A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks (4 page)

H
e lived in the penthouse
.

Of course, he did.

Sophie dragged her one suitcase from the silver-plated spaceship of an elevator and into a large, square foyer carpeted in white. The walls were painted in a chilly, bleached alabaster that hurt her eyes.

All of this non-color served to draw a person’s gaze to the door.

The one door.

She walked over to it. The thing was black. Very black. Some kind of exotic wood he’d probably had towed here from Africa or Ecuador or Mars. The doorknob and the door knocker stood out in sterling splendor, not greeting you but rather questioning whether you were meant to be here in the first place.

She wasn’t meant to be here.

Sophie had never entered this hallowed ground. She’d had enough of Mr. Perfectly Horrendous as it was. Still, she’d heard enough about his place from Melanie and the girls.

“The place is gorgeous,” her friend had gushed.

“His penthouse is amazing,” Jade had commented.

“Well,” Sam had cocked her head, her eyes narrowing, “I guess I’d say it’s dramatic.”

The thought of her three friends, friends she’d left only an hour ago at Ghee, made her stomach sink.

They’d been so happy for her.

Happy. That she was engaged to Alex Stravoudas. Unbelievable.

What were they going to say when this farce came to an end? And how was she going to keep the truth of what this really was from them for the rest of her life?

Her shoulders slumped.

Awful.

Horrible.

After enduring endless congratulatory hugs, she’d pulled herself away and gone back to her apartment. Packing the bare minimum had been a puny attempt to reinstate her independence. But no act of defiance could stop her next step. She’d taken the subway to the land of the rich and famous. The Upper East Side.

Where the upper crust lived, her dad always said as he bit into one of his own bread’s crusts.

She didn’t like this neighborhood, with its soaring towers of ultra-expensive condos mixed in with courtly brownstones and Greek Revival facades. The sidewalks were constantly filled with fussy matrons, in their old-fashioned couture, walking by boxed flowers lined in a row like little soldiers. She’d always imagined a small cadre of ghosts came out every night to sweep the streets squeaky clean.

The neighborhood seemed artificial to her. Not surprising he lived here, huh?

It was almost eight o’clock at night. She was tired. Hungry.

And oh, yeah. Angry.

She slammed the knocker down.

The wide door opened immediately. “Finally.” A smiling older woman dressed in a plain cotton dress appeared. “You’re here. Mr. Alex was getting worried.”

I
’
ll expect you at my apartment when I get home from work.

“I doubt it.”

The woman’s face filled with shock. “Naturally he would be. Mr. Alex is always concerned about his family and friends.”

His friend. Please.

“Especially for you,” she continued to chatter. “You’re special to Mr. Alex, of course.”

Of course.

“I’m Mrs. Palmer.” The cheerful woman smiled once more, the tiny wrinkles near her eyes creasing. “I’ve been Mr. Alex’s housekeeper for years and years.”

And loved him for all that time; it was clear in the devotion coloring her voice. Like everyone else on earth. Except herself.

“What am I thinking? Come in, come in.” The woman waved her hand and Sophie rolled her way into…

A colossal cavern of a room.

Did a person live in such a thing?

“Here, let me take your coat.” A firm tug on the sleeve of her peacoat made Sophie drop her fierce grip on her suitcase.

“There, you’ll be more comfortable now.” The woman hummed as she opened another black door and grabbed a steel hanger.

Comfortable? In this place?

Sophie didn’t think you were meant to be comfortable here. No, no. Mr. Perfectly Obnoxious wanted you to be impressed.

She was not.

The great room she walked into had floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. The dark night sky twinkled with a myriad of gold and silver lights shining from the next door buildings. However, this did nothing to lighten the effect of a long string of low black sofas crouching in a sea of gray carpet. Dwarf-like white balls that must be chairs were scattered here and there, looking like they would unwind and zing a girl to the moon if given half a chance.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

No, she didn’t think she would. She’d likely be swallowed whole or shot into the sky.

“Mr. Alex tells me you two have become recently engaged.” The woman beamed as if his previous engagement, that ended mere weeks ago, had never even happened. “I’m extremely happy for you both.”

