A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks (14 page)

A flush rose from her neck. “I—”

“Do you ever stop for a moment before you blow someone’s life up and think you might not have all the facts?”

“I try and—”

“Do you ever once keep your busybody nose out of everyone else’s business?” His last question ended in a shout.

Her cupid bow lips opened and then closed.

“No.” He straightened, his muscles suddenly tired, trembling. “No. You never do.”

Turning to walk away, he almost stumbled. He felt as if a huge caldron of fear, confusion, and rage had exploded inside him, pouring out of him like a river of fiery emotions, leaving him shaken and cold.

“Alex.”

The first time. The very first time she actually used his nickname instead of punching him with a slur or stomping him with the elongated version of his full name. He turned around, the anger building inside of him once more. This must be one more sneaky way of getting inside him, burrowing into him until he didn’t know what was his anymore. “Shut the f—”

“I’m sorry.” Her tiny hands trembled before she clutched them into a ball. “I’m sorry I hurt you when I made Melanie see you weren’t good together.”

“We were good together.” A steam of hate rose inside, filling his throat so his words sounded hoarse.

“No, you weren’t.” Cocoa eyes stared at him. Determined. And also filled with…

Affection.

The steam dissipated, sliding away into a fog of bewilderment. He no longer knew what he wanted to do or what he wanted to say. “I’m walking.”

“All right.” She scrunched her button nose as she eyed him. “Can I come with?”

The fragile hope in her tone made something, something he didn’t want inside him, perk to attention. He fought it, fought the need to comfort her and forgive her.

“Please?” The plea quavered at the end.

“Fine.” Swinging around, he stalked past her. “Come if you want.”

The sound of her shuffling sneakers came from behind him, adding to the turbulence still rolling inside. Within a few blocks, they turned off onto the avenue running by the
Grand Palais. The art nouveau building, with its vaulted glass ceiling and ornate decoration, had been another one of his childhood inspirations.

Why did he have this compulsion to stroll past all his inspirations with Sophia?

Why?

“Are you going to tell me about that building?” She strode to his side to walk next to him, the white cotton shirt and black slacks she’d worn for the show highlighting the creamy rose of her skin and the roundness of her hips.

The inevitable lust, a lust he fought to ignore, thrummed through him. “What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

The simple words launched him into a long recital about the building’s history much to his astonishment. Why did this woman continue to pull so many things out of him he had no intention of sharing? Somewhere along the way, he found himself telling her about his childhood ambitions, his falling in love with buildings, and his father’s constant encouragement.

She glanced over at him. In her cocoa eyes, he saw warmth and kindness, even a touch of tenderness. “Your dad sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah.” A sudden clutch of echoed grief caught in his throat. “Yeah.”

“Tell me about him—”

“Here’s the bridge named after me,” he said, forcing a jaunty tone into his voice. He never talked about his dad. Not really. When his
maman
or a sister mentioned Phillippos Stravoudas, Alex would nod his head, murmur a vague response, and get out of the conversation. The pain of even thinking about his dad was always too brutal.

Her attention, just as he’d wanted, left the unwanted topic completely. “What?”

Waving at the lavishly decorated construction, with its gaudy golden trim, its four soaring pillars, its exuberant mix of cherubs and nymphs, he managed a bored look. “Merely something I designed in my spare time. In my honor, Paris decided to name the bridge after me.”

She shot him a surprised glance.

With one blink, she adjusted to his new mood.

Quick, keen Sophia.

The firecracker laughed. She’d rarely laughed in his presence and never with a complete abandonment. This time she did. Her head went back at the first chortle, her eyes closed tight at the second, and by the third, she had her hand pressed on her round stomach. But his focus zeroed in on her little bow mouth, wide open to show her pink tongue and white teeth.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

“Stop kidding,” she finally managed through another fit of chuckles.

“I wouldn’t kid about one of my designs.”

She eyed him. “Ha.”

Alex chuckled. Nothing much slipped past her, and unlike most others, she had an uncanny ability to spike right through his BS. Why did that make him sizzle with excitement?

Why?

“Come on.” Her arms crossed in front of her and one finger tapped in impatience on a plump arm. “Stop playing around.”

All of sudden, it hit him. Every one of the why answers tumbled inside him. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to show her everything about him. Every time he was around Sophia life sparkled into…
life
.

He stepped back.

The tapping stopped. A wary look crossed her face.

“The bridge’s real name is Pont Alexandre. But not because of me.”

Turning away from him and his frown, because yes, he realized he was frowning, she walked up to an ornate lamp, one of dozens lining the wide pathway running across the bridge. A copper lizard stared back at her.

