A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks (12 page)

Stopping in the row of wine bottles, he began to peruse.

“You can’t belittle me by pretending I don’t exist. I won’t let you do it. Not anymore.”

He spotted the bottle he wanted. La Roche. Some of the best vines in France, his
grand-p
è
re
had often said.

“You know, Stravoudas, not every woman needs to bow down before you.”

An instant image of Sophia on her knees before him caused his cock to harden in a complete erection.

He ignored it. And her.

“I’ll take the
Martine Barraud
.” He waved at the bottle he wanted and the vendor dutifully plucked it from the shelf.

Pulling his belt loose, he stowed the wine in the side pocket of his navy trench coat. As he swung the flap closed, he glanced over to see her staring, wide-eyed, at his crotch.

Before he could stop himself, he slipped. “Like what you see?”

“No.” The word came out in a rush and her tiny hand tightened on her bags of chocolate.

He deserved it. He’d slipped and got another slap.

What he needed was to forget this woman even existed. He had plenty of work to focus on during the next few days and plenty of reasons to stay out of her way. Except for the foolish fact he’d put them in the same apartment together, all alone, he shouldn’t have any trouble keeping himself far away from Ms. Feuer.

Turning, he paced through the market and into the open lane. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and Alex welcomed the cool moisture on his hot skin.

“So. What?” She followed behind him, the
slap, slap
of her sneakers splashing in the puddles. “Are you going to ignore me from now on?”

Oui
. He was.

The family apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain was a mere thirty-minute walk from here, less for a guy with long legs. He turned to gaze at her short, stubby ones. “We can take a taxi.”

“He speaks. To me.” She stomped in the puddle again and a wash of icy water splashed onto his good wool pants.

Alex squashed his aggravation. He was a gentleman. The woman had flown across the Atlantic, hadn’t slept in hours, plus she’d been forced to buy clothes, something she plainly hated. She wasn’t like him. She didn’t appreciate beautiful things. There was no understanding inside her of the subtle magic of this city nor would she feel the current of excitement he always felt when he came to Paris. He needed to stop this ridiculous campaign to win her over. Why did he keep trying to pound his head against the wall of her dislike? Sophia was right. This was about work and deals. Nothing more. “There’s a taxi stand at the corner.”

“Where are we going now?” She sounded tired. Too tired to walk the enchanting streets of his favorite city.

See? He’d been correct. “To my family’s apartment. It’s about thirty minutes away.”

“By taxi?” She cocked her head and the end of her ponytail flopped onto her shoulder like a sinuous red-tinged snake.

“No.” He gripped the bag carrying the fish and asparagus. “Walking. By taxi, we’ll be there in minutes.”

Staring at him, she scowled. “Why the heck would I come to Paris only to take a taxi everywhere?”

A jolt of surprise echoed through him. Not many women would elect to walk dank, dreary streets in December. Even if this was Paris. Also, this was a woman who’d declared she had no interest in doing anything with him. Regardless of the fact that this was a lie, why would she pivot a one-eighty and declare she wanted something else entirely?

“We’re walking,” the woman stated.

“Suits me.” Swinging around, he marched across the street, making for the Seine. Whatever odd quirk in her personality made her make this decision, he didn’t care.

Not one little bit.

Instead of worrying about her, thinking about her, he was going to enjoy.

He’d walked almost all of Paris’s streets at one time or another, but this was his favorite route. Down Rue Vielle du Temple, with its funky mix of bistros and galleries, across Pont au Change
to the Île de la Cité, past the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette spent her last days. Then came the exquisite La Sainte-Chapelle, with its stained-glass windows and medieval splendor. Finally, he’d meander through the narrow Rue Saint-André des Arts, its twisting path leading to the broad avenue where the family apartment occupied the second floor of a grand Haussmann building.

The splatter of rain continued as they marched past ancient buildings and pleasant parks. When they got to Pont au Change, the wind picked up, an icy gale coming off the river. The Seine rolled along, dark and murky. Dusk descended slowly, the stark black streetlights flickering on one by one, lighting the tiny island in the middle of the city with a burnished glow.

