A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks (6 page)

“Gosh, Sophie.” Megan beamed. “You’ve been having this amazing love affair right under our noses. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Time to bake.” She clenched her fist, glad she’d taken off the ring as soon as she’d been able to. “Jorge. The brioche is ready to be delivered.”

All three of them stared at her for a second and then went right back to cooing and ahhhing over the tabloid articles about herself and the Perfect Man getting hitched.

Frustration made her want to hit something. Or someone. Even here, in
her
bakery,
he
was ruining everything. “I mean it—”

Her phone rang in the office.

A new order. She never ignored a new order.

Pacing into the dinky square room, she snatched up her phone. “Pure Pastry.”

“Sophie!”

Her mother. Sounding excited and happy. Which was unusual. Her mother normally personified the word irritated.

Crud. She straightened her back.

There could be no possible way her mother would have found out about this engagement all the way down in Florida where she and Sophie’s dad had retired two years ago.

No way.

“You’re getting married!”

She gritted her teeth. “Mom.”

“I was so excited when your Aunt Eileen called, even though it woke your father.”

She was going to kill her Aunt Eileen, who was as bad as Jorge when it came to buying the tabloids. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“I couldn’t believe my ears.” Her mother’s voice hushed, as if, like Megan, she was about to enter a church.

“Well, it happened—”

“I was a bit upset I hadn’t heard it from you, but I can understand how impetuous young people can be.”

“Mom--”

“I did that Googling thing. He’s very handsome.” Her mother went on. “Very rich.”

What was this about rich? Had she ever once proclaimed she wanted to marry rich? If she wanted to be rich, she’d get rich herself. “Mom—”

“I couldn’t have picked a better man for my girl.”

How could her mother possibly know he was a better man than all the other men she’d dated? Especially when he was clearly NOT. “Mom—”

“Your dad wants to talk to you.”

Oh. Help.

“Princess?” Her father’s gravelly voice rumbled into her ear. “What’s this I’m hearing?”

Sudden tears blurred her vision. Because she could hear it in her dad’s voice. He was happy, too. He’d always encouraged her dreams and complimented her on her independence, yet now, right here and now, she realized he’d also wanted her to be secure in a marriage. “Daddy.”

“I have to say, your man appears pretty impressive.” Her mother’s voice came, muffled in the background, cutting off her dad’s comments. “Yes, yes, Margaret. I’ll ask her. Sophie? Wasn’t this the young man who was engaged to your friend?”

“Yes, Dad, except…” The tears threatened to spill and she spun around to stare at the calendar on the wall to prevent any snoopy assistants figuring out her agitation.

“But your friend split with him, hmm?” Erich Feuer stopped and then started again. “Or that’s what your mother is telling me.”

“Yes.” This situation did make her appear pretty awful. At least from the outside. Was that how the tabloids were covering it? For once, she wished she’d snatched the papers from Jorge’s hands. “See, Dad, it’s a long story—”

“Well, I trust you, Princess.” Her daddy’s voice went soft. “You always have known what’s best for you.”

A blinding rage swept through her. She was going to have to make a call, sometime in the near future, and ruin her parents’ happiness. She was going to have to disappoint them and it was all Alexander Stravoudas’s fault. Sophie twisted the cell phone away in order to take in a gasping breath of fury mixed with distress.

A muffled “Let me have the phone,” echoed through the line and her mother came back on, her voice filled with joy. “Sophie?”

“Yeah, mom.”

“We’re going to come for a visit.”

Oh. God. No. “Mom, I don’t think—”

“Just a short one, nothing to worry about. We want to meet your man.”

Could anything be worse? “Mom—”

“We realize this is your busy time of year.” Her mother trilled on, oblivious to any of her daughter’s anguish. “We’ll stay with your Aunt Eileen so we won’t get in your way.”

Her dad hated staying with Aunt Eileen. She leaned on the wall, thinking about banging her head until she went numb for a couple of months. Still, she heard the determination in her mom’s voice. No matter what she said or did, her parents were coming. “You can stay at my place.”

There was a pause. “That will be a bit cramped…”

She sighed at the inevitable. “I’m not staying there right now.”

“Truly?” She could practically see her mom dancing a jig in her Florida condo. “You’re living with him.”

