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Changing Constantinou's Game
Jennifer Hayward


One kiss couldn’t hurt – could it?Alexios Constantinou is notorious for his lethal charm, so when the exquisite Isabel Peters is – literally – dropped into his lap during a hellish elevator ride he doesn’t waste the opportunity! With tensions sky-high after their near-death experience an insatiable desire ignites between them and all bets are off.But when Alex discovers that reporter Isabel’s next story is him he’s furious… and determined to use it to his advantage. He’s calling the shots, but the closer Isabel gets the closer she comes to discovering his carefully concealed secret. Now, with everything at stake, he’ll need a whole new game plan…Discover more at www.millsandboon.co.uk/jenniferhayward







Alex bit out a curse he hadn’t uttered since his college days. “I’m not the right guy for you, Isabel.”

She gave him a determined look. “I’m talking about a kiss. Not the rest of our lives. Please answer the question,” she pleaded, “otherwise I’m going to feel like a total idiot. Good or bad—I can take it.”

He pressed his hands to his temples. It had taken a lot of nerve to ask that question. And it had been his mistake in ever admitting he found her attractive. “Yes,” he conceded finally. “I want to kiss you. But—”

“Alex.” The tension in her face slid away. “Get on with it, will you?”

“This is an insanely bad idea,” he groaned.

But he was already stepping into her and lowering his mouth to the lush temptation in front of him. One kiss couldn’t hurt—could it?


JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance and adventure since filching her sister’s Harlequin Mills & Boon® novels to escape her teenaged angst. She penned her first romance at nineteen. When it was rejected, she bristled at her mother’s suggestion that she needed more life experience. She went on to complete a journalism degree and to intern as a sports broadcaster before settling into a career in public relations. Years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world provided perfect fodder for the arrogant alpha males she loves to write about, and free research on some of the world’s most glamorous locales.

With a suitable amount of life experience under her belt, she sat down and conjured up the sexiest, most delicious Italian wine magnate she could imagine, had him make his biggest mistake and gave him a wife on the run. That story, THE DIVORCE PARTY, won her Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write contest and a book contract. Turns out Mother knew best!

With the first item on her bucket list complete, Jennifer is now working her way through the rest. She put Number Two in the bag when she talked her way into the jumpseat of an Airbus for landing on a flight from San José to Toronto, complete with headphones and a flight plan. The only thing missing was a follow-up date with the Robert Redford lookalike pilot. Figuring that Number Three—walking the runway as an angel at the Victoria’s Secret Christmas fashion show—is not likely to happen, she’s concentrating on Numbers Four and Five, which include touring Australia and building a dream beach house in Barbados.

A native of Canada’s gorgeous east coast, Jennifer now lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and their young Viking-in-training. She considers her ten-year-old-strong book club, comprised of some of the most amazing women she’s ever met, a sacrosanct date in her calendar. And some day they will have their monthly meeting at her fantasy beach house, with waves lapping at their feet, wine glasses in hand.

You can find Jennifer on Facebook and Twitter.


Changing Constantinou’s Game

Jennifer Hayward






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For the Watermill Writers—

Alison, Helene, Jo, Lesa, Louise, Pippa, Rachael, Sharon and Suzie. Remembering my week with you all in Tuscany, listening to stories of rhinestone-studded cat collars, peach thongs and lines like ‘flattered but not tempted’ puts a smile on my face always. I love you all.

And thank you to Mike, the elevator repair technician who took away some of my drama, and who also educated me on how very, very safe elevators are! I think I’ll take the less dramatic ride for the rest of my life. :)


Contents

Cover (#u42ecb7d3-55db-5dbc-9e0f-487b50652740)

Introduction (#u637a962e-0010-5cd1-a37b-b056eca3767d)

About the Author (#u3e4df8c0-8140-5b60-9d8c-7bcccda8dbbf)

Title Page (#ue61fc87a-d897-5dfe-b663-d8016a2ead7e)

Dedication (#u696e9767-5265-5037-ac0c-aa4dd1b8ec2f)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_dd0c27cb-4dcf-5a93-b8c5-7bdee27208cb)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_99eeed08-93aa-5d42-a057-79bf42b7ced3)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3329755b-27d3-5d3a-813f-a19f5947cdad)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_40bd2589-de22-5520-bb25-768b4c8f0083)

AS FAR AS luck went, Manhattan-based reporter Isabel Peters had been enjoying more than her fair share of it lately. She’d managed to nab a cute little one-bedroom on the Upper East Side she could actually afford, she’d won a free membership to the local gym, which might actually enable her to keep off the fifteen pounds she’d recently lost, and because she’d been in the right place at the right time, she’d landed a juicy story about the New York mayoral race that was putting her name on the map at the network.

