arrival, he understood Lise Helton held far more cards than he’d expected. 

She’d entrenched herself too well. The other stockholders, the employees, and every client spoke of her in a mixture of awe and affection. There’d been no way he could fire her without disrupting the entire flow of the company. He took control of HSF thinking he’d be in charge. Not until he looked into two frosty blue eyes had he realized where the real challenge lay in conquering this company. 

Conquering the Princesse was the real challenge.

The woman who currently lay on his bed, dead to the world, and in distracting disarray.

Vico chuckled again. The irony delivered a sweet addition to his earlier victory over her today.    

Ms. Helton was going to be one astonished lady tomorrow.   

Walking back into his bedroom, he stared down at her. She hadn't moved. His gaze devoured her: the angelic beauty of her face, the thrust of her breasts, the long, long length of elegant leg. If he were a gentleman, he would sleep on the sofa. 

He was not a gentleman.

Leaning down, he pulled her dainty feet out of somber grey pumps. Without conscious thought, he slid his hand across the arch of her foot. 

She murmured before falling silent once more.

Her suit jacket came next. Her body lay lax, compliant as he slipped off her shirt. 

He was a man. He looked.

The bra didn’t match her starchy, prim outerwear. Glossy pink, lacy. And sexy. The bra plumped her surprisingly lush breasts up and out. One tiny mole lay on one delectable mound, right by the fringe of the bra.

His mouth watered. 

His semi-naked body went hard in a split second.

Tamping down his urges, he forced himself to focus on her skirt, sliding it over her rounded hips. Past her smooth thighs. Off her body.

Her panties were pink. Hot pink and lacy, exactly like the bra. Another line of lace edged her clingy silk stockings. 

His body roared. 

Vico stepped back from the temptation, his hands shaking in need.

Yet, when she awoke, the woman would turn as cold as the North Sea. From the first moment, he'd been bemused by his lust for this chilly creature. He berated himself more than once as he stood in his shower, hot and hard and breathless. 

Thinking of her. 

Why did this sexless woman heat his blood to boiling? 

He stared at her, wondering if he was wrong. Wondering if her fiancé had gotten the golden ticket instead of the losing hand Vico assumed.

He took in a breath. A very deep breath. 

Gritting his teeth, he slung back the covers and pushed her under them, covering her and covering temptation. He wasn't a gentleman; still, he hadn't taken her clothes off to ogle. He'd taken them off to compound her dilemma when she awakened tomorrow morning. 

In his bed. Semi-naked. With him naked beside her. 

No, no. He was not a gentleman.

Clicking off the lights, he slid the towel off and slipped into bed. He put his hands behind his head and scowled at the ceiling.

What a fool. The wicked devil inside him hadn't taken into account his wicked body and the lust he'd unwillingly felt the last two months. For an icy Princesse. For the woman who put herself far above him with every look. For a sexless snob of a lady.

His cock twitched and suffered. 

But his stubborn pride dug in its heels. 

He'd endure this. The morning would finally come. 

Then it would be Lise Helton who would suffer.

Perfect pastry = a perfect business

Nothing on this earth could make her happier than that fact. Nothing at all. Certainly not that oh, so elusive thing as a perfect man for her.

No matter what her mother said.

“Mr. Perfect’s on the front page again.”

Sophie glanced away from dabbing black buttercream frosting on the witches. “Jorge. Why do you read that rag?”

“To keep you up-to-date on your friends.” His enormous body lounged in the one chair she allowed in the industrial-sized bakery. Made of hard plastic, the thing was uncomfortable, yet Jorge always managed to spend plenty of time sitting on it, waiting for the deliveries to be ready. With his stack of New York City tabloids at hand.

“Alexander Stravoudas is not my friend.” She leaned over the long steel table and returned her focus to what was important: her business. Not news about a guy who’d exited her life and Melanie’s a month ago.

“He was, once upon a time.”

“No, he wasn’t.” He’d been Mel’s fiancé for one brief moment, once upon a time, but Sophie, thankfully, had been able to talk some sense into her friend. Mel was now where she belonged—with Jack. And Mr. Suave-and-Debonair had moved on to…well, on to whatever. She didn’t care.

What she did care about was the long list of tasks she needed to complete this evening. She had to get these two hundred cookies done so Jorge could deliver them to the Halloween party on time. Then she needed to go into her dinky office and figure out how to execute on the bride’s request to add a picture of her cat to the wedding cake. Last, but not least, she must make sure the apricot-filled kolaches were cool enough to sprinkle powdered sugar over them so they’d be ready in time for tomorrow’s show. This was going to be a long night.

A shiver went through her. Everything was happening. Just like she’d prayed and dreamed.

Pure Pastry was becoming a raging success.

“He’s going to be raging when he reads this,” Jorge mumbled from behind the newspaper. 

Straightening, she sighed as she rubbed her lower back. “What now?”

“He’s lost another contract.” The newspaper crackled in the big man’s hands as he turned a page. “Add to that, supposedly Chi-Chi Vangra turned him down when he asked her out.”

“That’s too bad.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm winding through the comment. She didn’t like the man, hadn’t from the moment she met him. Maybe it had been the way he looked at Mel—as if she were some amusing toy—even after putting an eye-popping diamond on her finger. Or likely it was the over-the-top wealth and accompanied arrogance she found to be such a turnoff. Or perhaps it was her gut knowledge that the man would move on to a new woman within days of splitting with her best friend. 

And look. Her gut had been right. As always.

“You’re not very sympathetic.” Jorge stuck his bald head above the top of the paper and eyed her. “The poor guy’s endured a hard month.”

“I’m sure he’ll survive.” Her dry tone sugared each word.

“Ever since your best bud ended their engagement, it’s been one thing after the other.” The old man tapped the newspaper with one stubby finger. “Before, the guy could do no wrong.”

“I bet he did a lot of things wrong before Mel broke up with him.” She leaned back down to finish the last cookie. “The tabloids just didn’t cover it.”

“Well, they’ve changed their tune.” He eased himself off the chair, his large belly rolling impressively over tight jeans. “Now he can do no right.”

Sophie ignored the waving newspaper and the chatter. It was nothing to her. The news. The man. She had far more important things to think about than Alexander the Great, as the tabs labeled him. “Help me box these cookies and you can be on your way.”

“Can I have one?” Jorge already knew the answer. 

“One,” she warned as she slid a sheaf of folded boxes from under the table. 

The delivery man sauntered across the room and peered at the throng of witches and ghosts and pumpkins. Choosing one of the scariest ghosts, he hummed as the sugar cookie crumbled in his mouth. 

She couldn’t help the smile crossing her face.

That. 

That sound was what hooked her at the tender age of ten. Her grandpa and dad made exactly that sound when they tasted her first batch of brownies. The batch she’d done by herself without any assistance from her beaming grandma and proud mom.

“Damn, Soph.” Jorge chewed and swallowed. “You better lock these cookies away from me or there won’t be any left by the time I get to the party.”

“You wouldn’t eat them all.” She started to stack the cookies in the boxes, placing parchment paper between each layer. “It was your idea to have me donate them to the Harlem Center in the first place.”

“They’re good kids.”

“And so,” her quick hands continued to fill the boxes, “they deserve a treat.”

His answering chuckle stopped abruptly when the doorbell chimed. “Who is that buzzing after hours?” he grumbled. “I don’t like it that you’re here alone after the others go home.”

The others being her two assistants. Who, even if they were here, would be useless in driving off any bad guys. Megan would probably start crying and collapse at any sign of danger. Tamika would be too busy tweeting her best friend about the news she was being robbed to do any damage. “I highly doubt any bad guy is going to ring the doorbell to announce his presence.”

Ignoring the continued grumbling from Jorge, she headed for the steel door. 

She’d been lucky to find this space right smack dab in the middle of the Lower East Side. She needed a place in the heart of New York City since most of her customers lived on the island. Two years ago, when it was clear her exposure on the TV show was going to skyrocket sales, her small walk-up apartment down the street could no longer handle the baking orders.

She’d needed space. Lots of space. 

So she’d definitely lucked out with this place. The twenty-five-thousand square-foot building once housed an eighties’ nightclub, but had lain vacant for years. However, some developer came along a couple of years ago and started leasing units just as she began her search. The place was rough and rundown. Still, with some help from her friends, she’d managed to turn it into what she needed.

Wrestling with the stubborn lock, she finally wrenched the door open.

To a surprise.

Sophie baked surprises. Supplied surprises. 

She personally did not appreciate surprises. Of any kind.

She stared at him, trying to understand why. Why had he come here to surprise her? 

“Sophia.” He’d always called her by her full name and it always irritated her.

The October sun sank low behind the tall spires of endless skyscrapers. But the darkness in back of him merely highlighted the brilliance of his presence. He radiated energy and heat and bright. She’d forgotten his vitality, the way his appearance always seemed to suck out her breath.