To Margaret Feuer, living with a man was a
big deal
. Sophie had spent many a teenage moment listening to lectures on
not putting all your eggs in one basket
and
not giving away the milk for free
and
Rome wasn’t built in a day
. Her mom did like her sayings. And the sayings had made an impact. She had never once lived with a guy. So, this was big.

Or it would be big if it were real.

“We’ll check on flights and let you know,” her mom warbled. “Plan on us staying for a couple of weeks through Thanksgiving.”

Fantastic. They’d be here for the ball.

Sophie banged her head on the wall.

S
he wore
an awful black box of a pantsuit.

Alex eased back on the limo’s leather-covered seat and stifled a groan. He supposed he should be gleeful about Sophia’s lack of looks and how people were going to judge her tonight. Especially after all the trouble she’d caused him during the past few months and the past few days. But the last thing he wanted was to walk into his city-famous happy hour with this woman on his arm looking like a frump.

A frump.

With him.

“Take your hair down.” Perhaps it would cover some of the horrible black of her suit. Didn’t the woman know there were different shades of black and that this particular shade made her skin look like dried bones?

She shot her annoyed glare at him. “Stop trying to remake me.”

They’d had this same conversation, with minor variations, during the last four days she’d lived with him.

Every morning she arrived in the kitchen with her hair stuffed into that tight ponytail she always wore. Invariably, she had on some ugly fuchsia or pastel sweater with ratty jeans and ancient sneakers.

He’d offered to buy her some new sweaters.

She’d told him to mind his own business.

He’d told her that ratty jeans weren’t professional.

She’d sworn at him.

He’d mentioned getting some new sneakers.

She’d sneered.

Every evening they’d attended some function he needed to be at. He had to suffer through hours of staring at the top of her head, with her brown hair knotted into a motley chignon or twisted braid. Looking at her hair, though, was always better than looking farther down. Down meant encountering the flaps of another pantsuit covering any hope of a female figure. Did the woman even have a waist? She was a box from her big tits to her overly round hips.

That was bad enough.

What was worse, were the colors.

Neon blue. Metallic green. Garish pink.

The woman had no sense of style or color. Truly, she needed to meet his mother and sisters. The thought of that coming confrontation made him groan out loud.

“Are you sick?” She didn’t sound concerned. Rather, she sounded amused.

“What makes me sick is that thing you’re wear—”

Her little hand shot forward, palm facing him. “Stop right there. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“But you need it.”

She grunted a dismissal and swung around to stare through the window at the flashing lights of the city.

Alex grunted back at her and looked out his own window.

This morning, he’d hoped to see her in something other than ugly since today had been her TV show day. He’d even found himself lying in his bed last night wondering if she’d have her hair down for once or if she’d wear lipstick. He’d been stunned at how disappointed he’d been when she’d arrived in the kitchen looking even worse than usual.

“They do me over when I get there,” she’d explained.

“I would think you’d—”

“And why are you getting up every morning anyway?” She threw the words over her shoulder before running out the door, her long brown hair latched to the top of her head like a clump of mud.

Why he’d risen every morning at four a.m., much to Sophia’s displeasure, was easy to explain. He wasn’t being bossy or nosy—both accusations shot at him from her unpainted lips more than once.

Nope. It was simple.

She woke him. Every morning.

He’d lived alone since moving out of the apartment he’d shared with Henry all through college. He liked living alone. After a childhood of sharing space with a bunch of females, he’d enjoyed the solitude. The quiet. Everything in the place he’d put it.

Sophia had disturbed every piece of his place with her presence.

When he’d settled in to watch some TV, the remote control was not where he’d left it. Several times, he’d had to pluck her coat from the couch and put it in the closet where it belonged. She not only discarded her ancient sneakers in the front hall, she’d also abandoned her surprisingly sexy high heels there too. All three pair.

He glanced at her tiny feet. They were clad with the heels that were black but sparkly. His sisters would like those shoes. “You found your shoes.”

She peered at the shoes, her forehead scrunched in a frown. “I had to look everywhere in that mausoleum of yours. They weren’t by the front door.”