But as she raced through the doors of Sophoros’s London offices, slapped her card down on the mahogany reception desk in front of the immaculately dressed receptionist and blurted out her request to see Leandros Constantinou, the look on the blonde’s face suggested her lucky streak might finally have run out.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him, Ms. Peters,” the receptionist said in that perfectly accented English that never failed to make Izzie feel totally unworthy. “Mr. Constantinou is already on his way back to the States.”

Damn. The adrenaline that had been rocketing through her ever since her boss had texted her as she was about to board her flight home from Italy this morning and sent her on a wild-goose chase across London came to a screeching, sputtering halt, piling up inside her like a three-car collision. She’d done everything she could to make it here before Sophoros’s billionaire CEO left. But midday traffic hadn’t been on her side. Neither had her poky cab driver, who hadn’t seemed to recognize the urgency of her mission.

She struggled to control the frustration that was no doubt writing its way across her face, reminding herself that this woman could still be useful. “Thank you,” she murmured, wrapping her fingers around the card and sliding it back into her purse. “Would you happen to know which office he’s headed for?”

“You would have to ask his PA that,” the blonde said with a pointed look. “She’s in the New York headquarters. Would you like her number?”

“Thanks, I have it.” Izzie chewed on her bottom lip. “How long ago did he leave?”

“Hours,” the other woman drawled. “So sorry it was a wasted trip.”

Something about the gleam in the gatekeeper’s eyes made Izzie give her a second look. Was the elusive Leandros Constantinou holed up in his office avoiding her? She wouldn’t put it past him from what her boss had said about his magic disappearing acts when it came to the press, but she didn’t have time to flush him out. Her flight back to New York left in exactly three and a half hours, and she intended to be on it.

She gave the other woman a nod, zipped up her purse and turned away from the desk. James, her boss, wasn’t going to be happy about this. From what he’d said in his texts, the scandal rocking Constantinou’s gaming software company was about to go public. And if NYC-TV didn’t get to him before it did and persuade him to do the interview, every media outlet in the country was going to be knocking on his door. At that point, their chances of landing the feature would be slim to none.

She swung her purse over her shoulder with a heavy sigh and made her way out the heavy glass doors to the bank of elevators. A glance at the bored, restless expressions of those in the packed reception area told her she’d walked right into the middle of the midday caffeine and nicotine exodus. Which wasn’t to say she herself didn’t have bad habits. Hers were just more of the “shoving food she didn’t need in her mouth” variety. Or obsessing over a story when she should be at the gym sweating off a few extra pounds. But what was a girl to do when her mother was a famous Hollywood diva and her sister sashayed down runways for a living? Perfection was never going to be all that attainable.

The ping of an elevator arriving pulled her gaze to the row of silver-coated death traps. A group of people crammed themselves inside like a pack of sardines, and she should have gone with them, really, given her hurry. But her heart, which hadn’t quite recovered from the trip up, started pounding like a jackhammer. Just looking at the claustrophobic eight-by-eight-foot box made her mouth go dry and her legs turn to mush.

She glanced at the fire exit door, wondering how bad, exactly, walking down fifty flights of stairs would be. Bad, she decided. Three-inch heels did not lend themselves to such activity and besides, she had to catch that flight. Better to slay her demons and get on with it. Except, she reasoned, taking a step back as the thick steel doors slammed shut on the dozen people inside, having a whole contingent bear witness to her incapacitating fear of elevators wasn’t going to happen.

Telling herself she was a rational, levelheaded woman with what many would call a heck of a lot of responsibility on her shoulders every day, she looked desperately around the lobby at the crowd that was left in search of a diversion. She could do this. She wasn’t a total head case.

She took in the drop-dead perfect figure of the woman to her right, covered in a body-hugging dress that screamed haute couture. Stunning. Were these women everywhere? And weren’t those designer heels? So not fair. The only pair of designer shoes she owned were a ruby-red marked-down find she’d fallen in love with, then spent a quarter of a month’s salary on. Which had seen her eating cereal for dinner for weeks.

She kept her gaze moving. Over a man who looked as if he indulged in one too many pastries at tea every day to the distinctly not middle-aged specimen leaning against the wall beside him typing on his smartphone. Her jaw dropped. How could she have missed him? He was distraction with a capital D. And even that didn’t begin to describe the six-foot-something-inches of pure testosterone in the designer suit. He was distraction in all caps. And then some...

Wow. She took in every magnificent inch of him. She’d never seen a guy wear a suit that well. Not even the full-of-themselves peacocks who liked to show off in the financial district bars of Manhattan. Because the way the tailored dark gray creation molded this man’s tall, lean frame to perfection? Should be illegal. Particularly the way it hugged his muscular, to-die-for thighs like a glove.

