A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks (7 page)

“I don’t see him.” Freddie kept peering around the low-lit bar. All the rows of dark leather couches were filled and the crowd circling the gleaming wood bar was large. Yet much as Sophie hated to admit it, Mr. Perfection would stand out anywhere and she couldn’t see him either. “I have to talk to him about coming on the show.”

Horror thumped low in her stomach. “No, Freddie, you can’t—”

“I have this great idea.” The older woman’s blue eyes blazed with delight. “In Paris, you and Alex can pretend to be visiting—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Visiting Paris had been her dream for years. The last thing she wanted while living her dream was dragging an arrogant—

“Here you are, Sophia.” The lean arm, the arm she’d become far more used to than she wanted to admit, slinked around her. “It’s hard to find you in the crowd. You’re extremely…short.”

The last word came with a pointed clip like a poker sliding into her side. But it only made her smile. Exactly as she thought, she’d pricked his pride and now he was trying to prick her. Instead, he’d confirmed she’d made a score.

“Alex Stravoudas.” Her producer said his name as if choirs of angels were about to appear and sing an anthem. “I’m amazingly glad to meet you.”

One of his brutish hands rose to shake Fred’s ring-adorned hand. “I’m always glad to meet one of Sophia’s friends.”

His pointed tone slid right into smooth.

The charm offense. Of course.

Freddie’s smile threatened to ruin her plastic surgeon’s last operation. “I’m Sophia’s TV producer.”

The long, hard body along her side tensed. “You’re the fabled Freddie?”

“Yes,” her producer crowed. “And I have quite a bit to discuss with you.”

“No, Fred.” Soph tried to intervene, but Fredia Schermerhorn had not vaulted to TV success by being timid.

“I think it would be wonderful if you joined Sophie during several of her visits to pastry chefs while you’re both in Paris.”

“Do you?” His arm tugged. Very slightly, very softly. Before she knew it, Sophie had been eased into the crook between his arm and chest. His heat went through her and she was hit with the impression that…she fit. Then, then his hand—the burly, broad hand—moved. Every atom in her body zinged to immediate life as his hand absently smoothed across her hip.

He’d never moved his arm before. Or his hand.

Every other time, she could tell the arm and the hand were there for show and nothing else.

The hand shifted once more, hard fingers pressing into her flesh. Warmth curled along her hip and into the pit of her stomach. A sexual warmth.

Another horror leapt to life inside her.

Wrenching away, she forced a smile. Let the man deal with Freddie on his own. Because, clearly, Sophia Feuer had gone crazy and couldn’t handle Alexander Stravoudas handling her. “I need a drink.”

Both of them—tall, lean, blond and bewildered—stared at her.

Freddie finally frowned. For sure, her plastic surgeon wasn’t going to be happy when she visited him next. “We need to nail the details of your Paris trip down.”

“I gave Henry our order.” Alex’s gaze never left her face. “He’s bringing your drink over right now.”

“Here you are, Soph.” Henry sidled into the conversation. A delicate, lowball glass filled with coffee-colored alcohol topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings swept in front of her. “Just like Alex ordered.”

A buttercup. Sophie jerked her head up from the drink. How did he know she loved this drink in the winter? Had Melanie gabbed about the drinks they shared when they had a MUST meeting? The thought came again, the recognition that this man swirled in and out of her life, noting everything, knowing too much. “I think I’ll have a glass of wine tonight.”

“You don’t like wine.” Alex’s mouth edged down. “You don’t appreciate it either.”

His comment came like a slap. Her temper roared back to life and her hand fisted once more.

“What a thing to say to your fiancée, Stravoudas.” Henry’s booming laugh came from behind her. “You can’t expect her to be a connoisseur like you. I assume Sophie spent her time learning about pastry while you stomped around your grandfather’s French vineyard. Each of you are experts in your own area.”

