The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife. Sandra Marton
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the gym. Lift some weights. Run the track.”
“You really think it would make me feel better to beat you again?”
“You beat me once, a thousand years ago at Yale.”
“A triviality.”
The men chuckled. Damian slung his arm around Lucas’s neck as they walked slowly to the door. “Don’t worry about me, Reyes. I’m going to take a long shower, pour myself another brandy and then, thanks to you, I’m going to have the first real night’s sleep I’ve had in months.”
The friends shook hands. Then Damian closed the door after Lucas, leaned back against it and let his smile slip away.
He’d told Lucas the truth. He did feel better. For three months, ever since Kay’s death, he’d avoided his friends, his acquaintances; he’d dedicated every waking minute to business in hopes he could rid himself of his anger.
What was the point in being angry at a dead woman?
Or in being angry at himself, for having let her scam him?
“No point,” Damian muttered as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. “No point at all.”
Kay had made a fool of him. So what? Men survived worse. And if, in the deepest recesses of his soul he somehow mourned the loss of a child that had never existed, a child he’d never known he even wanted, well, that could be dealt with, too.
He was thirty-one years old. Maybe it was time to settle down. Marry. Have a family.
Thee mou, was he insane?
You couldn’t marry, have kids without a wife. And there wasn’t a way in hell he was going to take a wife anytime soon. What he needed was just the opposite of settling down.
Lucas had it right.
The best cure for what ailed him would be losing himself in a woman. A soft, willing body. An eager mouth. A woman without a hidden agenda, without any plans beyond pleasure…
There it was. That same image again. The green-eyed woman with the sun-streaked hair. Hell, what a chance he’d missed! She’d looked right at him and even then, trapped in a black mood, he’d known what that look meant.
The lady had been interested.
The flat truth was, women generally were.
He’d been interested, too—or he would have been, if he hadn’t been so damned busy wallowing in self-pity. Because, hell, that’s what this was. Anger, sure, but with a healthy dollop of Poor Me mixed in.
He’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.
He’d call Lucas. Tell him his plans for the night sounded good after all. Dinner, drinks, a couple of beautiful women and so what if they didn’t have green eyes, sun-streaked hair…
The doorbell rang.
Damian’s brows lifted. A private elevator was the sole access to his apartment. Nobody could enter it without the doorman’s approval and that approval had to come straight from Damian himself.
Unless…
He grinned. “Lucas,” he said, as he went quickly down the stairs. His friend had reached the lobby, turned around and come right back.
Damian reached the double doors. “Reyes,” he said happily as he flung them open, “when did you take up mind-reading? I was just going to call you—”
But it wasn’t Lucas in the marble foyer.
It was the woman. The one he’d seen outside Portofino’s.
The green-eyed beauty he hadn’t been able to get out of his head.
CHAPTER TWO
OH, WHAT a joy to see!
Damian Aristedes’s handsome jaw dropped halfway to the ground. Seeing that was the first really good thing that had happened to Ivy in a while.
Obviously his highness wasn’t accustomed to having his life disrupted by unwanted surprises.
Damian’s unflappable, Kay had said.
Well, okay. She hadn’t said it exactly that way. Nobody can get to him, was probably more accurate.
Not true, Ivy thought. Just look at the man now.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She didn’t answer. The pleasure of catching him off guard was wearing off. She’d prepared for this moment but the reality was terrifying. Her heart was hammering so hard she was half afraid he could hear it.
“You were outside Portofino’s today.”
He was gaining control of himself. His voice had taken on authority; his pale gray eyes had narrowed.
“Are you a reporter for one of those damned tabloids? I don’t give interviews.”
He really didn’t know who she was. She’d wondered about that, whether Kay had ever shown him a photo or pointed out her picture in a magazine, but she’d pretty much squelched that possibility at the restaurant, where she’d followed him from his Fifty-Seventh Street office.
He’d looked at her, but only the way most men looked at her. With interest, avarice—the kind of hunger she despised, the kind that said she was a plaything and they wanted a new toy.
Although, when this man had looked at her today, just for a second, surely no more than that, she’d felt—she’d felt—
What?
She’d seemed to lose her equilibrium. She was glad someone had joined him because she knew better than to confront him with another person around.
This discussion had to be private.
As for that loss of equilibrium or whatever it was, it only proved how dangerous Damian Aristedes was.
That he’d been able to mesmerize Kay was easy to understand. Kay had always been a fool for men.
That he’d had an effect on Ivy, even for a heartbeat, only convinced her she’d figured him right.
The prince of all he surveyed was a sleek jungle cat, constantly on the prowl. A beautiful predator. Too bad he had no soul, no heart, no—
“Are you deaf, woman? Who are you? What do you want? And how in hell did you get up here?”
He’d taken a couple of steps forward, just enough to invade her space. No question it was a subtle form of intimidation. It might have worked, too—despite her height, he was big enough so that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes—but Ivy was not a stranger to intimidation.
Growing up, she’d been bullied by experts. It could only hurt if you gave in to it.
“Three questions,” she said briskly. “Did you want them answered in order, or am I free to pick and choose?”
He moved quickly, grasped her wrist and forced her arm behind her back. It hurt; his grip was strong, his hands hard. She hadn’t expected a show of physical strength from a pampered aristocrat but she didn’t flinch.
“Take your hand off me.”
“It’ll take me one second to phone for the police and tell them there’s an intruder in my home. Is that what you want?”
“You’re the one who won’t want the police involved in this, Your Highness.”
His gray eyes focused on hers. “Because?”
Now, Ivy thought, and took a steadying breath.
“My name is Ivy.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.
“Ivy Madison,” she added, as if that would make the difference.
He didn’t even blink.