A stilted silence fell. Sophie suddenly realized she hadn’t said a word since the front door had opened. Even if this was not where she wanted to be, she could at least be cordial. “Um.”

“Goodness.” The woman turned in a flurry and hustled from the room, her words growing muffled as she ran around the corner. “I promised to call Mr. Alex as soon as you arrived.”

So he wasn’t here yet.

Sophie took the opportunity to scout out enemy territory. She paced across the wide expanse of ugly carpeting to the black marble fireplace. On top of the mantel stood a series of photos and sculptures.

She picked the first picture up.

Then the next.

She stared at the three glass figurines.

And snorted.

Nothing homey or family here. Evidently, this was where Mr. Perfectly Dreadful had arranged his personal altar to his accomplishments. The photos were all of him with various dignitaries and clients who had been bamboozled. She could tell by the sly smile on his face and the dazed look on the others. The steel and stone objects, every one of them pointy and ugly, were numerous awards for his architectural brilliance.

Another snort.

Turning, she eyed the window-enclosed lap pool lying beyond the living room. Walking to the glass wall, she stared into the water, dull and dark in the unlit room.

Yuck.

She marched back past the fireplace and opened a side door. She didn’t worry about breaching any privacy. This wasn’t a home. This was a monument to his ego.

The door led into a study.

An imperious black desk dominated, its surface completely clear other than for an ultra-modern laptop. The commanding chair behind it was covered with some kind of ebony animal skin. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound books consummately aligned to the edge of each shelf. The fourth wall was, again, a floor to ceiling window looking out on darkness intermixed with the lights coming from other skyscrapers.

Not a green plant or tossed book or empty coffee cup to be seen, giving any indication an actual person lived here.

Immediate thoughts of where she’d just left sprang to mind. Her cozy, warm apartment with its comfy blue-checked sofa, big pots of flowers in the foyer, the tiny glass chandelier hanging over the round wooden table she’d found at an antique store. Her collection of books scattered across the old, lopsided shelves lining the fireplace, whose mantel was stuffed with a mishmash of memories.

The difference between them could not be more apparent and how anyone in their right mind could think she and Mr. Perfectly—

“You’re finally here.”

Sophie glanced over her shoulder, surprised he’d been able to sneak in without her hearing the clunking close of his intimidating front door.

“On command.” The first of three promises fulfilled. Two more and she would never have to share space with this man again. It couldn’t happen soon enough.

His wide mouth twisted in a wry tug. “You’re making yourself comfortable?”

“Getting comfortable in this place would be a fruitless task.”

Sighing, a weary sound as if he were dealing with a squawking child, he stuck his big, brutish hands in the pockets of his blue silk suit. The movement stretched the edges of his coat apart, revealing the gleam of pure white cotton plastered over muscle. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to be stupid.”

Her teeth clicked together. “You didn’t give me much choice on the decision I made.”

“Correct.” A faint smile of satisfaction crossed his face. “That was the point of the conversation.”

“Well…” She tugged her old purple cardigan down past her jean-clad hips, suddenly aware of the difference between them. He, all sparkly Upper East Side. She, all grungy Lower East Side. But she didn’t care. She’d changed from her classy dress when she’d gotten back home. He wasn’t worth primping for. “I’m here. You should be happy.”

A short bark of laughter was her answer and then his pointed blue gaze went down her length and back to her face. Yet it wasn’t the kind of look a man gave a woman he was interested in. Rather it was a glance assessing her worthiness.

Her temper flared but before she could take a verbal shot, he spun around and paced toward the front door. She immediately noticed her suitcase had disappeared. “Hey. Where’s my—”

“Mrs. Palmer took your things to the bedroom you’ll be staying in.” His gait didn’t slow. “I can show you to it now if you’d like. I hear you’re an early-to-bed-type person.”

Even though his tone held not a hint of disapproval, Sophie’s temper continued to rise. “I’m a baker. I get up at four a.m.”

“Makes sense.” His voice stayed even. “Are you hungry?”

Her stomach growled in response and he must have heard because he turned, his smile tight, his eyes alive. “You are. And so am I.”