Damn but he was hot. Like “her body temperature ratcheted up about ten degrees” hot. She dragged her gaze northward to check out his swarthy, sexy Mediterranean profile. And froze. Somewhere along the way he’d looked up from his phone...at her. Lord. That dimple, indentation, or whatever you called it in the middle of his chin—it was just so...yum.

She held her breath as he embarked on a perusal that bore little resemblance to her guilty ogling. No—this was a fully adult, ultra-confident assessment of her assets by a man who’d surely had his pick of those he’d bestowed it upon in the past. She twitched, pushing her feet into the floor, wanting to squirm like a six-year-old. But her training as a reporter had taught her that was the last thing she should do when cornered. By the time his gaze moved back to her face, unleashing a full blast of heady dark blue on her, she was sure her cheeks weren’t the only thing that were beet-red.

A long moment passed—which surely had to be the most excruciating of her life. Then he broke the contact with a deliberate downward tilt of his chin, his attention moving back to his phone.

Dismissed.

Her cheeks flamed hotter. Honestly, Izzie, what were you expecting? That he would ogle you back? This has been happening your entire life. With men who weren’t that far out of your league.

A Latin tune filled the air. Grew louder. Adonis lifted his head; frowned. Her phone. Dammit. She fumbled in her bag and pulled it out.

“So...?” Her boss barked. “What happened?”

“He was already gone, James, sorry. Traffic was bad.”

Her boss let out a short, emphatic expletive. “I’d heard he was uncatchable but I thought that was only for the female population.”

Izzie had no idea what Leandros Constantinou looked like—or anything about him for that matter. She’d never heard of the gaming company he ran, nor its wildly popular racing title, Behemoth, before this morning when she’d gotten James’s text on the way home from her girls’ trip to Tuscany and he’d ordered her to make this pit stop. His text had said Constantinou’s former head of software development, Frank Messer, who’d been pushed out of the company years ago, had walked into NYC-TV today claiming he was the brains behind Behemoth. Determined to get his due, he’d launched a court case against the company. And offered an exclusive interview to her boss to tell his side of the story.

She pursed her lips. “I asked the receptionist which office he was headed for, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

“My source says it’s New York.” Her boss sighed. “No worries, Iz, we’ll get him here. He can’t avoid us forever.”

We? She frowned. “Are you going to let me work on this?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “So I wasn’t going to tell you until you got back, given that you get yourself all worked up about stuff like this, but since the timing’s changed I better let you know now. Catherine Willouby is retiring. The network execs have been impressed with your work of late and they want you to try out to replace her.”

Her breath caught in her lungs, her stomach doing a loop-to-loop. She took an unsteady step backward. Catherine Willouby, NYC-TV’s much-loved matriarch and weekend anchor, was retiring? And they wanted her, a lowly community reporter with a handful of years of experience to audition to replace her?

“But I’m two decades younger than her,” she sputtered. “Don’t they want someone with more experience?” And wasn’t she an idiot for even mentioning that fact?

“We’re getting killed with the younger demographic,” James said flatly. “They think you can bring in some of that age group, plus you already have a great relationship with the community.”

Her head spun. She wiped a clammy palm against her skirt. She should be over the moon that they thought that highly of her. But her stomach was too busy tying itself up in knots. “So what does this have to do with the Constantinou story?”

“The execs think your weak spot is a lack of hard news experience...something your competition has tons of. So I’m going to hand you this story and you’re going to knock it out of the park.”

Oh. She swallowed hard. Pressed her phone tighter against her ear and rocked back on her heels. The Constantinou story was going to make headlines across the country. Was she ready for this?

“You still there?” James demanded.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice coming out a high-pitched squeak. She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she repeated firmly.

“Stop freaking out,” he admonished. “It’s an interview—that’s all. You might not get any further than that.”

An interview in the biggest media market in the world, likely in front of a panel of stiff-suited network execs who would analyze her down to her panty hose brand...

The knot in her stomach grew bigger. “When?”

“Ten a.m. tomorrow, here at the station.”

Tomorrow? She shot a glance at an arriving elevator. “James, I—”

“I gotta go, Iz. I’ve emailed you some prep questions. Rehearse them inside out and you’ll be fine. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.”

The line went dead. She stood there dumbfounded. What had just happened?

The tall, dark-haired hunk picked up his bag and moved toward the empty elevator. A quick scan of the lobby told her they were the only two left. She tossed her phone in her purse and made herself follow. Except five feet from the doors, her feet glued to the spot and refused to move. She stood there staring at the empty metal cube, her pulse rate skyrocketing. The hunk pushed his hand courteously against the door as it started to close, impatience playing around the edges of his mouth. “You coming?”