“Oh.” Her voice came from behind him. “That’s pretty.”

He glanced over his shoulder. She had stopped to stare at the impressive lines of his favorite church, looming out of the gathering darkness. La Sainte-Chapelle’s stunning stained glass and soaring stone walls had inspired his love for the art he now practiced. He supposed he could tell her about the history of King Louis and the elements of medieval Gothic architecture, but Ms. Feuer wanted none of what he offered.

He started walking once more.

“What’s its name?” she called.

Stopping, he turned back to gaze at her and said nothing.

A long minute went by.

She made a face. “Come on.”

He kept staring.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

Alex turned around and paced off. There was a strange brew inside him—a childish need to hurt, a masculine drive to punish. He knew he should be gracious, his
maman
would be appalled at his actions, yet he was in no mood to cater to anyone.

Especially not to Sophia.

He arrived at the squat, sturdy Pont Saint-Michel, crouching above the Seine, just as she caught up with him.

“You're being an asshole.” Her breath came fast, still, there was no heat in her voice. Rather, he detected an odd element of affection.

Affection?

He swiveled to stare at her again.

“Okay.” She made another face. “I told you not to be a guide.”

He said nothing. He was too busy trying to decide if he were crazy about what he heard lacing through her words.

Affection
?

“That doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole, though.”

That was definitely affection edging around the acid putdown. The realization astonished him and also caused something in the brew inside him to dissipate. Enough to give her a boon. “La Sainte-Chapelle.”

A quirky grin slipped across her mouth. “That’s the name of that pretty church?”

“
Oui
.”

The wind whistled past and she shuddered in her coat. A sudden desire to shield her, protect her, take her into his arms, tingled up his spine, but he resisted. He didn’t need another slap. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

By the time they’d crossed the bridge, even he felt the cold straight through his coat. The wine bottle clunked on the side of his hip, making him think of what lay before him.

Sophia. In his family’s apartment.

He’d never taken any woman to this place. The Paris home was for family. Only family. That thought had crossed his mind when he’d been organizing this trip, yet he hadn’t found any overt reason for stuffing her in a hotel while he stayed elsewhere.

Sophia. In the family home.

The narrow lane of Rue Saint-André des Arts
crowded out the remaining light, casting dark shadows on the sidewalk. The usual crowds were gone, driven into the warmly lit restaurants and galleries lining the street.

He heard her breathing behind him, the sound mixing and mingling with the gentle slosh of drizzle on the pavement.

They turned onto the boulevard; its wide lane lined with naked bony trees and splashes of color and laughter as people came in and out of the shops and restaurants. The flash of headlights, spearing into the dark, came and went as the cars drove past.

“This is it?” she said as they stopped under the bright red awning.

“
Oui
.” He opened the glass-and-mahogany door to the lobby.

Her brown eyes widened. “Oh.”

The lobby was impressive. Since the building housed some of the finest and most expensive apartments in Paris, this was no surprise. The black-and-white checkered floor complimented the icy-clean lines of the concierge desk and the antique glass chandelier.

“
Monsieur
Stravoudas.” Marcel, the attendant who had manned this desk since Alex had been a kid, smiled a welcome. “It is good to have you return.”

“Is this a hotel?” she whispered at his side.

“It’s good to return to Paris.” Ignoring her, he strode over and shook the older man’s hand.

Marcel’s gray, shaggy eyebrows rose as he examined Sophia’s wet hair and disheveled appearance. His mouth tightened. “Shall I make dinner reservations for you?”

Alex found himself unaccountably irritated at the man—a man who’d always been unfailingly polite. Before. Before Sophia stepped into the lobby. Unwanted, still undeniable, the powerful feeling of shielding her ran through him once more. Now, not from the wind, but from any kind of judgment at all.

She huffed.

He glanced back and immediately, amusement rose inside to twine around his need to protect. She glared at Marcel as if he were a mere toad before her.

“Sophia.” He gestured at the other man. “Meet Marcel.”

She huffed again.