She’d forgotten how much he irritated her.

He didn’t smile. Not as he did when they first met. Not when he’d still been in full campaign mode to win her over. He didn’t flash his white teeth or bat his blue eyes or do anything to make her agreeable to whatever he was going to pitch.

No. Instead, Alexander Stravoudas appeared very much like he’d looked the last time she saw him.

When she gave him back the bling.

“May I come in?” The deep voice thrummed along her spine as it did every time he spoke in her presence.

Which had irritated her too, come to think of it. “What are you doing here?”

A broad, bulky hand landed on the door. Her gaze swung to the hand attached to the long, lean arm which was attached to the tall, lean man standing right in front of her.

The hand also irritated. Not only because it was now trying to nudge the door open, but because it was not what an artist’s hand should be. She’d been unwillingly fascinated when she stared down at his hand as he held Mel’s, showing off the outrageous rock he bought to announce he’d found a bride. His hand bemused her then, and it bemused her now. This hand should not be designing such beautiful buildings.

He possessed the hands of a brute. Not an artist.

The brute’s voice dipped in displeasure. “Let me in.”

Oh, there. There was another source of infinitely more than mere irritation. There was what had sealed his doom in her judgment when she experienced it for the first time.

His arrogance. His complete disregard for any other person’s point of view.

Like hers.

She’d only mentioned the subject because it was important to Melanie. She wanted to make sure her buddy was going to continue with her work after the marriage. The work she spent four years in college studying.

“She doesn’t have to work,” he’d said, oozing his crappy conceit. “She’s going to be my wife.”

As if there could be no other position quite soooo wonderful as that. He hadn’t thought about how much good Melanie did every day at her work. He hadn’t thought about whether or not Mel would want to spend every one of her hours cooing over his greatness. He hadn’t thought about his future wife’s desires or the good she did every day. Not at all.

He’d only thought about himself.

Thank goodness Melanie had left him, and gone back to Jack and her work with the special-needs kids at the elementary school.

Thank goodness she, Ms. Sophia Charlotte Feuer, no longer needed to be nice to this man.

Folding her arms in front of her, she frowned. “Go away.”

“No.” The big hand didn’t nudge anymore. It slammed the door open and he stepped forward.

“Hey,” Jorge exclaimed in immediate outrage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The brute glanced past her and smiled. 

Her delivery man went silent.

That smile. That was another one of the things she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten how irritated his smile made her. It made her itch. To slap or smack or geez, even punch. He had full lips, indecently so for a man. The lush fullness of the bowed upper, the ripeness of the lower jutting out, almost as if the man was pouting. The mouth was too much, too over-the-top.

The lips, the mouth…she hated to admit it…were perfect for him.

And worked perfectly well in entrancing men as well as women, when they broadened into a gloriously beautiful smile.

The one he wore right now. 

“I didn’t realize Sophia was entertaining.” He stepped right past her and thrust his brutish paw towards the older man. 

Who clutched it. Of course.

The charm offense. 

Another irritating thing she had noted about Alexander the Great. At the endless happy hours he hosted that she attended with Mel. Then, the long, insufferable week at his plush Hampton estate with the pre-wedding party. At all these events, she’d seen this trick of his do amazing stuff. Even she had to admit, the whole schtick was pretty damn incredible.

Within moments of entering a room, he had everyone in a dazzled stupor.

Within seconds of meeting a person, Alex Stravoudas had made a new lifelong friend.

Within days of meeting Melanie, he’d convinced her best friend—he was the guy.

But there was one bright, shining spot in the midst of all this capitulation to Mr. Perfect’s charm. During the entire three months he tried to win Sophie over, he’d never moved an inch towards his goal.

Which had really, really irritated him.

She was glad, proud even. Stravoudas deserved everything he got. He was nothing but a heartless con artist.

The con artist smiled at Jorge. “Call me Alex.”

The old man mumbled something indistinct, yet his whole body language spoke of waning anger and bluster. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Exactly as she would have if Tamika or Megan were hanging around, panting and preening at the man, Sophie was going to have to be the one to throw the intruder out. “I want you to leave.”

He turned, his smile still in place. Except there was something frozen in those blue eyes of his. He didn’t like her any more than she liked him. Which begged the question as to why the heck he was here. 

She suppressed the whisper of curiosity.

“Ah, Sophia,” he said, as if the existence of Jorge had put her entirely from his mind. He’d done this before, after he understood she couldn’t be won over. Subtly putting her down. Diminishing her.

A lick of temper flared deep inside.

“Yes, Sophie.” She tightened her fingers on her arms. “The owner of this place.”

“Not really.” He paced across the room to the dinky office and glanced in. As if he were the owner.

She didn’t have an Irish temper. Not like her mom. Still, something close to a volcano blasted from her gut, heating her face and burning her brain. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Do you want me to throw him out?” Jorge shuffled beside the table laden with boxes. 

The charmer swung around and chuckled. “There’s no need for that. Sophia and I are old friends.”

She snorted. Eyed the two men. Thought about her options.  

Jorge was big. But old.

Stravoudas was bigger. And young.

The cookies needed to be delivered.

The glint in the con artist’s eyes told her he wasn’t going easily into the night.

Finally, her curiosity got the best of her. “Jorge. Get going. The kids are waiting.”

“You sure?” The old man swung his gaze from the smiling man to the frowning Sophie.

“I’m sure.”

With a grumble, he grabbed the dozen boxes, hefted them into his burly arms, and left.

The door thunked behind him. Silence followed. A strange sort of hushed silence one only felt right before a thunderstorm was about to roll across the city with ferocious glee.

“Well?” She shot the word at him, trying to jerk out of the growing anxiety suddenly swimming in her stomach.

He no longer smiled. In fact, the fake smile had fallen off his handsome face the moment Jorge turned away from him and left. “Weeeellll…”

His drawl mocked her. Flashed the wisp of anxiety right out of her, replacing it with…irritation. Typical. 

“Weeeelllll…” She mocked him back. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He lazed against the stone wall by the office. “An excellent question.”

“Stop playing—”

“You always get straight to the point, don’t you, Sophia?”

“Sophie.”

“Always succinct. Pithy.” He folded his arms in front of him. “A person could even say acerbic, bitter.”

The words hurt. Which was incredibly stupid. What did it matter what this man thought of her? “Is this why you came around? To insult me?”

“It always amazes me that such a bitter woman works with sugar all day long.”

Sophie stared at him. 

A month ago, when she gave him back the bling and told him in no uncertain terms that Mel was lost to him, she’d expected this kind of attack. Some anger or lashing out. But he’d smiled instead. A cold smile, true, yet a smile nevertheless. Then, he thanked her for the ring and graciously escorted her from his office. 

His perfect manners had made her want to hit him. 

Which wouldn’t have done any good. 

At six-foot-four, he would have flicked off her puny five-foot-two attack like a flea. So, instead, she used her words to hit at him. She’d been snide and snippy. Except the only thing he’d done was smile some more.

She was quite out of sorts by the time she left his office.

But at least she’d had the satisfaction of breaking apart the Perfect Couple for good.

Why this? Why now? Had he stewed on her words for a month and lost his perfect control? The thought made her smile. 

“Perhaps there’s some sugar in you, after all.”

Her temper flared at his condescension. “State whatever you have to say and leave.”

The gold ring on his pinky finger flashed in the overhead lights. The ring only highlighted the rough, rugged hand. The hand that whitened as he fisted it. “Okay, Sophia. I won’t pretty it up for you.”

“Good.” The whisper of anxiety floated into her stomach once more.

“I’ve decided since you’ve created the problems in my life, you should be the one to fix them.”

His arrogance flooded the room and swamped her anxiety, drowning it into silence. 

“Me?” Disdain dripped from her one word. 

“You.” His cold blue gaze never wavered from her face.

“I’m sorry if you have problems—”

“No, you’re not.” His chuckle rasped along her nerves. “You’re not sorry at all.”

“Okay, I’m not,” she admitted, lifting her hands in the air with a wave of dismissal. “Your problems mean nothing to me.”

“I have to disagree.” He moved from the wall, walking across to the tall ovens flanking one side of the room. His long, lean legs crossed the big room in only a few steps. Staring into one of the dark caverns, he appeared to be taking some kind of inventory.

Anxiety whispered back, winding around the anger bubbling inside. “Would you spit out—”

“I own this building.”

His words slammed her mouth shut.

He glanced at her, and this time, his eyes were alive and hot with pleasure. “I’m your landlord.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention this before?” She clung to her composure. What did it matter if he owned this place? She had a lease. A rock-solid lease. Plus, she was an excellent tenant.

“The information didn’t seem pertinent.” Broad male shoulders shrugged. “At the time.”