She nodded, momentarily distracted by the New York accent mixed with the sexy faint flavoring of something foreign. Greek, maybe?

Move, she told herself, managing a couple of tentative steps toward the terrifying little box. But the closer she got, the harder it was to drag oxygen into her constricted lungs. She came to a skittering halt a foot away.

His gaze narrowed on her face. “You okay?”

She inclined her head. “Slight fear of elevators.”

His brow furrowed. “Millions of people travel in them every day...they’re unbelievably safe.”

“It’s the unbelievable part I worry about,” she muttered, staying where she was.

He rolled his eyes. “How do you get to work every day?”

“I take the stairs.”

His mouth tightened. “Look, I have to get to the airport. You can take this one or the next...your choice.”

She swallowed. “Me too...have to get to the airport, I mean.”

He gave her a steady look, visibly controlling his impatience. “Get on, then.”

A vision of her and her sister curled up in a dark elevator yelling for help flashed through her head. Like it always did when she had to make herself do this. She remembered the utter silence of the heavy metal box as they’d sat there shivering against the wall for hours, their knees drawn up to their chins, terrified it was going to drop. Her absolute conviction that nobody was ever going to find them and they were going to spend the night in the cold, silent darkness.

He let out an oath. “I have to go.”

She stared at him blankly as he jabbed his finger against the button, his words bouncing off the terror freezing her brain. The heavy metal doors started to close.

She could not miss that flight.

Dragging in a deep breath, she dived forward, shoving her bag between the closing doors, then throwing her body through after it. Adonis cursed, jamming his hand into the opening. “What the hell?” he ground out as she landed against the back of the elevator, palms pressed to the metal to steady herself. “What kind of a stupid maneuver was that?”

She jumped as the doors slammed shut. “I have a job interview tomorrow...I can’t miss my flight.”

“So you thought that getting there in multiple pieces was a better idea?” He shook his head and looked at her as though she was a crazy person.

“Slight fear of elevators...remember?” She wrapped her fingers around the smooth metal bar that surrounded the elevator and held on for dear life.

He lifted a brow. “Slight fear?”

She nodded, leaning back against the bar in as casual a pose as she could manage with her shaking knees threatening to topple her. “Don’t mind me. I’m good.”

He didn’t look convinced, but transferred his attention to the television screen running a ticker recap of the day’s news. A couple of minutes tops, she told herself. Then she’d be back on solid ground and on her way to the airport.

The elevator moved smoothly downward, whizzing through the floors. She started to think she was a little crazy. This wasn’t so bad... She took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and relaxed her fingers around the bar. She could do this, she repeated like a mantra in her head, glancing up at the numbers as they lit up. Just thirty-four more floors...

A couple of businessmen immersed in a politically incorrect joke joined them on the thirty-third floor, their deep voices booming in the echoing confines of the elevator. By the time they got off on the thirty-second floor, Izzie was smiling. Perhaps not socially acceptable, but the joke was funny.

The elevator picked up speed again. And more speed. She whipped her gaze up to the LCD panel. Thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine... Was it her imagination, or were the floors whizzing by faster than before? Her heartbeat accelerated. She must be imagining it because elevators didn’t change speed, did they? The numbers whizzed by faster. She flicked an alarmed look at the hunk. He was staring at the numbers too. Twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six...they were definitely accelerating.

“Wh-what’s happening?” she croaked, clutching the bar behind her.

He swung around, his mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t—”

The rest of his words were ripped from his mouth as the elevator slammed to a sudden, screeching halt. She shrieked as the force of the impact tore her hands from the bar and sent her careering forward. The stranger lunged for her, but the bouncing elevator threw him off balance and he slammed into her. The floor came up to meet them, the heavy weight of his body crashing down on hers. The sound of her head hitting the tile reverberated in her ears. Then everything went silent.

* * *

Alex lay on top of the girl, fighting to pull air into his lungs. The car swayed and creaked — seemed to be making up its mind whether to stay put or not. He froze, not daring to move, until several seconds had passed and the elevator remained where it was. An eerie silence consumed the space. The emergency brakes must have deployed. Thank. God.

The sound of frantic, staccato breathing filled his ear. His face was buried in a sea of thick, silky hair, the weight of his body crushing the woman’s smaller, slighter frame. He cursed inwardly, wondering how badly he’d hurt her. In trying to catch her, he’d taken her out hard—like an outside linebacker on a mission.

He pressed his hands against the tile and levered himself gingerly off her. She was lying facedown on the floor, motionless except for her frantic breathing. He curved a hand around her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t respond, her breath coming in gasping mouthfuls. He slid an arm underneath her and gently turned her over. Her glassy eyes and paper-white face made his heart pound. Christós. The nasty purple bump beginning to form on the left side of her forehead made it accelerate even faster.

