Changing Constantinou's Game. Jennifer Hayward
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programmer Mark Isaacs, he’d built America’s most successful computer gaming company.
His mouth tightened, his fingers flexing around the concrete. It would be over his dead body that he’d watch Sophoros fail because of a greedy, lazy, half-talented former employee out for a free ride.
He stared up at the night sky, Venus making her first sparkling appearance. Calling to him like a signpost. No deviations. No distractions. He should be thinking about the mess that was waiting for him back in New York. Figuring out his game plan. Not worrying about what the hell Isabel Peters was still doing in the shower when she’d said ten minutes ago she was getting out.
“Alex—this is unbelievable!”
He turned around to find Isabel standing barefoot behind him, wearing the dress of his sister’s he’d found in the spare bedroom.
His first reaction was that his sister didn’t look like that in that dress. His second was that he was a dead man.
Still far too pale, her dark hair and eyes shone in the early evening light, set off by the cappuccino-colored dress. She’d put her hair up in a ponytail, her face bare of makeup except for a berry-colored gloss on her lips. Innocent. Harmless enough. The dress that hugged every inch of her curvy figure, emphasizing high breasts, a narrow waist and gently rounded hips, was not. She had the kind of body that made a man want to put his hands all over her, he thought distractedly. In no particular order.
Her blush as he raised his gaze to hers wasn’t something he’d seen on a woman in a long time. “I think I might be a size bigger than your sister.”
Deciding there was no appropriate response to that question he could verbalize, he cleared his throat and kept his eyes firmly focused on her face. “You’re white as a ghost.”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I feel much better after the shower.”
“You need a stiff drink.” Theos, he needed a stiff drink.
She followed him inside, perching herself on a stool at the solid mahogany bar while he searched for and found a bottle of brandy.
“Wow. This place is fabulous.”
He turned around and studied her. It was an observation. An appreciation of the luxury they were standing in rather than the typical “I want this place to be mine” expression he’d seen on the faces of the few women he’d brought up here.
“Thanks,” he nodded, uncorking the bottle and pouring an inch in one glass and double in the other. He handed her the smaller one. “It was a good investment given the London real estate market.”
She wrapped her fingers around the crystal tumbler, their slim grace and perfectly manicured nails drawing his eye. “Alex— I—” She stopped, looking hesitant. “I don’t know how to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me today.”
“Don’t.” He screwed the lid back on the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “It was nothing.”
“It was,” she insisted, those big brown eyes of hers sweeping hesitantly over him as he turned back to her. “I think I would have completely lost it if it wasn’t for you.”
He shrugged. “Phobias are powerful things.”
“Still,” she said, lifting her chin and holding his gaze. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He nodded toward her glass. “Drink up. The brandy will help.”
She took a sip. Made a face. “Must be an acquired taste.”
He shot her an amused look. “Are you calling me old, Isabel?”
Twin dots of pink stained her cheeks. “Hardly. You’re what...thirty?”
“Thirty-two. And you?”
“Twenty-five.” She lifted her shoulders in an attempt at a sophisticated shrug. “Seven years...that’s not so much of a difference.”
“You’d be surprised what you can pack into those seven years,” he said drily. He sat his drink on the bar and walked to the shelf of CDs in the living room. “I’ve ordered some dinner from the restaurant downstairs. I thought we could have it on the terrace.”
“I’d love that. The view’s amazing.”
“Then I’m putting you to bed.” Unfortunately not his.
“I’m so wired I’m not sure I can sleep.”
He turned to face her. She seemed incredibly vulnerable sitting there, a restless energy emanating from her he found mirrored in himself. It had been one hell of a day. “The brandy and a good meal will solve that. You’re probably running on adrenaline now.”
“I think I am.”
He turned back to the CDs and scanned the titles. “Any preference in music?”
“I listen to everything.”
“Classical?”
“Yes.” She smiled as he looked over at her. “My dad’s a music professor at Stanford. I was brought up listening to that stuff.”
“Did he make you play every instrument known to man?”
“Yes, until he discovered I had absolutely no artistic talent whatsoever.”
His lips curved. “He must have been crushed.”
“I hated it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to anything creative.”
Did that include the bedroom? he wondered. He wasn’t so caught up with creativity. But natural passion was a must.
Christós He forced his gaze back to the music in front of him. He really had to get his mind out of the gutter. Away from the fact that every time she swung those slim legs on that stool, he wondered what they would feel like wrapped around him. Whether she’d dig her heels into his back while he took her slow and deep and—
Whoa. He slapped the CD he was looking at back on the shelf and raked a hand through his hair. Had it been too long since he’d had a woman? Was that what this was all about? What had it been? Two, three months? He’d been so buried in the Blue Light Interactive deal he hadn’t had two seconds to even think about a woman, let alone bed one.
Or maybe it had just been three hours stuck in an elevator fighting an attraction that seemed to be growing by the minute?
He stared at the CDs. Spanish...he was going with Spanish. He grabbed a compilation of adagios and slid it into the player. The haunting strains of a lone guitar filled the room.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the classical guitar type,” she said as he walked back over to join her at the bar.
He aimed a reproving glance at her. “Stereotyping me, Isabel? You were questioning my reading taste earlier...”
Her mouth twisted. “You’re right. My mistake. You’re just a bit of a closed book, unlike me and my big mouth.”
He shrugged and picked up his drink. “You know the basics. I’m a native New Yorker, run my own company...”
“The details are overwhelming,” she said drily. “The accent is Greek?”
He nodded. “I was born in the US to Greek parents. But I spent my summers in the islands.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Boston College.”
“Why Boston when you had all those schools in New York?”
“Sports and their business program.” She didn’t need to know he’d gone on full scholarship. That as far as the university brass had been concerned, he’d been the closest thing to a savior their football program had ever seen.
“Ah, a typical male,” she teased. “The sports