She gave her fake fiancé a puzzled look. He’d spent time in France? His grandfather owned a winery? Evidently, she had more to learn about him than the mere fact he had four sisters. Curiosity curled inside her brain and even though she cursed it, she still wanted to know more about him.

“I’m sure Sophie will have tons of things to teach you when you’re touring Parisian patisseries.” Freddie had not deserted her quest.

“What’s that?” Henry bent forward, his shaggy black hair falling on his forehead.

“While Sophie and Alex are in Paris, we’re going to do a whole series of shows of them touring a variety of pastry shops.” Her producer’s face glowed with inspiration. “I’m even talking to some of the top pastry chefs about doing a series of demonstrations.”

Henry’s heavy brows lowered. “Who are you?”

“My bad.” Sophie waved a hand between them. “This is my TV producer, Fredia Schermerhorn. Freddie this is—”

“Henry Kluge. Alex’s partner.” His words were clipped. “Are you talking about the trip to Paris in a couple of weeks?”

“That’s the one,” Freddie burbled.

“I’m sorry.” Henry’s voice lowered along with his bushy brows. “But Alex isn’t going to have time to tour pastry shops when we’re in Paris.”

Sophie slid a glance towards her tall, blond tormentor. Wouldn’t his ego object to being told he couldn’t do something?

He appeared relieved. He didn’t want to explore Paris with her.

She sucked in a breath. She didn’t want that either, right? Right.

“I’m sure he’ll have a little time here and there.” Her producer wasn’t going to let go of her dream easily.

A brutish hand clamped onto her elbow. “I’ll let you two hash out my Paris schedule.” There was a hint of amusement dancing on the fringe of his words yet when she glanced at him again, his gaze was solemn. “I need to have a word with Sophia.”

She allowed herself to be tugged away because she really didn’t want to squash Freddie’s dreams herself. Let Henry play the heavy. By the look on her producer’s face, he was doing a fine job of it.

“So that’s Freddie.” Alexander let go of her elbow.

“Yes.”

“And she’s the one who chooses all your clothes.”

“Not all.” What was with this guy and his obsession about her clothes? Her nails pressed into her palm.

“But most.” He looked at her and she saw the clear amusement in his eyes. For the first time, she noticed his eyes weren’t merely blue. They were the exact color of her favorite pastry sneakers.

Turquoise.

He leaned down, his lush lips starting to smile. “Admit it, Sophia. She picks out everything except your ugly sweaters and old jeans.”

“I, ah…” She should be angry at that last jab, but instead she kept staring. “Do you wear contacts?”

“What?” His eyebrows rose and it suddenly hit her that, unlike his blond hair, his brows were a rich caramel color, exactly like her famous caramel éclairs. “What are you talking about?”

Her gaze shot back to those eyes. That could not be a natural color. “Answer my question.”

“Contacts?” His eyebrows frowned. “No. I don’t.”

They were natural? He must be lying.

“Is this something you needed to know about me?” The twinkle in his eyes began to dance. “I thought you had enough information about me.”

She did. She honestly did.

He turned and the firelight flickered across his cheek and a hint of caramel now decorated the line of his jaw and chin. He needed a shave. The beauty of the detail struck her hard in her solar plexus.

“Sophie.” Henry’s booming voice broke her from the awful enchantment about details she hadn’t ever noticed and didn’t want to notice now. “That woman.”

Tearing her gaze away from caramel and turquoise, she smiled at Henry with gratefulness. “Freddie is a handful.”

“I believe I nipped this pastry business in the bud,” he stated, his one look at his partner filled with satisfaction. “Sophie can still do her shots, but you’ll be where you’re supposed to be, Alex.”

Her fake fiancé made a sound. A slight, soft sound that pulled her back to looking at him. There was something in those turquoise eyes. Something raw and harsh.

And then it was gone.

“That’s my friend Henry.” His smile came, wide and perfect. “Always saving me.”

A
lex had planned
the ambush very deliberately, and right on cue, Sophia did not disappoint.

“What is this?” Her shriek cut through the solid walls of his penthouse.

