The Millionaires' Cinderellas. Sharon Kendrick
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have been further from the truth if he’d tried—why, she’d barely thought about Nat since the moment she’d arrived.
‘Actually, no. I wasn’t.’ Because what on earth would she have said? I’m sorry, Nat—I know I said that he was a tyrant and a control-freak, but last night I was longing for your brother to make love to me. I lay there waiting in my bed, imagining what I would do if he came to me, knowing that I would have opened the door and opened my arms to him. ‘I was too busy counting sheep to try to get to sleep,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But sadly, to no avail. So you’ll have to excuse any absent-mindedness and blame it on the jet lag.’
Some of the tension left his body, her words placating him in a way they shouldn’t have done. Had he been worried she’d tell Nat that his big brother had been coming on to her? And hadn’t an extra layer of guilt begun to gnaw away at him, knowing that it would have been the truth? ‘Have you eaten?’ he questioned.
‘Yes, thanks. I had breakfast in my room.’ She smiled again, determined to dispel this damned atmosphere with a little professional crispness. ‘It’s a beautiful autumn morning and I’m looking forward to my first working day in New York! And you still haven’t told me anything about which part of the hotel needs restyling.’
Her smile did strange things to him. Made that damned heaviness start throbbing at his groin again. He’d lain awake for a long time last night, going over what she’d told him about her growing up. About her flighty mother and the dancing which had angered the neighbours. He’d wanted to think less of her—but the stupid thing was that her story had produced the opposite effect. He’d thought about the reality of what her young life must have been like and had found himself experiencing a reluctant tug of sympathy. What Emma had experienced had been nothing short of neglect, he realised—some people might even have called it abuse. Somehow it made her early marriage to the dissolute rock-star almost understandable.
Until he told himself fiercely that this was how she operated. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her marriage to Patterson would have given her an inkling of her own power and taught her that such fragile beauty was rare. With that pale waterfall of hair and amazing body, she must have quickly learnt what effect that delicate vulnerability could have on a man. Especially a man with all the clout to protect her. Had she told Ciro her pathetic story the way she’d told him—and had that been what had prompted the ruthless Italian to give her such a cushy job? Was that what had made his own brother curtail his philandering ways after all these years of messing around with women—to devote himself to her so wholeheartedly?
Zak’s mouth hardened. Well, she could use her charm on some other poor sucker than Nat—because there was no way that some illegitimate junkie’s widow was going to end up marrying into the Constantinides family.
‘Come with me,’ he said abruptly, turning as he began to walk in the direction of the function rooms, obviously expecting her to follow him.
Emma tried to take in the general mood and feel of the hotel as she scurried to keep up with him. She’d done her homework on the plane over by studying all the literature—but seeing the Pembroke’s interior for herself was much more impressive than in the glossy pages of a brochure.
The Granchester was massive—but this hotel was like its small and perfectly formed little sister. Its understated elegance only reinforced the amount of money which must have been spent on it—and she found herself wondering if all this had been inherited from his wealthy father. Hadn’t Nat told her some complicated story about the family money, which had gone in one ear and then out the other? And hadn’t that been one of the things which had been so obvious to Nat—that she truly wasn’t interested in the might of the Constantinides fortune? She sighed. Not that Zak would ever believe that, of course.
‘This is the room you will be restyling,’ he said, stopping at last in front of some art-deco double doors, which were decorated with exquisite stained glass. He pushed them open and Emma stepped into a room that was almost completely empty—but who needed furniture when a room looked as amazing as this? The proportions were generous, the high ceiling a shimmer of silver mosaic which looked as if it were composed of moving water—and best of all was the terrace, with its stunning views of Central Park and the quiet gleam of the lake beyond.
‘Oh, Zak—it’s lovely,’ she said, looking up to find his eyes fixed on her. And something in that hard and searching gaze made her quickly amend her words—as if suddenly she wanted to encourage him to revise his poor opinion of her. ‘I’m sorry, that’s right up there as the most unoriginal observation I could have made. Of course it’s lovely. You don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘No, I don’t—though it’s always gratifying when a professional approves.’ For a moment, he relaxed a little. ‘This is the room you’ll be working on.’
‘And do I get help?’
‘You do. You’ll get an assistant and an office you can use, as well as a charge card.’
‘And I run my costs past …?’
‘No need to run them past anyone.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Really?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve seen your Granchester budgets.
Since I note that you have an admirably frugal outlook, I’ll give you a free hand.’
Stupidly pleased by this small sign of trust, Emma smiled. ‘And hadn’t you better tell me what you’re planning to do with it—what kind of vision you have for it?’
His answer was the last thing Emma was expecting to hear.
‘I want to turn it into a wedding venue.’
‘A wedding venue,’ she repeated slowly.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘That’s because I am.’
He slanted her a glance. ‘And why is that, I wonder?’
She looked at him, tempted to be honest and yet, why shouldn’t she be honest? What was the worst thing that could happen—that he wouldn’t like plain speaking and send her home? She shrugged. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who’s particularly interested in weddings.’
‘Show me any man who really is,’ he said acidly. ‘But there’s a huge market for them—particularly here. Guests who stay here want to tie the knot here—they want the view and the glamour. Up until now I’ve always resisted—because, frankly, the attendant publicity is always a bore. And weddings seem to breed a hysteria in the female of the species which I can do without.’
She saw the cynical twist of his lips. ‘But something’s happened to change your mind?’
‘Not something. Someone.’
‘Someone?’ she echoed, her heart pounding. ‘Wh-who?’
He didn’t appear to notice the stumbling of her voice. ‘Her name is Leda.’
Emma screwed up her eyes, wondering why the name sounded familiar until she remembered where she’d heard it before. Leda was the name of the woman she’d seen him dining with, back in England. The woman with the dark, dramatic hair and amazing cheekbones.
‘That’s the woman you were with in London? The one in the miniskirt with the thigh-high boots?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘She’s getting … married?’ she questioned faintly and suddenly she wondered if she’d read it all wrong. Was Zak about to marry the stunning woman who’d been his date? And if that was the case, then why no huge sense of relief that the tricky billionaire would soon be settling down and might therefore stop interfering in the life of his brother? Why was her instinctive feeling one of jealousy—a terrible, debilitating jealousy, which made her fingers curl into two tight little fists by her sides? Why did she suddenly want to open her mouth and scream? ‘Who … who’s she marrying?’
‘Some