Ice settled in her gut. She didn’t know what was coming, but it was going to be bad. Her Irish sense of doom sagged onto her like a thick, stifling blanket, freezing the ice into a solid block of stone inside.

“Now, though…” He turned away from her again. The long, blond curls of his hair tightly tied in his usual ponytail, swished on the gray silk of his suit.

“Now what?” She just wanted it out. Whatever it was.

“So impatient. So demanding.” His words were a mere murmur, as if he spoke them only to himself. As if he didn’t mean them as a put-down. As if she couldn’t hear the contempt in his voice. “So unfeminine.”

“Leave.”

The chuckle came once more, filled with a harsh confidence. “I’ll remind you again, I’m your landlord.”

“That fact doesn’t give you the right to march in here and throw insults at me.”

“Insults? Am I insulting you, Sophia? For once, are my words penetrating that thick hide of yours?” He swiveled from his perusal of her ovens and spiked her with his heated eyes. Leaning his tall body on the steel frame, he managed to appear as if he owned the place.

Which he did. Damn it.

They stared at each other across the cool, brightly lit room. The silence reeked of threat. A threat she hadn’t been willing to acknowledge until now. Yet, it blazed from him; his negligent pose only emphasizing what was in his eyes.

“I’m going to take you in hand.” His soft words floated across the steel table to settle in her churning gut. “I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

His egotism blasted the fear out of her in one short second.

She laughed. It felt good to laugh at this man and his asinine arrogance. It felt good to crush her stupid fears with amusement.

Except then, she looked back at him.

And the fears came rumbling back.

She didn’t know why. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were only the usual cold blue she’d become used to whenever he glanced her way. His mouth might be a touch grimmer around the edges, but nothing she hadn’t seen before. But something about the way he watched her, the way he held himself, very still and silent—something told her she was in trouble. Something told her this man meant what he said.

Anyone knowing anything about Alexander Stravoudas knew his reputation.

Alexander the Great got whatever he wanted.

Even before he dated her best friend, she’d noted his rise in the business world. Prediction after shining prediction in the financial news came true—seemingly without him breaking a sweat. She had to admit she was a bit in awe of this man’s ability to build a worldwide architectural business worth billions in only a few short years.

He’d earned the label of the Perfect Man way before he became a part of the Perfect Couple.

Once she’d come into his orbit, she understood why. Time and time again, she observe him as he zeroed in on an investor, a politician, a potential colleague, and went in for the kill. Amazingly, none of these supposedly intelligent people ever spotted the calculation behind the charm.

Watching this charlatan hunt her best friend was even worse. 

As soon as he set his eyes on Melanie, he’d been clear in his intentions. Mel thought it was romantic. Soph thought it Machiavellian. She’d detected no heart in his choice—only expedience.

Alexander the Great needed a pretty, educated wife and a baby maker.

Melanie fit the bill. 

She, of course, saw this far before her friend. To finally achieve success at convincing Mel she was right about this man had been as sweet as any of her cookies. However, it appeared this complete success meant she’d placed herself right in the middle of his bull’s-eye. 

He stared at her, his hunter eyes intent. 

Ready to fire straight at her.

For a moment, she trembled. But then, her quick mind rushed to the rescue and she breathed in a cool sweep of air. True, Alexander Stravoudas seemed to have some kind of preternatural ability to charm everyone, win every time, exert his will on all. 

Yet, he’d never been able to win over Sophia Feuer before.

Why should this time be any different?

“A lesson?” She forced herself to chuckle. “I don’t think you know anything I want to learn.”

How could cold blue turn to hot fire in one flash of a second? She had the sense he wanted to jump across the steel table separating them and grab her. He didn’t move a muscle, though. Only those eyes of his blasted her with his fury.

The Perfect Man was clearly in a perfect rage.

At her.

Sophie couldn’t understand why. Okay, she’d busted his engagement, but the man swam in a sea of willing women. All right, she hadn’t fallen for his charm like every other person, except so what? It wasn’t as if he needed everyone to love him. Fine, she’d been a bit over-the-top when she gave him back the bling. A man like this, though, with enough pride and arrogance for the entire city of New York, would surely have shrugged it off. 

Surely.

Not.

Because why else would he be here? Glaring at her. Throwing insults. Implying threats.

A shiver ran through her and he must have sensed it because he smiled. The smile he only seemed to give her. The smile that never reached his eyes and made her blood freeze. “I’ve decided—”

“You’ve decided.” She managed a snort of disgust.

“Yes, I have.” The words were silky steel. “I’ve decided you are going to be my new fiancée.”

The words boomed in her head, entering her brain to buzz like a swarm of locusts. She stared at him with not one thought clear enough to verbalize.

“Hmm.” He kept his pose, kept his gaze on her. “I can’t remember a time I’ve been able to shock you into silence.”

That was quite a ridiculous statement. Yes, she’d been labeled a chatterbox a time or two, and true, she’d asked him a lot of questions when they first met. After a while, though, she spent most of her time when in his company observing him, analyzing, figuring out what was all wrong about him. He’d also appeared to be much more comfortable when her mouth was shut than when it was open. 

Consequently, she’d obliged him. Until their last meeting. 

The buzz in her head settled into a low burr. Finally, some words popped in her mind. “Are you crazy?”

It was his turn to chuckle. “No.”

“We—” 

“Detest each other?”

“Yes.”

His eyes were alive now with an odd kind of delight. Which made no sense. This scene was as un-delightful as a person could imagine. The whole situation bordered on the surreal. Sophie wondered if she’d fallen down a strange sort of black hole to arrive in another world. A world where a man proposed to a woman he detested and appeared as delighted about it as a man in love.

What the hell?

“What the hell?”

He smiled at her barked words. “There’s no need to swear.”

What a condescending jerk. His tone made her want to grab her biggest spoon and whack him on the head. “I can swear as much as I want and whenever I want.”

“Don’t be childish.” Did he tut? Did he actually tut at her?

“I’m done with this conversation.” Wrenching around, she headed for her office. “You can let yourself out.” 

“I have found a missing clause in your lease.”

He had the perfect wife.

Aetos Zenos smiled into the mirror as he straightened his tie. Today was going to be one of the best days of his life and he had his wife to thank for this success. Without her presence in his life, old man Tucker would never have agreed to the deal he proposed. A deal worth millions.

Nai. His wife deserved a hell of a lot of credit.

He turned around to his walk-in closet and chose the steel-blue Armani jacket that matched his pants. Slipping it on, he adjusted the sleeves and the gold, eagle-encrusted cufflinks. He smiled at his image once more, a sly twinkle in his eye.

Not only had his perfect wife secured this contract for him, she also had many other sterling qualities to admire. She never nagged. She never quarreled.

She was never disappointed in him, demanding of him.

She didn’t require his time or emotions or attention.

She never spent a penny of his vast fortune.

What more could a man want in a woman?

There was the issue of sex. In this one area, she fell short. Not that he cared. He’d found other avenues to take care of that particular need. He didn’t blame his wife for not providing him satisfaction. He knew going into the marriage sex wasn’t in the cards. She wasn’t capable of it. And really, what was the saying? 

Variety was the spice of life.

He chuckled. Looking at his left hand, he eyed the plain gold band on his ring finger. He hadn’t taken it off since he put it on two years ago. The ring had saved him countless hassles. When confronted by a determined woman, all he did was wave the thing in her face and tell her no. He liked variety, true, but he was the one to choose and chase. When he did indicate interest, each woman he picked invariably came to his bed.

The ring was never mentioned. Neither was marriage or commitment.

A wife was very useful to have in many situations.

Glancing at his watch, he walked out of his bedroom, across the Persian rugs blanketing the long hall, and down the wide stairs to the foyer of his elegant, Upper East Side brownstone. He’d purchased the property right before his marriage. No longer had he wanted to project the image of a man-about-town. The image was fine and well when he first started building his business seventeen years ago. It garnered him attention, brought him connections, solidified his presence as a mover and shaker. The image the world saw had served his purpose as he rose in stature.

But two years ago? 

Well, let’s just say Tucker was only one catalyst for his marriage. The existence of a wife had been important to show he was a solid, established citizen. However, the marriage provided him more than a business deal.

The marriage had provided him cover.

Slipping on his black leather jacket while opening the front door, he nodded to his chauffeur. “Let’s go.”

He spent the ride into Manhattan fielding several calls from his PA. Scrolling through a dozen text messages and emails from his bond traders in London and Singapore, he jotted down a couple of notes on new acquisitions. Not until he was mere minutes from his meeting with the old man did he have a chance to open his laptop and review his final proposal. The review truly wasn’t needed. The proposal had played in his head for years.

He knew what he needed to do. He always did.