He trained his gaze on hers until she focused on him. “Are you okay?”

Her lips parted. “The—the elevator... Are w-we stopped?”

He let out a long breath. “Yes. The emergency brakes kicked in.”

Relief filled her glazed eyes. But it didn’t last long. Her gaze darted, bouncing like a tennis ball off the metal walls, her quick, gasping breaths increasing in speed as her fingers dug into the tile floor and she tried to push herself into a sitting position. “I— I can’t—I don’t—”

He gripped her shoulders and pushed her back to the floor. “You need to calm down or we’re going to be in even more trouble here,” he ordered. “Deep breaths, in and out.”

She stared at him, chest heaving, eyes huge.

“Now.” He slid his fingers under her chin and held her immobile. “Breathe. In and out.”

She pulled in a breath. Then another. They were quick, shallow pulls of air, but more than before and gradually, her breathing slowed. “Good,” he nodded approvingly. “Keep it up.”

He kept her breathing in and out until the panic receded from her eyes and her face regained some color.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Yes, thank you.” She pulled in another deep breath, blinked and looked around. “I can’t see...my glasses,” she murmured. “I must have lost them in the fall.”

He stood and searched for them. Found them in the corner of the elevator, miraculously intact. He carried them back to her, knelt down and slid them on her face. “You hit your head. Are you dizzy at all?”

She sat up slowly. Twisted her head to the left and right. “Not unless I think about the fact that I’m in here.”

“Then don’t.” He stood up and moved toward the control panel. Pulled the phone from behind a metal door and barked a greeting. The line crackled and a young male voice responded. “Everybody okay in there?”

“Yes,” Alex said grimly. “Are we stable?”

“Yes, sir. We had an issue with the generator, but the emergency brakes deployed.”

His heartbeat slowed, his grip on the receiver relaxing. “How long until you get us out?”

“We’re working on getting a crew over there as soon as we can. But by the time we do that and assess how we’re going to get you out of there, it may be a few hours.”

He flicked a glance at the white-faced woman on the floor. “By that you mean...?”

“The car you’re in is stuck between floors. In that situation, we either try to move the car manually from the control room and pry the doors open or we take you out the top. Obviously we’d prefer to do the former, but with the generator out that may not be possible.”

He moved his gaze over the bump on the woman’s face, the fact that he was going to miss his flight a far lower priority than her potential injuries. “The sooner the better.... The other passenger in here with me—she hit her head when we stopped.”

“We’ll go as fast as we can,” the technician promised. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Hurry up,” Alex muttered roughly and hung up. Telling the guy he owned half the building wasn’t going to make it happen any faster.

The woman watched him with those big brown eyes of hers, her tense expression only this side of full-on panic.

“When are they going to get us out of here?”

He walked back over to her and sank down on his haunches. “They have to get a technician here and see what’s happening. It may take a while.”

Her gaze sharpened on his face. “Don’t they just pry the doors open?”

He hesitated, wondering whether or not to tell her the truth. “We’re stuck between floors,” he said finally. “A generator’s out, which means they can’t move us.”

Her eyes widened, her hands flailing as she sat up and stared at him. “What?”

“Calm down,” he ordered. “They’ll find a way, but panicking isn’t going to help.”

Her throat convulsed. “How long did they say?”

“A few hours.”

“I can’t be in here that long.” She fixed her gaze on his. “I really, really don’t do elevators.”

He took her hands in his. They were clammy and she was shaking like a leaf. “Look—” he said, arching a brow at her. “What’s your name?”

“Izzie.”

“Izzie?”

“Short for Isabel,” she elaborated, distractedly. “But most people call me Izzie.”

“Isabel,” he elected to use instead, his tone firm but reassuring, “I promise you everything’s going to be fine. These guys handle situations like this all the time. They’re going to get a crew over here, figure out how to get us out and in a few hours you’ll be laughing this off.”

She looked at him as though he had two heads.

“Okay,” he conceded. “But you know what I mean. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her teeth worrying her lip. “You’re sure? We aren’t going to drop again?”

“I’m sure.”

She lifted her chin. “All right. I can do this.”

“Good girl.”

She pressed her lips together. “Since you’re the only thing keeping me sane, you could tell me your name.”

“Alex.” He let go of her hands and pushed to his feet. Located her discarded bag and picked it up. “Anything in here we can use to get the swelling down on your head?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

“Can I look?”

She nodded.

He sat down beside her and riffled through it. The bag was a modern marvel of how much a woman could shove into a few cubic inches of leather. Chocolate, water, books, a brush, a full bottle of aspirin...