“Cute.” The word was short and crisp. The taut line of her shoulders told him his frown had dampened her mood.

“My dad loved this bridge.” Why the hell had he raised a subject he never went near? The idiotic impulse couldn’t be to soften her voice, soften her attitude towards him.

“Really?” She glanced over her shoulder, her dark gaze alert, but still on guard.

“
Oui
.” Pretending everything was fine, when everything was not, he strolled to the railing and leaned over. The river rolled along, a muddy current swirling with secrets.

“Tell me about your dad.”

He kept staring at the water. “He died when I was seventeen.”

Four tourists passed, chatting happily away, a smattering of Italian and English. A horn blasted from the avenue behind them and someone yelled a curse word at the driver.

“That’s not telling me about him, Alex.” Her words were tough. And kind.

He twisted around to look at her. Once more she’d said his name and he realized no one had ever said his name quite like she did. A cool roll of a vowel at the beginning, almost a tease. Then a quick flick at the end, as if in dismissal. There was something in how she said his name that challenged him, made his blood zing. He wanted her to moan his name. He wanted her to whisper his name in the dark, in the sultry way he imagined only she could do. The lust rose inside, clawing through his anger and affection, making him feel as if he had suddenly come to a boil—

“Tell me about him.” One of her hands smoothed across the lizard. How could her hand be simultaneously so delicate yet strong?

A shudder went through him. He turned back to the water. And back to a subject he didn’t want to talk about, but felt compelled to lay out in front of her. “He was an immigrant. Very poor when he landed in America.”

“He didn’t stay poor, though.”

“No.” He forced a smile, stinging memories crowding in his brain. “That was important to him. To get ahead. To make his mark.”

“A need you inherited.”

“Yeah.” Throwing his head back, he stared into the blue sky. Something ugly churned inside. “I guess.”

“You loved him.”

A clutch of tears clogged his throat. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” She came closer, with a hesitant step. “Now tell me how he died.”

I killed him
.

Alex swiveled around and took off across the bridge.

I
f a man could be
any more pompous and presumptuous than Sheikh Adel Bin Abbas Al Zhani, Sophie would like to know him.

Well, no, actually not.

“
Mademoiselle
Sophie.” The slick boy-man inclined toward her, invading her personal space. His dark hair gleamed with oil and the wisp of a beard on his chin made him look fifteen years old. Even though he’d been eager to inform her he’d turned all of twenty-one. “You are not eating the food correctly.”

Across the table, his father, Sheikh Abbas Bin Saeed Al Zhani, nodded slowly, his checkered headdress wafting across his hunched shoulders. The gray in his beard did nothing to lessen the sharpness of his gaze.

This was Alex’s potential client, not the boy-man sitting beside her.

However, it was clear by the look in the old man’s eyes, she needed to impress them both.

“You must let me show you how to eat our food in the right way.”

She felt stifled by the younger sheikh, surrounded. How and why this guy had picked her out for special attention, she had no idea. And yet he had.

Which was a problem.

Henry had been sweet and polite on the way to this dinner. He’d also been pointed. This was a traditional client. There were unspoken rules. Everything needed to go flawlessly.

Alex hadn’t said a word. Instead, he’d stared broodingly out the limo window.

Still, she got it. The third promise. Be the loving fiancée in front of the emir and his wife. Impress them with how strong of a union she had with Alex. Be the compliant, sweet, traditional woman she was so…not.

She’d girded herself before walking into the extravagant mansion. Managing not to show how appalled she was at the over-the-top decorations, she’d smiled and nodded at the wife of the emir and the other two wives of his associates. She’d allowed herself to be paraded around the parlor with Alex, greeting the dozens of attendants to the sheikh. She thought she had this in the bag until the son had swooped into the situation.

She hadn’t counted on a smarmy son.

“Now look at the food first.” His cloying command drifted very close to her ear.

Focusing on the stew, a blend of lamb, lentils, and cucumbers, she tried to ignore him without causing offense. She’d picked out a spoon as soon as the main course had been served because if her mouth was full, she wouldn’t have to keep responding to the boy-man. The guy who’d lunged to the chair next to her before anyone else could save her.

He’d given her a smug smirk as he’d sat.

The same smug smirk was on his face now.

“Okay. I looked.” Her temper bubbled, but she hid it behind another insipid smile.

He took a piece of flatbread out of the warmer in the middle of the long, mahogany dining table. An inlaid herringbone design ran along the edge of the table drawing a person’s attention to the fancy swags on the sides. The table shrieked wealth in a banshee sort of way. The table matched the rest of this monstrous house perched on the riverbank of the Seine. It also matched the flamboyance of the owner’s son.