The limo door opened and Aetos stepped out into a biting November wind. Looking at the imposing stone building he was about to acquire, he smiled one more time. Who would have dreamed a young kid from Athens would ever accomplish so much and come so far? Who could have imagined that one Aetos Zenos—a nobody, a nothing—with not a penny to his name when he landed on America’s shores, would soon own one of the best properties in New York City? Who would have predicted the rejected heir of one of Greece’s most prominent families would now be the proud owner of more businesses, land, and power than the Zenos clan had accumulated over hundreds of years?

Certainly not his father. Certainly none of the aristocratic Zenos family.

They’d been wrong. All wrong.

He’d dreamed of this at the tender age of nine when he was discarded. He’d imagined this when he left his father’s home at the age of fifteen. This need for success had been branded into him with every sneer and every putdown.

Now, here he was. Making his dreams and imaginings all come true.

Nodding to the doorman, he walked through the open door into his future.

The future his wife had helped him obtain.

His perfect, pretend wife.

* * *

Natalie Globenko sat in the darkest corner of the bar. She’d chosen the place specifically because it was in the Upper East Side, far from her own Brooklyn neighborhood, as far as one could get without falling off Manhattan Island. The place was as shadowy and nondescript as a person could hope. The dusky oak paneling and dark-red paint created a sense of safety. A cave cocooning her in its dark embrace.

Of course, this was an illusion.

Danger lurked and waited.

She held her cup with shaking hands. The warmth of the coffee had long ago dissipated and the waitress hadn’t come back with a refill. But this was the least of her worries.

She was in deep trouble.

How could Nathan have done such a thing? How had she not realized her brother was neck-deep in a scam that would eventually lead to his death? Eventually leave her holding the bag?

The familiar tightness in her throat welled. At least the tears no longer came. During the past three months, she’d cried every single tear inside her. They hadn’t done any good. The tears hadn’t brought her kid brother back from the grave. And they hadn’t miraculously solved all her problems, either. Especially her one gigantic problem.

Fifty thousand dollars.

How was she going to find fifty thousand dollars?

The front door of the bar flew open, bringing a strong gust of cold wind and two men into the room. Natalie shrank back into her seat. As she eyed them, though, she relaxed. The wintery sun shone behind them making it hard to see any details, yet she knew. She knew the hulking outlines of those who pursued her. These men weren’t looking for her. They weren’t the men she feared.

One of the men, the taller one, laughed as he patted the other’s shoulder. “We did it, Hank.”

“You did it.” The balding man looked around before indicating the empty booth next to hers. “Come on. I’ll buy the first round.”

Her gaze moved over the men with disinterest. Since she now realized they weren’t a threat, she had no use for them. She had no use for men in general, but the situation she found herself in had banished everything from her concentration other than survival.

The tall man smiled as he slipped into the booth. The dim light caught the gold of his hair, the flash of straight white teeth. “I’ll take you up on the offer.”

She watched with grim amusement as the waitress made a beeline for the men. There were only two other patrons seated at the long wooden bar and they were being served by the bartender. The waitress couldn’t be bothered with refilling her coffee, but she showed a lively interest in the new customers. Within a few seconds, with much cooing and batting of eyelashes, the men had their beers and shots. Natalie watched as the woman reluctantly took her leave.

“Cheers.”

“Yiamas.”

“The Greek consistently comes out in you when you’ve achieved another goal.”

“I am American.” The deep voice took on an edge.

“Yes, I know.” Nervousness tinged the response.

“Never forget that, my friend.”

The sudden tension eased between the men as they continued to talk. She absently listened as they heartily congratulated themselves about some business deal. Her mind swirled around her problem and her stomach churned. She needed a hideout. Somewhere they couldn’t find her for a few weeks. This might give her enough time to put in place a plan to get the money they demanded. The money Nathan owed them when he died.

The money they thought she had.

Her brother had told the mob about the sale of their mother’s home after she died. Let the gang’s boss believe there was inherited money. Nathan intimated that his older sister held the keys to the treasure and when Natalie received the first threatening phone call, she realized exactly where her younger brother had left her.

In a hellhole she couldn’t get out of.

There’d been little left after burying her mother. Certainly not fifty thousand dollars.

How could she have not seen the signs her brother had fallen into the same trouble her father and uncles fell into years ago? What was it about the Globenko men and their avid need for money and power? Even more, how could Nathan have compounded this travesty by taking one step farther down the rathole by embezzling? She’d thought the family troubles were in the distant past. Put to rest along with her father’s and uncles’ bodies.

Her brother’s body now lay beside them. And if she didn’t find the cash soon, her own body might well be the next one in the ground.

A shiver of fear ran down her spine.

“To Aetos Zenos and his growing empire.”

The name caught her attention. In her previous life, before hell had broken loose three months ago, she spent her days copy-editing the pages of the New York News. Aetos Zenos was a name she’d seen many times. A business dynamo. A ladies’ man.

The kind of man she despised.

“I have to tell you, I didn’t think you’d ever get old man Tucker to sign the contract.”

“My patience is infinite when the goal is worth achieving.”

“What’s it been? Two years since you first approached him?”

“Almost three, actually.”

“At first he wouldn’t even give you the time of day.”

Zenos chuckled. “He told me to my face I wasn’t the kind of man he’d do business with.”

She could sympathize with old man Tucker’s point of view. Watching her dad and his brothers destroy their lives trying to play the money game taught her well. Money corrupted. Money turned men into cheaters and con-men. Money destroyed families. She’d assumed Nathan had learned the same hard lesson.

She’d been wrong.

“So you went about changing his perceptions.”

“It took several years, but I succeeded.”

“Your marriage to Natalie was a brilliant stroke.”

Poor woman. She had a bit more sympathy than usual, if only because they shared the same name. Who would want to marry such a man? A man consumed with getting ahead. A man who surely cheated to climb the ladder of success so quickly. He was what? She frowned. If she remembered correctly, he couldn’t be much over thirty-five years of age. To rise so fast, he had to have cut corners, lied, deceived. Hell, look at her own father. He hadn’t succeeded until he swindled and stole, and he hadn’t started young. 

Poor Natalie Zenos. Married to such a man would destroy her sooner or later.

Exactly as it had destroyed Elina Globenko, her own mother.

“The best thing I ever did was take the trip to Las Vegas. My marriage let Tucker know I was a settled man. A man he could now do business with.”

She’d read about this, too, as she thought back. The surprise marriage in Las Vegas. The reclusive bride who never wanted her picture taken. The newly purchased estate in the Connecticut countryside, complete with a pool and tennis courts, where the wife lived. While the husband spent most of his time in New York City.

Right. Definitely. The man cheated. In more than one way. She’d lay money on it. 

If she had any.

“I was honored to be your best man.”

Both men roared with laughter.

What was the joke? She’d missed something. Natalie cocked her head in confusion while the men kept laughing.

“You’re the man who gave me the idea, Hank. It was only right you were there when I went ahead.”

“Someone had to be there. You couldn’t be alone when you got married. Plus, Jill was happy to stand in for the blushing bride.”

The men chortled. The waitress sashayed over to them and they ordered another round. 

Who was Jill? And what did they mean by standing in?

Nat shook herself. What did it matter? She had far bigger problems than trying to figure out what happened at a Las Vegas marriage two years ago. Sipping the last dregs of her coffee, she pulled her mind back to her other problem. Another very big problem. 

Where was she going to stay tonight? 

She’d stored her few remaining possessions in a locker at Grand Central Station since she had to check out of the grimy hotel she was staying in. She had precisely fifty bucks left to her name. She couldn’t use her credit cards and chance them tracing her location. She no longer owned a cell to call any friends; she ditched the phone as soon as she suspected they were using it to find her. Any contact with her remaining relatives was problematic. Years had gone by since she saw her aunts and cousins, plus she couldn’t risk the thugs going after them, too, for the family debt. 

“I have to recommend marriage to you, Hank.”

“Not a chance.”

“You only have to find the perfect wife like I did.”

The other man snorted.

“Really,” Zenos continued. “There are many perks. For example, family members lay off you completely. A wife provides an excellent cover for any demands to marry a nice Greek girl from home.”

“Your grandparents were rather persistent, weren’t they?”

“Nai.”

She found it hard to envision this man having relatives. He’d seemed to have come out of nowhere onto the New York City scene. One day no one knew he existed. The next day, he was buying every building he could find, his picture was plastered on every gossip page, and his name opened every door.

“You can’t imagine the amount of time I still spend on calls from Greece.”

“At least they won’t arrive on your doorstep.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

The men chuckled again. 

Weren’t we the cheerful crowd. 

She grimaced at her cynicism. Usually, she was cheerful herself. It was only because she was in a situation that was no laughing matter. Hearing others chortle only made it seem worse. 

“But the chances of any visits are remote, aren’t they? Your grandparents are what—?” Hank’s voice echoed in the nearly empty bar. “In their seventies?”

“Eighties.”