“Is there anything you don’t have in here?” he questioned drily. “I’ll never understand why you women feel you have to carry half your lives around with you. There is a drugstore on every corner, you know....”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

He pulled out a lint brush. “Really? You need to carry a lint brush with you?”

A pink stain filled her cheeks. “Have you ever sat on a cat-infested sofa in a black wool skirt?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he drawled. “You’ve got me on that one.” He pulled out a can of still-cold soda. “How about this? It could work.”

“Wait,” she gasped, sitting up. “My flight takes off in a few hours.”

“So does mine,” he returned grimly. “I think we can safely assume we’re not making it.”

“But I have to...” she burst out. “I have that interview in Manhattan tomorrow morning.”

“You’re going to have to reschedule your flight,” he told her, handing her the can of soda. “And hope you can get another tonight.”

She sliced a panicked look at her watch. He glanced at his. Two forty-five. There wasn’t a hope in hell he was making his flight to New York. Which was a problem; with Frank Messer trying to rip his company apart, he was putting out fires left, right and center, and the Sophoros jet was under maintenance at Heathrow, necessitating a commercial flight.

“Ouch.” She winced as she held the can to the now robin’s egg-sized lump on her forehead. He leaned over, tipped her chin up with his fingers and inspected the bump. “You’re going to be black and blue for a while, but hopefully that’s all it’ll be.”

She stared at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression that should have warned him off, but didn’t. He was far too busy noticing how the lashes on her almond-shaped, exotic eyes were a mile long and how those full lips of hers could take him to the moon and back should she choose to apply them correctly...

And what the hell was he thinking? He let go of her chin and shifted away from her. She was attracted to him. She’d made that clear upstairs in the lobby. And of course he’d noticed her. It had been hard not to. Disheveled, distracted, she’d been jabbering into her mobile phone in a husky, breathless voice that had made it easy to envision her in his bed. That and that body... The kind of curves that would look even better without clothes.

He shook his head and looked in the opposite direction. Not the kind of thinking that boded well for hours in close proximity.

“Alex?”

She was holding out a bottle of water, her cheeks even pinker than before. “Want one?”

He took it, if only to cool down his overheated libido. A paperback spilled out of her bag, a half-dressed woman in the arms of a bare-chested male emblazoned on the cover.

He picked it up. “Do you actually read this stuff?” he demanded incredulously.

“I do,” she said stiffly. “Can I please have it back?”

He ignored her outstretched hand. Turned the book over. “Looks smutty...is that why you women like it?”

“I suppose you have Othello in your bag,” she came back tartly, reaching for it.

He pulled it away. “Actually, Great Expectations. Want to have a browse?”

She gave him a long look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He braced his hands on the floor to roll to his feet. She waved him off. “Okay, I believe you. You’ve had your laugh...can I have my book back, please?”

He gave her a considering look. “It is smutty, isn’t it?”

She glared at him. Watched as he flipped pages, stopped to read one, then moved on. He halted at a particularly juicy section. “Oh this is good.” He quoted out loud, deepening his voice to add an over-the-top commentary. “He ran his finger over her erect nipple, making her groan in response...Ellie—” he flicked a glance at her, “who calls their characters Ellie, by the way? Anyway,” he looked back at the book, “Ellie arched her back and—”

“Alex,” she pleaded, dropping the can and lunging for the book. “Give it to me.”

He held it away from her. “I just want to know. What’s the appeal? That a guy’s going to charge in on a white steed and carry you off, and you’ll live happily ever after?”

“I don’t need a man to rescue me,” she muttered, sitting back and wrapping her arms around herself. “I can do my own rescuing.”

“That,” he stated drily, “is up for debate.” He handed the book back to her.

She shoved it in her bag with a decisive movement. He decided to be a humanitarian and move on. “So what are you doing in London? Work or play?”

“I’m doing a favor for my boss.” She grimaced and pressed the can tighter to her head. “It was supposed to be a quick in and out on my way home from Italy.”

“Just your luck,” he grinned. “You picked the one faulty elevator in London.”

“Please don’t remind me.”

“What line of work are you in?”

She took a sip of her water. “Communications... You?”

“I own an entertainment company, based in New York.” He leaned back against the wall, keeping up the small talk he abhorred as it seemed to be putting a bit of color back into her cheeks. “Was Italy work too?”

She shook her head. “I was doing a cooking course with my girlfriends in Tuscany. We rented a villa on the coast, chilled out and learned how to make a mean bruschetta.”

“That will make your man very happy.”

“I didn’t do it for a man, I did it for myself.”

He noted the defensive edge to her voice. “No man in your life, then?”

She set her jaw. “No.”