Sophie kept a smile pinned to her face.

“In my homeland.” He edged his chair closer to hers and the overpowering smell of his cologne—heavy and pungent—filled her nose until she thought she might sneeze in his face. “We use bread to eat this particular stew.”

“Right.” She snatched the bread out of his skinny fingers and kept smiling. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“My pleasure.” He purred the last word and his eyes told her he meant something entirely different.

What a revolting boy.

Concentrating hard on the food, she stuffed a piece of meat into her mouth. She chewed while keeping her gaze pinned on the table.

Not getting enough attention, after a minute or two, he moved across to the other side of his chair and began a conversation with one of the many family sycophants. His father continued to stare at her from across the table as if he were analyzing a new species of worm. His wife, apparently satisfied with Sophie’s table manners, avoided any interaction.

She didn’t like this. Any of this. The situation felt wrong. All wrong. Her Irish radar buzzed like a chainsaw, telling her this was the biggest circle of jerkhood ever assembled. How could Alex contemplate doing business with these people? How could he want to spend time with a man whose son felt it was fine to come on to a potential partner’s fiancée?

Okay. Not quite a come on. But close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable.

She didn’t like this mansion.

She didn’t like the emir and his entourage.

And she absolutely didn’t like the boy-king.

He’d arrived a full hour after the festivities had begun. In that hour, she had taken in the gilded gold statues, the green satin wallpaper, the garish antique furniture and realized it resembled a weird kind of ode to Western over-consumption. The place almost looked like a movie set. How oddly splendid a stage it was for the boy-sheikh. He’d acted like a ridiculous actor in a B-grade movie as he’d strutted into the room.

He literally wore a black cape. Like some sort of superhero.

A squeak of humor, one she’d managed to hold in during the last two hours of endless conversation, erupted from her mouth.

An answering cough came from the end of the long table.

Sophie glanced down, down, down the table to meet Alex’s blue eyes. They were blank. His face wore the same bland smile he’d had on since they climbed into the limo to Henry’s terse greeting. She couldn’t read anything on his face or in his gaze and yet, she knew. She knew exactly.

He was royally pissed off.

Maybe it was the tense way he held his shoulders inside the midnight blue of his tuxedo. Or was it the tight edge of his jaw? Perhaps it was the complete nothingness in his eyes that gave her the clue.

He was really, really angry.

At her?

She’d tried her best to cover for his silence amid the last few hours. Somehow and somewhere, the charming man who made everyone feel like a bright shining star in his orbit had disappeared. In his place stood a man who, while not quite sullen, was certainly no picnic to be with.

The emir had not been pleased.

So she’d bounced into action, laughing and smiling and generally being the life of this wretched party. Along with Henry, she’d managed to smooth over any awkwardness and by the time they’d sat down for this late dinner, things seemed to be going swimmingly.

Except for the boy-man. But she had that under control, for the most part.

Alex shouldn’t be mad at her. He should be grateful.

Sophie looked at the stew and managed to slide a cucumber onto the bread. She stuffed it into her mouth just as the young sheikh turned back to focus on her again.

Well, not her.

He stared at her chest.

She supposed it might have something to do with the black gown she wore. The dress was simplicity itself with its elegant puffed sleeves and straight lines. Demure and sophisticated, the edge of the skirt fell way past her knees. The wives had seemed to approve after spending long minutes looking her over.

The gown had given her confidence. The folds of the dress made her appear taller and slimmer, with the help of her La Redoute shoes. She had to admit—the Perfect Man had picked perfectly. There was something about the color that made her skin glow. Yet he probably hadn’t thought about how the cut of the bodice would highlight her cleavage. Even though the dress wasn’t splashy or daring, it still showcased what she couldn’t help.

She fixated on the stew.

Eventually, the boy-man turned to the conversation on the other side of the table once more. Taking a deep breath, she glanced over to the other end. This time, Alex didn’t meet her gaze. He seemed to be in a stilted discussion with the emir’s second-in-command and Henry.

Doubtless about the deal. The deal to build the emir’s dream.

The architectural model had stood in the middle of the wide parlor they’d been ushered into. It rose like a black spear, an elongated, rigid…dick.

A dick designed by her very own dickhead.

I might be a dickhead, but you want me
.

The memory of his accusation shivered across her skin. Every time she thought of the intensity of his voice…every time, she shivered.

She did want him.

She hated to admit it, hated the thought of falling into his bed. But last night, as she’d watched him cook dinner for her, watched as his broad shoulders hovered above the stove, watched his lips as he sipped the wine, she’d known right in the pit of her.

She wanted him.