“I suppose one of your thousands of cousins could stop by.”

“Unlikely.” The accented voice turned sarcastic. “None of them wish to leave the blessed homeland.”

“Which works in your favor.”

“Correct. I would hate to disappoint and shock my family.”

Was his wife truly disappointing in some way? Nat struggled to remember. There’d been some photos. A few fuzzy ones. There hadn’t appeared to be anything wrong with the woman. 

She couldn’t be ugly. 

No man like Zenos would marry an ugly woman. 

As soon as her father achieved even a minor level of success, he’d found plenty of pretty women. She never told her mother what she’d seen; it would have destroyed Elina. The knowledge of her husband’s illegal business activities was enough to send her into decline. His infidelity would have sent her mother to her grave immediately. Instead, she lingered for years with her memories and her dreams somewhat intact.

Why was she thinking about Aetos Zenos and his wife when she would shortly be sleeping on the streets somewhere, easy pickings for her trackers?

She straightened against the hard wood of the booth. The red leather padding on the seat provided some cushioning, but after two hours of sitting on it, her butt ached. Yet, it was far better than walking out the bar’s door into the danger. Soon though, when the after-work crowd started strolling in, she’d be required to buy something more than coffee to keep her seat.

Fifty bucks. The only money she owned.

Fifty thousand dollars. The money she needed to find.

“Your family and old man Tucker would certainly be shocked to find your wife nowhere to be seen.”

Perhaps his wife had gotten a clue and left him. Nat relished the thought for a moment. Only a moment. Her brain then went back to her reality—a reality where she needed to find a way to make her puny funds grow by a thousand percent.

“A wife who is unseen and unheard is a treasure,” Zenos said, mirth dripping off every word. “You should try it.”

With unwilling interest, she yanked her attention back to the men’s conversation. What a jerk. No man would be chuckling and laughing into his beer if his wife had left him. Apparently, the woman was a doormat. She couldn’t imagine being with such a conceited man. A man who genuinely liked the fact his wife was a doormat.

A man exactly like her father.

Maybe she was a fool to ever hope for another kind of man. In her experience, all men were like this Zenos guy. Arrogant jerks. She was stupid to keep hanging onto her fantasies.

Why was she thinking of fantasies when she was in the middle of a nightmare?

“There is the lack of sex with such a wife, Aetos. You must admit that.”

Both men gave another hearty laugh.

She couldn’t help her odd fascination with this unfolding conversation. Even in the face of her near-disaster of a life. What could this mean? She couldn’t conceive of this guy not having sex. The man had run through a long list of beauties. Miss Universes competed with runway models and starlets for his company. 

She remembered all the stories. Vaguely. But she remembered.

However, then…she frowned…yes, she was sure of it. After his marriage, there’d been no more movie stars or beauty queens. At the time, she hadn’t spent one moment thinking about the change. She had enough to cope with; A mother slowly fading away and a brother slowly withdrawing. Now that she thought about it, though, she remembered there had no longer been the frenzied press about Zenos and his private life, only the dull roar of endless coverage about his business success.

Had the man honestly been celibate?

“I’ve had no problem in that area, as you know.” Zenos’ voice oozed satisfaction. “I have been more secretive, to honor my wife. Still, there are always women.”

“I have no doubt.”

“And my wife has provided me with the ultimate excuse when women become too possessive. I am already married. They have no hope.”

Obviously he hadn’t been celibate. What was she thinking?

Honor his wife. What crap.

Her spine stiffened in revulsion, but not surprise. After all, look at her father. Her fantasy of a steadfast man, a man who could be trusted was just that. Pure and complete fantasy.

Focus on your disaster.

Right. The disaster of being homeless and on the run from the Ukrainian mob.

“You know,” the egotistical jerk continued, “I planned on announcing a divorce as soon as the papers were signed with Tucker. Now I’m not sure.”

He had stayed married only to secure a business deal? She made a face at the other side of her booth, imagining the disgusted look slicing through the wood and right into the man’s back. How unbelievably cynical. The poor woman. Stuck in Connecticut, alone, waiting, while this ass pranced around New York, bedding whoever and making deals using his wife as a shield.

At least she’s safe. At least she has money.

Her heart fell. True. Very true. Natalie Zenos might have a husband worth less than nothing, yet at least she had a home. An extremely nice home, if memory served. Natalie Globenko was not as lucky.

“You’re thinking of keeping the ring on?”

What an odd way to ask the question. This conversation was incredibly bizarre.

“Nai.”

“I suppose if you divorce, your family will be on you again to come home and marry one of the endless Greek beauties waiting for you.”

“True. But the demands to come home with my non-existent wife keep escalating.”

What? What? Non-existent?

Nat sucked in a breath, sure she’d heard this wrong.

“Those demands do pose a problem.” Hank chuckled. “I suppose you could hire someone to play the part.”

Play the part?

“I wouldn’t trust a woman not to divulge the truth to the press.” The accent thickened, his voice reeking with brutal antipathy.

She froze as the soft, harsh words drifted over her. There was hatred there. Unadulterated hate. The man might bed women, yet he hated them.

Hank’s laugh was forced. “They’re not all bad. Look at my sister, Jill. In two years, she’s never whispered a thing to anyone.”

Jill was Hank’s sister? Her brain unfroze enough to take in the strange words she’d heard before the harsh putdown of all women. 

Non-existent. Play the part.

Jill in the wedding pictures? Not Natalie?

“The fact she received a new home and you still have a job with me might explain her silence.” Rich contempt sliced through every word.

The man held an extreme antipathy for women. She didn’t begrudge him the feeling. In the end, it matched her thoughts about men. Nevertheless, to treat his friend with this kind of condescension was despicable. Apparently, he despised everyone around him to a varying degree. Did he think he was so superb compared to other humans that he could treat a person with such contempt? Her sour distaste and disgust turned into outright antagonism.

Hank gave a nervous laugh.

“But I will always be thankful to your sister for standing in for my bride.” Zenos’ voice switched to calm containment. “The pictures of us at the altar were needed to satisfy the press and my grandmother.”

“Jill was thrilled to make the tabloids. Even if only her back was shown.”

Both men chuckled once more.

Scrunching her face, Nat tried to remember. A vague memory of a candlelit room, a fuzzy, well-covered bride with a long veil. A smiling groom. That had been Hank’s sister at the altar? Not the real Natalie?

The non-existent Natalie.

The pieces came together to paint a completely insane picture. It couldn’t possibly be—

“My grandmother, however, is not satisfied with some pictures. She demands to meet my blushing bride.” The pompous ass sighed, a mocking sound. “I believe I will have to leave married bliss behind, since I am unable to comply with my giagiá’s request.”

“The Greek girls will be delighted.”

“And I will be too devastated by the loss of my wife to contemplate loving another woman anytime soon.”  

Hank sniggered.

“The only thing that will console me is my wife will want none of my wealth or possessions.”

“What would a pretend wife need with wealth and possessions?”

Both men roared with laughter.

She sat. Stunned. The picture was insane and completely accurate.

There was no wife. No Natalie Zenos.

This conceited crook had fooled a man into a business deal using a pretend wife. He’d lied to his family for two years. Hell, he’d lied to the entire world to get ahead.

A blunt-fingered hand waved to the waitress. She glided across the room with the bill.

“I will leave the business in your capable hands, Hank, for the next two weeks.”

“You’ll be visiting every one of the Tuckermarkets?”

Tuckermarket. Her brain whirred. Old man Tucker. Sam Tucker’s trading empire was vast and impressive. She’d often strolled through the gargantuan store occupying the last privately-owned Vanderbilt mansion in New York City. The store was stuffed with exotic oriental scarves, golden images of gods, and spices from the Maluku Islands. Once, she’d even been greeted by Sam Tucker himself. The beaming man had taken her hand and shown her around the store, glowing with pleasure when she found the best gift for her mother’s birthday.

The old man had been a delight.

The old man whom Zenos had fooled.

A tight rage filled her, weaving and winding around her growing antagonism towards this overconfident thief. The rage flushed her skin. This bandit had fooled a lovely old man and his own old, needy grandparents. Along with his entire family. As well as all of New York City. 

All for a deal. For money. For power.

“Only the main markets. I will take a more extensive tour later, after the holidays.” The pompous man stood, flipping a large bill at the waitress, who beamed in apparent surprise.

Nat glared at his outline. In the dim light, the only thing she could make out were his broad shoulders covered in some kind of sleek suit and his rugged profile with its prominent nose. Yet,  the glimpse was enough to give her a sense of his complete arrogance. His absolute assurance. He truly believed lying to an old man, to his family, to everyone was his right. He felt not a slip of guilt in what he’d done.

Zenos was worse than her father and her uncles and her brother. 

His friend slid out of the booth to join him. “Do you want me to check on the house?”