He wondered why he liked that idea. “How many of you were in Italy?”

“Eight of us, including me.”

He smiled. “The Italian men must not have known what hit them.”

She shot him a sideways look. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I can only imagine the impression eight of you made on the locals...Tuscany will never be the same, I’m sure.”

Her mouth curved. “My friend Jo was a big hit with the Italian men. She’s a bit of a one-woman wrecking crew.”

He gave her a considering look. “I’m sure she wasn’t the only one.”

She blinked. Looked away. Shy, he registered in astonishment. Were there actually any of those women left in Manhattan? It had been so long since he’d met one he’d thought they were extinct.

A loud creak split the air. He dropped the water, his heart slamming into his chest as he braced his hands on the floor. Isabel launched herself at him, wrapping her limbs around him. He held her close as the elevator swayed and groaned beneath them, his breath coming hard and fast.

What the hell?


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_97612320-dcc8-5813-8e68-e54d253b843f)

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

Isabel screeched the words in his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck in a chokehold. The car rocked beneath them, but this time more gently, without the bloodcurdling creak. He sucked in a breath. “It’s just shifting,” he told her, hoping that’s all it was. “You’re okay.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly against him. Seconds ticked by. The swaying slowed and then stopped. “Isabel, we’re fine,” he murmured, his heartbeat regulating as he brought his head down to hers. “I promise you, those cables don’t break.”

She drew in a deep breath, then another, stayed pressed against him. As his cortisol levels came down, his awareness of her skyrocketed. Her fingers were dug into his thigh, her light floral scent filling his nostrils. Her thoroughly touchable curves were plastered against him. And God help him, it was making him think improper thoughts. Like how much he’d appreciate those slender fingers wrapped around another part of his anatomy...

She drew back, her face chalk-white. Exhaled a long, agitated breath. Realized where her hand was. He struggled to wipe his expression clean as she lifted her horrified gaze to his, but he was pretty sure from the way her eyes widened and the speed with which she snatched her hand away, she’d known exactly where his head was at.

“I am so sorry,” she murmured. But she was still in his lap, clutching his shoulder for dear life, and he was in severe danger of getting extremely turned on. Worse when she caught her plump bottom lip in her teeth and hell, he wished she wouldn’t do that. He wanted to kiss her, and not the “Sunday walk in the park” variety.

Her pupils dilated, but she didn’t go anywhere. He cleared his throat. “If this was your book,” he drawled mockingly, “this’d be the part where I ravish you in the elevator, no?”

She was off his lap in a flash. She sat back against the wall, her shoulders pressed against the paneling. “Yes, well, that’s why they have security cameras in elevators, don’t they?” she pronounced stiffly. “To prevent that sort of behavior.”

He had to stop himself from laughing out loud. “That sort of behavior? How very Victorian of you.”

She fixed her eyes on the wall opposite her. “I think this elevator’s getting to me.”

She wasn’t the only one. He waved a hand at her. “Think of it as extreme exposure therapy. After this you’ll definitely be cured.”

“Or I’ll never set foot in an elevator again.”

“Let’s work toward the former.” He gestured toward the can that had rolled to the corner of the elevator. “Put that on again.”

She lifted it to her forehead. Stayed plastered against the wall like a modern painting, her white, pinched face a halo against the dark paneling. He cursed inwardly. He needed a distraction or this wasn’t going to be pretty. What in the world would he say to his sister Gabby, who was severely claustrophobic?

“I have an idea,” he suggested. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?”

“You tell me something no one knows about you and I’ll do the same.”

She lifted a brow. “I’m channeling my sisters here,” he offered grimly. “Humor me. If you go all panicky, it’s not a good thing.”

“Okay.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. “In seventh grade, when Steven Thompson asked me to dance at the school mixer, I told him I’d sprained my ankle.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“I adored him.” She opened her eyes. “I’d idolized him for years. But I thought my sister had put him up to it, like I was some kind of charity case, so I turned him down.” She grimaced. “Turns out she hadn’t.”

“Ouch. So the poor guy got rejected for no good reason?”

She nodded. “I was persona non grata after that.”

“And you females wonder why men aren’t gallant anymore. We stick our necks out for that.”

She gave him a wry look. “I hope you’re using the royal ‘we,’ because I can’t imagine you have ever been rejected in your entire life.”

And that’s where she was wrong. The one time he had been, the only time it had mattered, he’d been left for dead by the woman who’d meant everything to him.

“Nobody goes through life unscathed,” he said roughly. “You should have given the guy a chance. Maybe you scarred him for life.”

“Since he was dating Katy Fielding by the next Monday, I highly doubt it.” Cynicism tainted her voice. “Okay, your turn.”