“Our food is delicious, isn’t it?” Swaggering satisfaction oozed in the words.

Swallowing, she exaggerated her smile and faced the nasty boy. “Yes, it’s wonderful.”

“There’s more here at this table that’s wonderful.” His gaze dropped.

Sophie forced away a desperate desire to slap her linen napkin onto her chest. There was also the urgent need to slap this boy sheikh that had to be fought.

Focus on smiling, Soph
.

Smile. At a man who was not looking at her face.

If she did what she wanted to do, slap this guy, then all of Alex’s plans would explode and along with it, her bakery.

She gritted her teeth and smiled.

A strange noise came from the end of the table. An animal noise. Did the emir have a bear or a lion in residence?

Before she could stop herself, she glanced back down the table.

Alex was staring at her again. Or at least in her direction. Henry also had his concentration pinned on the interaction going on between the emir’s son and her. He gave her a slight smile as if prodding her to be a good girl.

Alex’s jaw was rigid. No mistaking it. His blue gaze brimmed with fiery heat. One of his muscular hands lay on the table clenched in a fist—right by the china plate and sterling silver knife. It would only take a quick movement of those talented fingers and missiles would be flying down the table toward her.

Or the emir’s son?

The sound came again. That sound was not from a bear or a lion. That sound came from her fake fiancé.

The noise radiated…

Jealousy?

Truly?

A flush of astonishment heated her face. She’d never dated any man who showed a hint of jealousy. Sophie Feuer wasn’t the type of girl to elicit possessive thoughts. At least, until now. Maybe?

That big fist clenched again, white showing on the knuckles.

Her eyes widened as she met a blue gaze so hot it gleamed like a blowtorch.

No, no. This couldn’t be. Her logical mind rebelled. This must be something else. Something much more likely and predictable.

Her fake fiancé was mad at her for some reason or another.

She didn’t think it was the remnants of their earlier fight this afternoon. Sure, he’d stormed off at the end for some unknown reason. But by the time they’d marched across the bridge and landed at the apartment, he’d seemed to recover his temper. He’d even been pleasant as they walked up the stairs and entered the beauty of his family’s Parisian home.

If anything could, that apartment would gentle a temper.

So it must be something she was doing now. Did he think she was whispering damaging information to the boy-child? Or did he think she was flirting with this horrible twit? Even when she knew how important this deal was to him?

Hurt rushed in to replace astonishment. How could he think any of these things?

“
Mademoiselle
Sophie.” The twit’s grating voice droned right next to her ear.

“Yes?” Choosing between her glaring fake fiancé and this man was a very hard choice indeed. However, she needed to keep her focus on the nearest danger. She tore her attention away from Alex and landed it back on the man at her side.

“Your Alexander is quite talented.” His black eyes promised her he was more talented. In bed, his gaze said, as it slid down her throat to her breasts once more.

Repellent and revolting.

An idea, a perfect idea, sprung fully formed into her head. Adoration of a man wasn’t in her usual repertoire, but a pastry chef learned to improvise.

“He is, isn’t he?” The best way to cure this come on and to stop this interaction at once was to gush. She wasn’t much of a gusher, but in this case, she’d figure out how to do it. If she gushed enough to appear incredibly, stupidly in love with Alex, then the emir’s son would grow disinterested and he’d leave her alone.

Hopefully.

Because she had to nip this conversation in the bud quick or else the Perfect Man was going to do something perfectly stupid. The hairs standing high on the back of her neck told her so. An angry Alex tended to lash out—she could testify to that herself.

He needed this deal to make his dreams come true.

She couldn’t let this loathsome fool spoil her fake fiancé’s plans.

The determination rang inside her, startling her with its intensity.

The need to protect Alex’s pride had been surprising enough. The fact that she now wanted to protect his dream drove her right into complete consternation. When had this happened? Perhaps it had been when he’d smiled at her as she took the first bite of sole last night and groaned. Or it could have happened when she’d seen the respect shining in his eyes when she’d looked away from Dominique today and seen him staring at her. Possibly it was the unfiltered pain of love crossing his face as he’d talked about his father this afternoon on the bridge supposedly named after him.

And maybe, maybe it was all the above and more.

Sophie straightened in her high-backed chair. Whatever the motivation, what was important was getting this done for him. There was so much going his way, the only thing she needed to do was give this deal a bit of a push.

The emir loved the dick design. Clearly.

He’d circled the thing with Alex and Henry at his side, crowing about the line of the building. Babbling imaginations of the view from the top, the decorations of his penthouse, the awe of his neighbors—the man had gone on and on for what seemed like hours.

The emir’s family and sycophants had warmed during the course of the evening.