The house. The brownstone. The memory of the purchase came back to her. The press had been agog at playboy Zenos purchasing such a sedate property while selling his trendy Greenwich Village penthouse. Soon after, the announcement of the engagement had come. Then, the press release of the marriage. 

She knew exactly where that brownstone was. She’d strolled by it during a lunchtime walk. The townhouse stood mere blocks from where she currently sat.

“Not needed.” The playboy jerk strode toward the door, Hank lumbering behind. “I have given the main staff a holiday, but a skeleton staff will remain.”

The door banged shut on his last words.

The glare slipped off her face.

But her turbulent disgust continued. Someone should take the man down a notch. Someone should teach him a lesson. A person of courage should confront him and expose him.

Someone who had a journalism degree and could write an explosive story.

Someone like her.

Her hands clutched the coffee cup until her knuckles turned white. Could this be her way out of imminent disaster? She no longer had any access to a computer, still, she could hightail it down to her old offices and tell the tale and make a deal.

She’d be seen. She’d be caught.

Her breath whispered in and out of her mouth. A zillion thoughts and plans and schemes whistled in her brain.

Would anyone believe her?

She left her work without giving notice. Her boss had been angry. He told her she’d lost her last chance at the paper as she hastily packed her things and escaped before the trackers got her. Would he believe her when she told this outrageous story?

Would anyone believe her?

Zenos had power. And prestige. And pots of money.

Would anyone believe insignificant, on-the-run Natalie Globenko instead of the masterful, godlike Aetos Zenos?

No.

She slumped in the corner of the booth, her hopes sagging.

Even if she got someone to believe, The New York News wouldn’t pay the astronomical sum of fifty thousand dollars. The odds that any other tabloid would believe and pay with no proof other than her word was unlikely. She’d risk capture with no assurance she’d have enough money to pay off the debt. 

The risk was too great.

“Do you want anything else, miss?” The waitress walked to her table and smacked the bill in front of her without letting her respond. “We’ll be getting busy soon and this booth will be needed.”

“I understand.” The slick slap of panic slid down her spine. “I’ll be only a minute more.”

The waitress grunted her disapproval as she left.

What was she going to do? Where was she going to go?

The idea flashed in her head like a neon light. A bright blast of pure folly.

Gone for two weeks. Skeleton staff.

Pretend wife.

Natalie Zenos. Natalie Globenko.

A way to pay an arrogant man back. A way to make him sweat. If only for a few days after he came back from his trip and heard his pretend wife had made an appearance before disappearing.

A hideout. Two weeks to buy some time to think and plan.

Her husky bark of laughter caused the bartender to eye her as if she’d gone crazy.

She had. Quite possibly she had.

But why not? What did she have to lose?

Revenge was not sweet.

The fire burned in his mouth and gut like acid. It seared his throat and lungs.

Long ago, the need for revenge had charred his heart.

Raphael Vounó stood in front of the business that harbored his foes. The business he now owned, as well as the crumbling building it was housed in. London’s icy rain slanted against the skin of his cheek and jaw. The chill did nothing to lessen the burn inside.

Time to settle the score. Finally.

He pushed open the hotel’s battered steel door and strode in. The foyer was empty, but the low sound of a radio slid through the entryway behind the lobby desk. He didn’t glance around. He knew exactly where everything was in this cramped excuse of a building. His investigation had been thorough. 

Nothing was left to chance. Not this time.

Striding past the front counter, he didn’t hesitate. His hand slapped open the office door.

There he was. The first of his two enemies.

The man had aged during the last ten years. Yet, he still lived, unlike Raphael’s father. Loukas Vounó as not as lucky as this old man.

Whose luck had just run out.

The old man lifted his head from the papers strewn across his desk. His gaze was blurry and tired. His skin drooped in grey flaps along his jaw. The years had not been kind, and today this enemy would find out his remaining years would be even worse. 

Who are you?” he muttered.

Leaning against the doorway, he gave the older man a mocking smile. “You don't recognize me, Drakos?”

The hazy eyes slowly cleared. The man straightened. 

Then, the curses flowed.

Raphael ignored them all. There was nothing this man could do or say that would hurt him. Not any longer. He'd spent the last ten years planning and plotting for this moment. Unlike his father, he took nothing for chance, trusted no one. He'd purposefully built a wall of protection around himself, his family, and his business. 

No one, certainly not Haimon Drakos, could ever touch him or his again.

“You’re not welcome here.” The old man glared at him. “Get out.”

He laughed and prowled toward the desk. “No.”

“I will call the police and have you thrown out.” Drakos's words were edged with forced bravado as he uneasily reached for the ancient phone.

“The police are now your friends?”

The seated man gripped the phone in his shaking hand. “They will come and enforce my property rights. I own this place and I demand you leave.”

“Demand?” Raphael slid his leg onto the wobbly wooden desk. Crossing his arms, he smiled. “You will no longer be making demands. Not here. Not anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Drakos’ voice quivered.

Bending forward to stare into the man's eyes, he delivered the first blow. “I own Viper Enterprises.”

The old eyes widened in horror. “No!”

“What’s going on?” The voice came from the open doorway. The familiar lilt, the unique slur at the end of the words, the husky edge to the vowels…all unmistakably her.

Enemy number two.

Rafe forced a deep breath into his lungs. Finding his formidable control, he turned to confront the girl who’d cut out his naїve heart with her betrayal. “Tamsin.”

She was no longer a girl.

Her bright-blond hair had turned golden, impossibly more beautiful than before. Her green eyes no longer flashed with innocent joy; instead they had darkened into mist and mystery. Her body, the body he’d hugged in his arms when she laughed and clutched to his chest when she cried, the body no longer was a young girl’s.

His reaction to her was the same.

His skin heated, his muscles tightened, and his groin stirred. Precisely as it did in the past, in that long-ago summer when he thought he’d found his soul mate. Thought he’d found his love. Over the years, when he allowed a thought of her to cross his mind, he’d shrugged off his reaction to her as youthful folly. He labeled it for what it must have been—merely a young man’s hormones. In the last ten years, he slept with women when he needed them. None of them elicited more than a night’s interest.

None of them made him sweat.

He twitched his shoulders and felt the trickle slide down his spine. The bitterness inside him churned into anger at himself. Lusting after an enemy wasn’t part of the agenda.

“Raphael?” Her eyes went wide, her arms wrapping around her in useless defense.

Dóxa to̱ Theó. His enemy didn’t sense the lust running through him. The element of surprise, the element he’d planned so carefully for this situation, saved him from revealing anything she could use against him.

“Nai.” Yes. Oh, yes. Tamsin. Did you think I would forget? Forgive? He stood with a jerk, ignoring the old man’s snarl behind him. “It’s me.”

“I can’t—”

“I’m here.” He stared right into her eyes so she would know. Know what was in store for her. “Did you think I would forget you and your family, kardiá mou?”

She flinched. 

An exultant flare of acid triumph whipped through him. She remembered. She remembered what he’d called her. Which meant she remembered everything. The loving nickname. Her betrayal. His anger at the very end.

My heart.

What a foolish, stupid boy he’d been to give her those words. To give her any power over him at all. Now, though, she would know everything was different.

Her hands dropped to her sides and her jaw tightened. A familiar glint of defiance flashed in her green gaze. “What are you doing here?”

She’d given him this same bold scowl when they met for the first time. Sure, he’d been a cocky twenty-one-year-old, full of himself, surly about having to spend time with his younger sisters and a girl too young to be of any interest. All because his father had business with Drakos and wanted the families to know each other. He slouched into the unfamiliar house, knowing he’d be bored out of his mind. 

And then, it had happened.

He’d gazed into these green eyes and fallen.

Completely and utterly fallen.

Did she think she merely needed to give him a defiant look and he’d be a fool once more?

“I’m here,” he forced himself to stroll to her and stare into those dangerous eyes, “because I now own this place.”

His claim slammed into her. He could see it in the taut, tense thrust of her jaw. See it in the way her head went back, as if slapped. He tried to focus on these telling details which told of his victory, but…

But the effort was futile.

These eyes. Theós. 

He’d truly forgotten. Her eyes always reminded him of the laurel leaves his mother used in her cooking, the green glistening pure and clear in the heated water. There was no hint of blue or brown to lessen the impact of flawless color. In his fanciful youth, he’d dreamed her gaze shone with a perfect love, with a belief in his ability to make all his dreams, and hers, come true. He’d fallen asleep in his lonely bed knowing someday these green eyes would look at him as he slept, watch over him and caress him and bless him with the crown of her love.

What a complete and utter fool he’d been.

The fringe of her blond eyelashes whisked across her fair skin as she blinked. When she opened her eyes once more, they no longer reminded him of his lovesick days. They reminded him of the last time he’d stared at her. Then, the green was dark and dirty, dulling into dismissal.