He’d slipped into her bedroom while she’d been in the shower to leave the explosive gift on her bed. He’d been tempted to buy her some jewelry as well, but had thought better of it. The one gift would be enough to set her off.

Alex flipped the tail of his tie over the knot and slipped the notch to his neck.

His bedroom door banged open. “What is this?”

He turned from the full-length mirror to stare across the room at her. “It’s a dress.”

“I can see that.” She vibrated with fury, her round face tight with anger. “Why is it in my bedroom?”

“Because I bought it for you to wear tonight.”

She shook the silk in front of her as if to shake the garment out of existence. “I have a totally appropriate gown I’m going to wear.”

“What? Not another pantsuit?” He walked to the walnut armoire and slipped the pale-grey suit jacket off its hanger. “You’ll wear the dress I bought you.”

“If I wanted to wear a pantsuit, I would. But Freddie told me I should wear a dress.”

He sighed. It had been two weeks since he’d met her producer and he’d been extremely busy with work; he hadn’t had time to broach the obvious subject of why a blonde, brazen Amazon should not be choosing clothes for a freckled, fierce Lilliputian. Sophia had been scarce every evening also, too swamped to attend any more events with him. With his blessing. Spending several nights in her company had made him realize she was dangerous to his equilibrium. Her busy holiday baking season had been an excellent excuse for her not being his escort. “You have to know that letting Freddie pick—”

“The dress won’t fit.”

He glanced over and caught an expression he’d never before seen on Sophia Feuer’s face. One of fragile insecurity.

Something hard yanked in his chest.

“The dress will fit.” He slid the jacket on, then pulled on the gold cuff links, straightening his cotton twill shirt. His father had given him the cufflinks on his seventeenth birthday. The glint of the intaglio-set horse’s head glittered against the black onyx. The cufflinks had been the last gift his father had given him before his death.

The jagged thought cut right through him. As always.

“You don’t know for sure.” Sophia’s voice brought him back with a tight snap. Not because her tone was its usual fractious scraping sound, but because it was exactly the opposite.

Halting and hesitant.

He glanced at her again.

Her sullen mouth and wary gaze made that something in his chest hurt.

He’d planned this whole confrontation carefully; he knew she’d be angry. He wanted her that way. He wanted her screeching and yelling so he could remember how much she enraged him. He needed those memories in the front of his brain instead of the memory of how she slumped into the couch every evening waiting for whatever he’d cooked to be served. The memory of her long dark lashes falling on her freckles. The memory of her round, roly-poly body looking like a little puff pastry on his elegant black furniture.

He wanted to wipe out the tendril of tenderness he’d felt a time or two or three.

She’d screeched. Now, he should lower the boom with a threat and she’d march off in a huff, forced to do what he said. And all of his thoughts of tenderness would disappear. Yet suddenly, he didn’t want his plan to work. Suddenly, he wanted to coax her instead of corral her. He didn’t know why and he didn’t even want to think about the question.

The recent conversation with his
maman
shot into his brain. “My mother watched you on your TV show the last two Fridays.”

“Huh?” Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“My
maman
is very good at determining a female’s shape. After all, she has four daughters.” He strode over and grabbed the silk dress from her hands before she twisted it any further. “I asked her to choose something for you for this evening.”

“I can dress myself.” The words were tough, yet the glance she shot him was filled with confused worry. “I want to look like myself when we go to this ball of yours.”

“This is a gift from my mother.” It wasn’t. The only comment his mother had made about Sophie was that she was cute and nothing like Melanie. And what was he thinking? And…and…and…he’d cut off the conversation before it went any further.

However, he knew enough about his fake fiancée now to know it would be hard for her to turn this down. She might not have a soft spot for him, but for everyone else? He stared at her, keeping his smile light and easy. “She’ll be upset if you come to the party without the dress on.”

The stubborn woman twisted her pouty mouth while she squinted at the gown in his hands. “It’s not the right color.”