She didn’t like the way her looked at her. His gaze wasn’t sexual in the slightest, but it was predatory. The thought of eating with him made her stomach go quiet. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Come on, Sophia.” Leaning on the wall right beside a modern painting filled with wild strokes of onyx and blood-red paint, his smile widened into the full blown deal that always won him a prize. “You can cook for me.”

She snorted. “I didn’t promise to cook for you.”

“No, that’s true.” He didn’t appear to be fazed by her rejection, his smile remaining. “Then I’ll cook for you.”

His words shocked her into stilled silence. Before she could muster any response, he disappeared around the corner.

Alexander the Great cooking?

A muffled clank of a pan carried across the cold sea of carpet. Sophie made a face at the nearest crouching couch and wound her way across the room to stand in another doorway she’d missed when she first came in.

The kitchen was as spare and bleak as the rest of the penthouse. Two big steel refrigerators lined one wall while another wall sported more floor-to-ceiling windows. A rigid island of glass and black marble stood in the center of the huge kitchen designed not for comfort but a caterer.

“You entertain a lot.” Her words shot out as an accusation.

He discarded his silk jacket and tie on one of two black leather stools tucked into the edge of the island and rolled up his sleeves. Glancing at her, he wore a quizzical look. “Naturally.”

“That’s what this place is all about, isn’t it?”

“I’m not getting your point.” Moving to one refrigerator, he pulled out a passel of plastic bags filled with cut vegetables and meat. “Stir-fry okay?”

Of course, the man could not be troubled with slicing his own food. Sophie gave him a sneer. “Does it matter?”

“No.” With short, economical movements, he slid a wok onto the glass-covered stove and poured some oil into it. The scent of bacon and chicken wafted into the air and her stomach growled once more.

He chuckled, a wicked, provoking sound.

Sophie’s pride demanded she march down some hallway somewhere and into her unknown bedroom, yet curiosity about this man and her hunger made her stay. She walked over to the other bar stool and plopped down. “You. Cook.”

“Yes.” He pulled another pan out from one of a thousand black-paneled cabinets. “Rice or noodles?”

“Gee.” Sarcasm riddled the word. “I get a choice?”

“You know what?” He slammed the pot on the stove and turned to face her, his eyes burning blue with the usual animosity. “We can make these next couple of months easy. Or we can make them a pain in the ass.”

“I vote for pain in the ass.”

He glared at her before swiveling back to the stove. “Fine. Rice it is.”

She watched as he dribbled the red peppers and broccoli into the pan, watched as the muscles of his back moved underneath the cotton, watched as his tight butt—

“We can eat here.” He swung around with two black bowls filled with steaming food.

Sophie dragged her gaze away, horrified at what she’d been focused on. This was Mr. Perfectly Ugly no matter how beautiful his butt—

“Or we can eat in the dining room.”

Staring down at the two bar stools placed very close together, she made the obvious choice. “Dining room.”

Without a word, he strode out of the kitchen through a low-arched door.

She shuffled behind him, horror still running through her brain at what she’d been gawking at.

Gawking. God help her.

The dining room was a…surprise.

Not at first, as her gaze ran over the black glass table dominating the center of the room. Twelve black leather chairs circled it as if they were on guard. A glass chandelier hung above the whole thing, but unlike her own cheery light, this one looked like a spider web, ready to catch an unsuspecting guest.

Then her gaze was snagged by the lighted swirl of—

“An aquarium!”

Placing the bowls of food on the table, he strode to a long, low cabinet and pulled out black cloth napkins and sterling silverware. Placing them by the bowls, he moved back to the cabinet and slid two crystal wine glasses from the interior. “White or red?”

“You have an aquarium.” Before she could stop herself, she rushed to the huge glass window and peered in.

“The correct term would be a terrarium.” His voice reeked with the usual condescension.

She made a face at the glass but couldn’t be bothered to turn around and tell him off. Her gaze was too busy taking in the details. This thing was nothing like the little square aquarium she had as a kid, where her two orange goldfish had lived, swimming in and out of plastic Greek statues and columns.