Exactly as they did now.

“We own this building.” Her mouth twisted, turning the lushness of her lips into a rejecting curl. “We have for years.”

The old man rustled some papers behind him. The noise shot through Raphael like a poisoned arrow. As soon as this woman had entered the room, he forgot. 

He forgot the old man. 

His plans. His revenge. 

He forgot everything but her.

Damn her.

Turning around, he glared at the old man. “Tell her, Drakos.”

The skin under the man’s eyes looked like splotches of tar compared to the pale sickliness of the rest of his face. The scent of fear mixed with alcohol wafted off his fat body as he slouched down into the creaking hull of the plastic chair, still cradling the phone. The last puff of smoke rose from the chewed cigar lying in the ashtray among the waste of paper.

Theós. The realization struck Rafe. He’d arrived just in time.

How cruel would fate have been if he left his revenge too late, moved too slow, let this man escape into death before being punished? He could not have lived with himself if he hadn't fulfilled the pledge he made over his father’s dead body. He could not have looked at himself in the mirror if this final revenge was not delivered.

Yet, luck and fate were with him all through these past ten years.

The man before him still lived and would still suffer.

“Tell her,” he demanded once more.

Rafe felt her behind him. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Yet, he felt her. Like a burn in his blood, like a venomous snake sliding on his skin. He sensed her zigzagging thoughts. He tasted her growing unease. He knew what was inside of her. Just as he’d known the moment he first saw her.

The fact this connection still existed between them stunned him. He’d thought his reaction to her would be entirely one of bitter anger and harsh judgment.

He didn’t like this trace of lust in his blood.

He didn’t like this connection, this feeling of her.

However, he couldn’t deny both were there inside.

Haimon Drakos glanced at his stepdaughter. His eyes said everything his mouth would not say. 

Defeated. Dead. Two black holes of despair.

“What have you done?” Her whisper, soft and stark, sifted through the hushed silence.

The scent of her sudden fear wrapped around Rafe and he reveled in feeling. His impulse was to turn. Turn to see the fear in the green, green of her gaze. But he didn’t want to stare into those dangerous eyes and chance losing his focus. Right now, he wanted to stare at this man before him who had tricked and scorned his father.

He glared at the old man who’d caused his father’s death.

“Tell her.”

* * *

Raphael.

Here.

Close enough to touch.

The reality was so intolerably unreal, Tamsin could barely breathe. She’d dreamed so many dreams of this moment. Dreams of ecstatic cries of love. Dreams of walking into his strong arms and crying out the years of pain and misery. Dreams that followed her from her bed every morning and swirled around in her head throughout the day.

Raphael.

He was so him and yet, so very different.

He no longer had the lanky posture of youth. Years ago, he seemed more legs and arms, and always walked and moved as if he still were learning how to handle the growth spurt into six-feet-plus of male. Now his shoulders were no longer bony and lean. They were heavy with muscle. His body moved with fluid masculine grace, confident in its supremacy, filling the tiny, dingy room with its power.

Raphael.

She stared at his broad back, turned against her. Then, her gaze took in the way he held his head. The proud tilt told her he no longer had any of the shy charm she’d found so irresistible when she was sixteen. His hair had been longer too, a mass of ebony curls. Curls that clung to her fingers as they lay together in the sunlit vineyards of her stepfather’s Greek estate. Curls that gave him a boyish beauty she fell for within seconds of meeting him. Now those curls were ruthlessly suppressed, the cut emphasizing the symmetry of his ears, the elegance of his jaw line.

Rafe.

“Tell her.”

His voice was different too. No longer warm and fun and full of laughter. Of love. Now his voice slashed into her like a cold slice of steel. His voice hacked through all her old memories and yearnings and brought her back to the reality of what stood before her.

A threat.

She had no doubt of this. None. She’d heard the voices and known immediately something was terribly wrong. Haimon rarely had anyone visit him anymore. He did all his dirty business by phone and she ignored what was going on because she couldn’t do anything about it. As long as he left everything else alone, she was content to let him play his games from his seedy, shabby office.

“Don’t involve the boys,” she’d warned him.

“Of course not,” he’d assured her, puffing on his ever-present cigar.

She’d chosen to believe him because she had no other choice.

Yet, when she heard the voices today, she knew with gut certainty this wasn’t one of Haimon’s customers surprising him in his office. This was worse. This was far worse. But not even her usually keen instincts prepared her for what she saw as she walked into disaster.

Her past walking into her present.

No longer a ghost of regret and pain. No longer a memory she’d hidden in her heart all these years as she lived with her choice and her sacrifice. No, her ghost of past love now stood before her. And as soon as she saw his expression, she knew.

He was a threat. 

To Haimon, surely. Maybe with some justification. But not only to him.

To her home. To her.

To the boys.

“What have you done?” She managed to push out the words through the horror leaching into her belly. 

Her stepfather had promised her, promised he wouldn’t touch what she’d created here. He’d assured her this place she hobbled together to make a home for the boys would stay safe. Stay apart from his dirty games.

Raphael Vounó suddenly threw his head back and laughed.

The sound jarred her. So different, so different and sad and horribly wrong compared to how he used to laugh. How many memories had she stored inside her soul, memories of the joy of his laughter as he swung her around in his arms? Memories that sustained her through her terrible decision and the ugly aftermath.

This laugh told her everything about him.

A lethal, deathly threat to everything she held dear.

With a swift jerk, he turned to face her one more time. The grief for all she’d lost and he’d lost swept through her again as she stared into his black, pitiless eyes. The eyes that once danced with a bright glow. As a girl, she was never able to describe in her journal the way his black eyes were not dark but light. Not deep but open. She couldn’t communicate in words how the very blackness of his gaze highlighted how brilliant the love shining from them was.

Yet now, like everything about him, the black had changed.

“He’s too much of a coward,” he snarled. “So I have the pleasure of informing you, kardiá mou.”

The nickname was too much. “Don’t call me that.”

The black gaze blazed, flared with unholy delight. “You don’t appreciate irony, Tamsin?”

She tried to wrestle her brain into working order, tried to find her way out of this nightmare, but it was no use. His presence and hate swallowed her whole. 

His terrible, treacherous threat. 

What could be worse than this? What could be worse than confronting her old dreams arising from the ashes of her past as a menace?

But she’d absorbed a hard, bitter lesson at sixteen. One she learned again and again over the years. There was no way to win when confronted with disaster. 

The only thing a person could do was survive.

“Tell me.”

“Your loving father…” His accented drawl elongated the words, edging them with icy contempt.

Haimon wasn’t her father. Once, when she was little, she’d hoped. Hoped he’d take the place of a father who abruptly disappeared from her life. Except her new stepfather wasn’t the paternal type and she’d quickly accepted she was nothing more than a piece of her mother’s baggage.

Raphael knew this.

He’d listened to her wistful dreams about her real father. He’d held her in his arms as she cried about some insult Haimon threw at her.

He knew. Too much.

“No more games.” Tam reminded herself of what she’d become. She ran this hotel. She managed the small staff. She paid the bills. Moreover, she’d successfully raised the twins for the last ten years. Two rambunctious, challenging, amazingly wonderful boys. She could handle anything.

She needed to for the boys.

“Games?” Raphael’s mouth turned grim. “I’m not playing a game.”

“Then stop beating about the bush. Say what you have to say and leave.”

His gaze sharpened. Was he surprised she challenged him? Didn’t he realize she was different too? She was not the loving, giving girl he knew years ago. Her sacrifice to protect everyone, including him, had changed her forever. 

“I’m not leaving,” he stated. “You and your father are.”

She didn’t waste her breath denying Haimon as a father. Because she only had breath enough to deny his demand, deny a reality too horrible to contemplate. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

“Nai, Tamsin, you are going. Out onto the street.” A confident smirk crossed his face. “I own this place, and I’m evicting you and your father.”

This building wasn’t merely a building. It didn’t only house the cheap hotel rooms and struggling businesses which paid for the little they had. This building was their home. The top floor was where she and the boys slept, played, dreamed. This building was the only thing they owned.

She peered past the horror standing before her and glared into Haimon’s sunken eyes. “You told me you owned this place free and clear.”

“I did.” The shrug of old shoulders tinged the words with defeat. “Once.”

“Not now?” She couldn’t help the wail. What would she do? What would she do with the twins?

“He took out a mortgage a year ago.” Raphael’s voice was quiet, yet intense. “Which I bought.”

“But…but…” None of the thoughts and emotions running through her brain made any sense. She couldn’t seem to nail any of them down and put them in some comprehensible order.

“He’s late with the payments.” The deadly tone marched on.

“Not that late,” Haimon blustered.

“The contract you signed, old man.” The younger man appeared completely at ease, his arms casually crossed, his long legs planted solidly on the floor. The floor he claimed he owned. “Didn’t you read the contract? Were you as foolish as my father was years ago?”