Mausoleum? What the hell did she mean by that? His penthouse had been written about by some of the top interior design magazines in the world. Her contempt for everything he was and everything he had made him lose his patience and his manners. “Shoes are not supposed to be left at the front door.”

Her head whipped around, her eyes dancing. “Oh, no. Did I break one of your rules, Alexander?”

The elongated vowels in his name soured his mood even more than her clothing. “I had Mrs. Palmer bring them back to your bedroom.”

“How nice of you.” She snuggled into the corner of the seat, a smile tugging at her lips. “Or rather, nice of Mrs. Palmer.”

He gave her another grunt of disgust and the noise made her smile widen. Swinging around to stare out the limo once more, he went back to his list of grievances against her.

She watched the stupidest programs on TV. All those reality shows with roses and singers and exotic locations where people wore bikinis and ate bugs.

“Don’t you get tired of that stuff?” he’d yelled from his office as a particularly horrible singer launched into a screechy tune.

She’d laughed. “About as tired as you get watching game after game of football.”

How did she know he liked football? She hadn’t been around yet for his usual Sunday afternoon hangout with Henry and the guys.

Melanie. Melanie must have told her.

The thought of his ex-fiancée turned his mood darker.

Then there were the morning smells emanating from her separate bathroom. At least he didn’t have to share one with her. He’d had enough of that during his teenage years. Years where he’d been allowed maybe five minutes to take a shower in between sisters.

He’d forgotten.

The sweet smell of female shampoo. The waft of slinky perfume edging under the closed door. The drift of hairspray and lotion and ivory soap. Girly and addicting, with rich scents that teased his nose.

He’d forgotten.

The way a woman filled a bathroom with her things. The pile of glass pots and brushes and tubes of something haphazardly arranged on the wide marble counter reminded him of his sisters. For a woman who was all natural, Sophia certainly had a lot of female doodads.

He’d forgotten how females always had their doodads.

None of this was the reason he awakened every morning way before he usually did. Not the shoes or the TV or the doodads.

It was her humming.

She hummed past his bedroom every morning. A low, provoking purr. The noise woke every part of him.

Every damn part.

Naturally, he always woke with an erection. That had nothing to do with anything about Ms. Feuer. Yet he’d never managed to get himself back to sleep. Instead, he’d listen to the shower and wonder if the woman had a waist. Not wanting to speculate on that for long, he’d get out of bed and take his own damn shower.

What he did in that shower every morning for the last three mornings made his mood go mean. “You have no sense of color.”

“This is getting old.” Her brown eyes snapped. “I’ve worn every one of these suits on the TV show. They were handpicked by Freddie.”

“Your producer.”

“Correct.” She turned to stare out at the street.

“The man I’m meeting tonight.” He’d be tempted to pull this Freddie aside and have a word with him about his fiancée’s wardrobe if Sophia were his real fiancée.

“She’s a woman. But yes, you’ll meet her tonight.” Her plump hand smoothed down her leg and his ring twinkled at him. For once, something she had on looked good on her. The warm color of the golden diamond made her skin turn creamy.

The thought made him shake his head.

Creamy skin.

What the hell was he thinking?

At least she’d followed his directions in this one area if nowhere else. It had taken him two days to impress on her the need to wear the ring.
All the time
.

The limo swung around the corner and approached the hotel housing the bar where he’d held his weekly Friday night happy hours for years. At first, it had been only him and Henry, sinking into a booth, swigging down a beer. Twelve years later, the tradition continued, but now included almost all of their fifty-five New York staff.

Every single one of those fifty-five people had stopped by his office during the last four days to congratulate him.

Sincerely. Heartily. Enviously.

“Sophie’s the bomb,” Matt, the intern, had stated, his grin wide. “You’re one lucky guy.”

“You got my favorite girl,” Jamal, his structural engineer, moaned in despair.

“I hope she hangs around here,” Carly, the receptionist, squealed. “She’s a lot of fun.”

He hadn’t realized the connections Sophia had made while he’d been busy wooing Melanie. Sure, he’d spotted her at some of his happy hours along with Melanie’s other friends. Yet after spending a time or two under her close observation and having to fend off more than a few potshots, he’d steered clear of Ms. Feuer.

His staff apparently hadn’t.