As if she knew anything about color. During the last three weeks she’d lived with him, he was pretty sure he’d seen most of her wardrobe. Every item of clothing should be tossed in a dump. Especially the pantsuits. “This is the perfect color for you. I promise you.”

“It’s purple. I never wear purple.”

“No, it’s what my mother calls aubergine.” He smoothed the silk across his arm. “Or eggplant.”

His
maman
would never use the plebeian term eggplant to describe a garment.

“
Non, non, mon fils
.” She would laugh as he studied at the kitchen table, his teenage stomach growling for food. While she cooked her family favorite ratatouille stew, she often helped him with his homework. If he occasionally walked over to snatch a sample, she’d laugh once more and bat him away with a spoon. “Eggplant is for food. Aubergine is for clothes.”

Alex glanced at Sophia, his mouth quirking.

“What?” She eyed him with suspicion.

“I just realized something.”

“What?”

“Nothing important.” He stifled a laugh. He certainly wasn’t going to share the thought racing through his head. If he told Sophia she reminded him of the taste of raw eggplant—bitter—she might refuse to even attend the ball.

Another thought zinged through him. How bitter the vegetable was until his mother blended it with tomatoes and peppers and thyme, where it became tender and rich, a complex flavor he’d cherished as a child.

Would Sophia be the same if he delved deeper under her surface?

He whipped around at the thought and marched to the mirror. “Come here.”

“You’re always ordering me around.” Her words promised defiance. Still, he heard her shuffling closer.

“Stand in front of me.”

Her feet were bare, pale nails and tiny toes. She wore a sloppy, white T-shirt and her usual ragged jeans. The top of her head barely came to the middle of his chest.

Alex looked down at the mass of brown hair sitting on top of her head in some weird curly design. Apparently, she’d started with her hair for the big occasion. He almost demanded she take the ugly thing apart, but the dress was the war he needed to win for tonight.

Glancing up, he met her apprehensive gaze. She hadn’t put any makeup on yet, making her face—round cheeks, pale skin, light dust of freckles—look like a child’s.

Another something tugged inside his chest.

He slipped the garment off his arm and swung it in front of her. Lifting the strapless bodice to cover the white of her shirt, he stared at her in the mirror. The layered petals of aubergine slitted down into a basque waistline, giving the illusion of length. The rest of the gown belled out in a smooth sweep that hit her mid-calf. He’d gone to Linvan, the Madison Avenue boutique his sister Ceci swore by, to get this dress. The dress that had taken him two hours to find.

The dress that turned her skin to cream.

He shook the thought from his mind. “See?”

Her dark eyes stared.

“Notice how the color makes your skin look.”

Creamy Sophia.

“See how you’ll still be able to wear your fancy shoes for everyone to see?”

She shifted and the faint smell of vanilla wafted into his nose. He had a sudden urge to lean in, to catch the deeper scent of warmth and woman.

“I don’t like showing my…”

He met her worried gaze in the mirror. “Your?”

Her mouth tightened. “My breasts.”

Her halting admission turned the hard thing in his chest to mush. “Sophia—”

“Never mind.” She tugged the gown from his hands and stomped to the door. “I’ll wear the damn thing.”

The damn thing that had cost him several thousand dollars, but he wasn’t going to rile her with that information. He’d won. “I can’t wait to see you in it,” he said with a bright smile.

She glanced over her shoulder, throwing him a withering glare. “I’m doing this for your mother.”

Ah, yes. Sophia’s sweet spot for everyone but him had won him this victory. He couldn’t wait to see her. If he’d guessed correctly, that dress was going to make her look…gorgeous.

The thought surprised him, like a lot of his thoughts lately.

O
f course
, he’d have his wedding reception at Irving Hall.

Of course.

“What?” His voice came from across the limo seat. As soon as they’d been picked up at his penthouse, he’d wedged himself into the corner giving him a clear view of her face.

Why Alexander Stravoudas wanted to stare at her face, she had no idea.