The sharp tang of sheer rage filled the words. But she detected something else in the flavor of his voice. A hint of permanent, unbearable grief. All these years, and he still mourned. And exactly like before, she couldn’t comfort him; she couldn’t walk into his arms and hold him. The stark thought brought unwilling, unwanted tears to her eyes.

Raphael glanced her way and smiled. “Tears won’t do you any good, kardiá mou. They will not sway me from throwing you out.”

“I’m not—” She stopped. 

This man was no longer her Raphael. He wouldn’t believe a word she said. She needed to understand right now—he was the enemy. Somehow she had to find a way around this man and his threats in order to protect the boys.

“In fact,” he continued, his smile tight and taut. “Tears will only make this more pleasurable for me. I want both of you to suffer.”

Just as my father did.

He didn’t have to say the words. They lay in his eyes. His dark black eyes.

She stared into those eyes and saw nothing of the boy she’d loved. Clearly, that boy died ten years ago when his father ended his life. Tamsin’s grief billowed inside. She thought she’d done the right thing that long ago night. She’d been sure in her young heart she was saving him. 

But saving him for what? 

Saving him only for him to lose any trace of humanity?

For a moment, something flashed in those black eyes. His big body flinched; his mouth tightened. And his eyes…for a moment, Tam thought she saw something.

Then, it was gone.

Rafe swung back to Haimon. “Since you didn’t read all the fine print, Drakos, I’ll enlighten you. One late payment and this place is mine. One.”

The old man sunk deeper in his chair.

“And you’ve missed three.”

“We live here.” Reality seeped into her skin like an oily claw of futility. “This is our home.”

“Not any longer.” He prowled to the door. “You were served with an eviction notice and today’s the last day you can live here.”

“I never saw any such notice.” Tam clung to a last strand of hope.

Her tormentor stared over at her stepfather. Her gaze followed his and what she saw on Haimon’s face cut any hope right out of her heart. “How could you keep this from me?”

“I have a deal in the works,” he mumbled. “I’ll have the money—”

“Too late.” Leaning on the doorframe, Rafael crossed his arms. “I don’t want your money, Drakos. I’ve got plenty of my own.”

“If you’ll give me some time—”

“I’ll give you nothing.”  His words were like steel-edged nails. “I want you both out. If not willingly, then I will be glad to call the bailiffs in.”

Fury and fear mixed inside her, making it hard to think. Only emotion shot through the mess in her mind. 

“The boys,” she blurted.

“Ah, yes.” He straightened, dropping his hands to his sides.

Her love for her brothers swelled, settling her emotions and letting her think. He remembered the boys. She saw the memories in his black gaze. The times he lifted them into the pool and played with them. The picnic they had with the twins one day. The fun he experienced, laughing and rolling with them in the fragrant grass by the river. If she had to plead and beg, if she needed to use those memories, she would. She would do anything to save their home for them. 

“The boys live here.”

“The boys.” Sudden fury flashed across his face. “How could I forget?”

“They have a home here.” Why did the memory of her boys make him angry? They were only three the last time he saw them. They’d done nothing to warrant any anger. She forced herself to continue, trying to find a foothold to negotiate with this man. “I’m…I’m their mother.”

“Actually, you’re not, are you?” The dark gaze pinned her to the floor. “Their mother was a whore, wasn’t she?”

“Don’t say that.” Rage wiped away any impulse to negotiate. “It’s not true—”

“I speak only the truth.” The long, elegant fingers of his hands tightened into fists. He glowered at the old man sagging in his chair. “The boys aren’t yours, Drakos. Did you know that?”

The words blasted into the room like torches of fire. Her stepfather jerked in his seat, and if it were possible, his skin whitened even further. “What the hell are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m telling you.”

The fear in her blood raced, roared, and Tamsin thought she might faint. “What are you telling us?”

“The boys.” Rafe looked right at her as he delivered the killing blow. “Are mine.”

Catherine Bybee, Parker S. Huntington, and Louise Bay, these are the stories for you! Includes: blackmail, opposites attract, second chance romance, secret baby, runaway heroine, enemies to lovers

Italian billionaire Marcus La Rocca is a cynical workaholic with signature dimples and silver-sword eyes who's determined to protect his heart from betrayal, even as he's inexplicably drawn to the one woman who challenges everything he believes about love.

Behind Dante Casartelli's cool and contained exterior lies a passionate man who's determined to claim the woman he's loved for years, even if it means forcing her to marry him and hiding his heart until she's ready to accept it and him.

When Italian playboy Vico Mattare discovers the ice princess he seduced now carries his child, he'll use every weapon in his arsenal to claim both mother and baby—but his greatest battle lies in proving to himself he's worthy of the love he demands.

Arrogant architect Alexander Stravoudas may have the perfect life on paper, but when fiery baker Sophie disrupts his carefully designed world, he discovers that true perfection might be found in the messy, unpredictable chaos of real love.

A ruthless billionaire with walls built around his heart, Aetos Zenos thought he had the perfect marriage arrangement—a pretend wife who never demanded his time, emotions, or attention—until a curious reporter hiding in his mansion forces him to confront the wounds of his past and discover what a real perfect wife might be.

A powerful man seeking vengeance for his father's death, Raphael Vounó refuses to believe in second chances until fate reunites him with the one woman who broke his heart—and the nephews he never knew existed.

Artist Darcy Moran is a fiercely independent survivor with a spunky spirit; despite childhood abandonment and a traumatic past, she maintains an infectious optimism and charm that conceals her vulnerability and deep yearning for the safety of a real home she's never known.

Scarred by her past and determined to stand on her own, Lara Derrick never expected to be forced into marriage with the commanding billionaire who once rejected her, only to discover that beneath his icy control lies a passion that might heal them both—if she dares to let herself love him.

When cool, controlled CFO Lise Helton finds herself pregnant after one passionate night with her Italian playboy boss, she'll fight to protect her heart as fiercely as her child—never expecting that surrendering control might be the key to discovering her true self.

Talented baker Sophie Feuer may have sworn off "perfect" men, but when she's forced into a fake engagement with Alex Stravoudas, she discovers that beneath his polished exterior lies a man who might be worth abandoning her defenses for—if she can survive his revenge plan without losing her bakery or her heart.

A resourceful journalist on the run from her family's dangerous past, Natalie Globenko never planned to impersonate a billionaire's fictional wife, but when she discovers the wounded soul beneath Aetos Zenos's cold exterior, she risks everything to prove that what started as the perfect lie might become the perfect marriage.

Fiercely devoted to her half-brothers and haunted by the sacrifice that tore her from her first love, Tamsin Drakos must decide whether to risk her heart again when Raphael returns demanding custody—and revenge.

Romance novels have been my escape and joy since I first discovered them as a teenager, and writing my own love stories has been a journey marked by discovery, healing, and deep emotional growth. None of these books were my first attempts—there’s a stack of early manuscripts tucked away, quiet experiments in finding my voice. Each of the stories in this collection came from a different moment in my life—some joyful, some difficult—and all of them reflect the winding path I’ve taken as both a writer and a woman.

Some stories arrived like a gift, characters flowing effortlessly onto the page. Others emerged from much darker seasons, when writing became a lifeline. Like many of my heroines, I’ve known what it feels like to be caught in a web of responsibility, uncertainty, and longing—and I’ve always turned to romance to remind myself that love has the power to rescue, to redeem, and to set us free. That belief runs through every one of these books.

The characters you’ll meet here were shaped in part by the stories I grew up reading—Jane Austin, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Jane Diamond and many more. All of them filled with commanding heroes, spirited heroines, and impossible choices that somehow led to joy. I’ve carried that legacy into my own work, embracing bold tropes like blackmail, fake engagements, surprise pregnancies, and forced proximity—not just for their drama, but for the emotional truth they reveal: that even the most flawed people can find healing through love.

Travel, too, plays a role in these stories. While I’ve walked the streets of London, soaked in New York’s energy, and fallen in love with Rome’s timeless charm, I’ve yet to experience the sun-drenched hills of Tuscany or the dramatic beauty of the Greek mountains. Still, these landscapes live vividly in my imagination—villas among the vineyards, stone villages overlooking the sea—backdrops for passion, discovery, and unexpected connection.

These books trace my evolution as a storyteller—from finding my creative stride to processing personal challenges to experimenting with new storytelling textures. Whether the characters are fighting fate or surrendering to it, what drives every story is the same: the belief that love is always worth the risk.

I hope these journeys sweep you away, stir your heart, and offer the same joy and escape they gave me while writing them.

1. Mistress by Blackmail*

2. Wife by Force*

3. Baby by Accident*

4. A Perfect Man*

5. A Perfect Wife*

6. A Perfect Love*

*all stories are standalone and can be read in any order

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