His mood didn’t move farther south; it boiled over. “I’m not letting you attend any more functions with me the way you look now.”

“Letting.” Her voice turned raw with rage.

“Yes. Letting.”

Her hand fisted in her lap, his ring flashing. “The way I look now.”

“Yes.”

The limo stopped. He didn’t usually hire a limo to get around. He had his Porsche parked in the penthouse’s underground garage. Or he walked. Took a taxi. Still, tonight he’d thought it might be good to make a splash, arrive in style, start this next wave of press on a positive note.

“We’re finally here.” She spun away from him. “Thank God.”

Before he or the approaching driver could react, the provoking woman popped the door open and sprang out onto the pavement.

“Sophia.” Alex lunged, trying to keep her back from the press, but she moved too fast. “Hell.”

“Okay, okay.” With a flip of her hand, she marched through the throng of paparazzi. “Take your pictures, guys, but I need a drink after a long day of baking.”

“Sophie.” One of them laughed. “Where’s your guy?”

“Can’t have you walking around alone, Soph.” Another one joked.

“He’s back there.” Another flip of a tiny hand while she sashayed to the front door. “I can’t wait for him to catch up.”

And with that, she disappeared into the hotel.

“Sir?” The driver’s face was impassive as he held Alex’s door open.

S
ophie liked these people
.

She liked Jamal’s big laugh and Matt’s funny faces. She enjoyed hearing about Carly’s adventures in dating. Henry had bounded over as soon as she’d walked in and given her a tight hug while his PA, Andrea, had burbled her delight at seeing her again. Even Mr. Perfect’s PA, Christine, had unbent enough to send her a chilly smile of greeting.

The fact they all worked for or with him was a fact she found hard to swallow. How could these intelligent, pleasant people work with such an arrogant, nasty man? She hadn’t seen any of them since the demise of the Perfect Couple’s engagement and she had to admit, she’d been a bit worried about their reaction to the new one.

“I’m very happy for you and Alex,” Andrea gushed.

Guess the worry wasn’t needed.

“I couldn’t be happier at the news,” Carly raved.

Guess there were other crazy people, beyond her friends, parents, and co-workers, who thought this engagement wasn’t…crazy.

“I think you’ll be good for Alex.” Christine smiled once more.

Guess his PA had no idea how close she was to losing her boss to the flames of a bakery oven.

I’m not letting you attend any more functions with me the way you look now
.

The fury at his bossy pronouncement made her clench her fists. She’d had to stalk away from him or she would have socked him in the eye. She knew he’d arranged their arrival for the press for effect. But she’d figured, in a split second of decision, he’d rather walk through the crowd of paparazzi alone then walk through it with a black eye and her by his side.

She glanced around. Barreling into the bar, she’d been bombarded with congratulations for the last fifteen minutes. Only now could she catch her breath.

Low-slung couches lined one side of the room while the glass windows on the other side looked out on 44
^th
Street. The central fireplace lit the surrounding tables with warmth while the back bar did a brisk business.

Where was he?

Why should she care?

The man could not stop jabbering on and on about her clothing. As if he knew anything about women’s clothing. The pantsuits she wore to any public function were hand-picked by Freddie. Freddie knew everything about fashion and she would not—

“Sophie.” Her six-foot, blonde panther of a producer appeared before her eyes, a wide smile creasing her elongated cheeks. Fred had had a bit too much plastic surgery in Sophie’s opinion, but whatever. “You are amazing.”

Well, yes, she was. Yet she had a gut feeling Freddie wasn’t talking about her baking skills. “Hey, Fred.”

“There is not another man in New York who would generate this much buzz for our show.”

Her gut had been right as always.

“Where is he?” Freddie’s long, flowing locks swished over her shoulders as she glanced around the bustling bar. “Don’t tell me he isn’t here.”

“I’m sure he’s here.” Her brushoff in the limo wouldn’t have been enough to ravage Alexander the Great’s mighty pride. “Somewhere.”

Anywhere far from her side was just fine with her. The last three nights of having his lean arm encircling her—his large, ugly hand on her hip, his heat burning down her side—the last three nights had been enough to ruin her usual predictable dead-to-the-world sleep pattern. What she needed tonight was for him to stay far away so she could finally get a good night’s sleep.