He’d given her one peculiar look when she’d charged out of her bedroom with the stupid dress on and then he’d given her another strange look when she’d smiled at the limo driver. Much to her discomfort, he’d continued to stare at her all through the drive to Irving Hall. So it wasn’t surprising then, that he’d caught the roll of her eyes. “Typical that you’d pick this place for your wedding reception.”

“Engagement party,” he corrected her, his wide mouth quirking at the edge. “Actually, a lot of people have their wedding receptions and engagement parties here.”

She knew that. She’d provided the wedding cakes and desserts for several of them at this New York City landmark. But the people who picked Irving Hall for their weddings and parties weren’t regular people. No, the privileged picked here. The powerful. The perfect.

Much like Alexander the Great.

She huffed. Him. Perfect. Whatever.

“My mother and sisters picked this place.” He shrugged, drawing her gaze to the impeccable fit of his black wool coat. “And Melanie…”

Sophie’s gaze narrowed. As his face went blank and his mouth went tight and his eyes went flat, an emotion twisted deep inside her. An emotion she had no intention of pulling out and examining.

He shrugged again, the muscles along his jaw tensing. “Melanie didn’t complain.”

The way he said the last word called attention to all the times Sophie had complained. About everything. His tone also called attention to the fact that Melanie never complained about anything. What did she care if Alex Stravoudas didn’t like his new fiancée’s complaints? He had no one to blame except himself.

The limo rolled to a stop at the curb. A bright red carpet led from the edge of the street to the marble staircase leading to two ten-foot brass doors. A couple walked up to the doorman and smiled as he let them in. Sophie didn’t recognize them, yet she’d recognize a whole bunch of people shortly.

She glanced down at her hands, gloved and fisted in her lap.

Melanie and Jack were going to be here this evening. The fact that this would be the first time Melanie would see her ex and Alex would see his lost trophy shouldn’t make a difference to her.

But it did. It really did.

“I’m surprised Melanie didn’t tell you.” He paused once more after his ex’s name.

Her friend had been vague and disinterested about her entire wedding and reception. Having a reception at Irving Hall was worth a loud, big celebration all on its own. Mel hadn’t said a word, though, and it had only been when Sophie had inquired about upcoming events at the hall that she found out her friend’s reception was booked there. Mel’s inattention had been one of the first clues Sophie had noted that told her something was wrong with her best bud and her engagement. Mel was always about frou-frou—dresses and lace and girly decorations—unlike herself. When she hadn’t disclosed the details of the biggest day in her life?

Wrong. In so many ways wrong.

The whispers of doubt she’d been dealing with as Alexander Stravoudas spoke Melanie’s name got swept away in a second. Whatever his real feelings for her best buddy, he hadn’t been right for Mel. Not at all. She’d done the right thing.

“She didn’t tell you anything?” His voice went low, pained.

Another emotion twisted deep down inside. Not guilt precisely. Not a swirl of second thoughts. Still, something close to that as she realized her actions had been right for Mel, but painful for him. “I never asked,” she managed. “And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Forcing herself to look at him, she met his gaze. There was pain there, dammit. And no longer any anger towards her, which made the crazy brew of doubt and regret inside bubble to a boil.

She should say something.

I
’
m sorry.

Yet she wasn’t.

It
’
s for the best
.

The best for Melanie, but maybe, Oh God, maybe not for him?

I didn
’
t realize you were hurt. I didn
’
t realize you are human.

I didn
’
t realize you might have genuinely loved my best friend.

“Obviously this non-interest in wedding receptions and engagements is something you and Melanie share.” He slid a big hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His gaze dropped, leaving behind the memory of halcyon, blue misery. He tapped on the screen as if proving the conversation they were having was of minimal import.

But she’d seen. For the first time, she’d seen beneath his surface perfection. She’d glimpsed the reality of him.

She had to give him something.

“I cared enough to wear this dress.” As olive branches went, it was puny, yet it was something.

His wide mouth twisted in a wry smile.