“Marcel.” He smiled. “Meet my fiancée.”

The older man’s eyes widened before a plastic smile covered his face. “
Mademoiselle
. Charmed.”

Alex looked at her and nearly laughed. His sharp, little firecracker was having none of it. The glare had gone deadly.

“Perhaps you will take her to Boucherie Roulière
for dinner.” Marcel kept trying. “Shall I make a reservation?”

He finally took pity on the man. “No, we’ll be eating in tonight.”

“Very good, very good.” The older man clapped his hands together, the smile still pinned on his face.

“The stairs are over here.” Alex gestured her forward and she came, but not before giving Marcel one more glaring shot. The red carpet had been replaced since he’d last been here six months ago. The runner cushioned the sound of her stomping, but not by much.

He grinned.

“What a dick.”

He turned and looked at her, his grin wider. “I object to that.”

“What?” The delicate line of her dark eyebrows frowned.

“That’s my title.” Stepping to the apartment’s front door, he slipped in the card key. “He can’t have it.”

“You are being so stupid…” She stepped into the foyer. “Oh.”

His mother’s family had passed down the home from generation to generation. He didn’t know how long they’d owned it, but it had been at least a hundred years. To him, it was merely the place they came to every summer when he’d been a kid. The gold-edged antiques, the flowing, satin-lined curtains, the plush Persian carpets; this was merely part of the tapestry of his background.

“Oh, my.” She wandered away from the front door into the center of the wide central room. The curtains had been pulled back, and even though the night was hazy with rain, the lights of the Eiffel Tower glittered in the distance. She turned around slowly, taking the room in. “This? This is your family home?”

“One of them.” Shaking off the image of her dazzled face, he marched up the hall lined with family photographs and into the compact kitchen. Modern steel appliances fit in well with the old arched walls and antique plate-glass doors that led to a tiny terrace. It had taken him ten years to convince his
maman
the work was needed and that he could do it.

She appeared in the arch of the door. “This room is gorgeous, too.”

Alex plopped the bag containing the sole and asparagus onto the black granite counter. Slipping the wine from his coat pocket, he opened the waist-high refrigerator and put it in to cool. “Why don’t you take a bath while I cook dinner?”

Her round face scrunched into a puzzled grimace. “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”

Because of the affection still lingering in her voice. Even when she called him stupid.

An affection he realized he shared.

The recognition of the fact rocked him back, making him defensive. “Would you like me to be a dickhead instead?”

Amusement blossomed on her face and then was replaced with wariness. The look told him she was as shocked as he was at where they’d landed.

They liked each other.

“Your bedroom’s at the end of the hall and there’s an adjoining bathroom.” He waved past her. “Go take a bath.”

A militant frown was her response to his command and his own amusement bloomed inside. Also, he realized, anticipation. He couldn’t wait for the scold.

Much to his disappointment, she appeared to choose her battles. “Okay.” She tramped off, sneakers slapping on the wooden parquet floor.

Sighing, he slid his coat off and rolled up his sleeves. He pushed away the disappointment at missing another scrape with Sophia and focused on the food. Within a few minutes, the fish sizzled in the copper pan as he indulged himself with a glass of wine. Walking to the terrace door to stare into the dark of the night, he tried to wrap his head around the fact that somewhere along the way, he and Sophia had found something inside both of them to appreciate.

Incredible.

Alex sipped the wine again, letting the delicate, fresh taste linger on his tongue.

The rain came harder now, sliding down the glass like fingers of silver. The lights of Paris twinkled as a wicked wind whipped the barren tree tops back and forth.

He liked her. A lot.

Tie that into the driving sexual need and there was bound to be quite a bit of trouble coming toward him.

“That was incredible.” Her voice had gone soft and sultry.

His cock twitched even before he turned to see. See her and see that trouble had definitely arrived.

She wore a big, fluffy something or other he supposed could be labeled as a bathrobe. In true Sophia fashion, it was exactly the wrong color for her. A putrid pink. The fuzzy material was also all wrong for her, making her look like a feathery snowball rather than a shapely, sexy woman.