He thought about it. And for some strange reason, he was dead honest. “I wish I’d made different decisions at times.”

Her gaze sharpened on him. “Is that a general observation or something you’d care to elaborate on?”

Most definitely not. He’d shut the door on that part of his life a long time ago. Never to be opened again. “A general observation.” He rested his gaze on her face. “Sometimes in life you’re only given one shot. Use it wisely.”

Her eyes stayed on his, assessing, inquisitive. Then she let it go with a sigh. “This interview I have tomorrow? I don’t even know if I want the job. But it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.”

He frowned. “Why don’t you want it? I assume it’s a step up?”

“Fear,” she said simply. “I’m afraid of what happens if I get it.”

“Take it from me,” he counseled, “fearing the unknown is far worse than facing it. I have no doubt you’ll knock them dead, Isabel. Just be your quirky self.”

She looked insulted. “Quirky?”

“Tell me it doesn’t fit.”

“Well...maybe just a bit.”

She jumped as the phone rang. He pushed to his feet, walked over and picked up the receiver. But the news wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Two and a half hours.

He hung up. “We have to sit tight for another couple of hours.”

Isabel’s face fell.

“Think on the bright side,” he said, sliding down beside her and giving her a wicked look. “You can read me excerpts from your book. It was just getting good.”

* * *

Exactly two and a quarter hours later, at about the time Izzie’s flight was scheduled to take off from Heathrow, a rescue team arrived.

She and Alex stood to one side as the crew unscrewed a panel from the top of the car and dropped a ladder down, a burly, safety-cable-laden rescuer climbing in moments later with two harnesses slung over his shoulder.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asked them, a wide grin splitting his face.

“You’ve no idea,” Izzie murmured, flashing a sideways look at Alex. She really wasn’t sure what she would have done without him. She had a sneaking suspicion she would have lost it completely.

“All right then,” the technician said, strapping one of the harnesses around Izzie. “The next floor is about eight feet above us. We’re going to climb up the ladder, out the top of the elevator and up onto the lobby floor.” He snapped the harness into place and stepped back. “Keep moving, don’t look down and you’ll be fine.”

Every limb in her body went ice cold. They wanted her to climb through an elevator shaft?

“I’ll be right behind you,” Alex said quietly. “It’s mind over matter, Isabel.”

Yes, but she didn’t have a mind left! Her legs started to shake; her breath came in short, frantic bursts. “But what if—”

Alex took her hands in his, wrapping his fingers around hers. “There is no ‘what if.’ We’re going to climb out of here and it’s all going to be over, okay?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, absorbing the quiet confidence in his voice, the warmth of his hands around hers. “You’ll stay right behind me?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” She pulled in another big breath and let go of his hands with a decisive movement. “Let’s do it.”

The technician strapped the other harness around Alex. Then they started up the ladder, Alex following Izzie. Her legs were shaking so hard she had to inject every bit of concentration she possessed into each step, her hands clutching the side of the ladder for balance.

“One step at a time,” Alex murmured, anchoring his hands firmly around her hips to steady her. “You’re doing great.”

She didn’t feel great. Her heart was in her mouth, acid stung the back of her throat in the very real threat she might throw up, and she felt as if she was going to collapse in a puddle.

She forced herself to keep moving, her slow climb taking her up to where the ladder emerged from the car. She looked down. Gasped at the endless plunge into darkness.

“Don’t look down,” the technician said, turning around. “Keep going.”

But her legs wouldn’t move. “I can’t,” she whispered. “My legs, they—they’re shaking so much I’m afraid I’ll—”

Alex stepped up on the ladder behind her, his hands digging into her waist. “You can do this,” he insisted firmly. “I’m right here and I’m not letting go. Just put one foot in front of the other and we’ll be out of here in a minute.”

The heat of his hands penetrated the thin cotton of her dress. Sank into her skin, warming her. Grounding her. “Mind over matter, Isabel,” he whispered, his hands tightening. “Move with me.”

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus on the strength of his hands around her waist. He would not let her fall. He would keep her safe...

She started climbing again, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other as they emerged from the elevator, walked across the top of it and climbed the ladder toward the floor above. Step up, make sure her foot was securely on the rung, bring the other foot up. Repeat. She said it over and over again in her head as she did it, Alex’s hands never leaving her waist. And then, someone was reaching down and grasping her by the arms and lifting her to solid ground.

Alex stepped up behind her, the look of grim relief on his face making her knees go weak. “You okay?”

She nodded. Swayed as her shaking knees turned to mush. He closed his arms around her and pulled her close, his chin coming down on top of her head. “It’s okay,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s over.”

Izzie had the strange feeling that once here, she might never want to leave. She buried her face in the rock-solid wall of his chest, her limbs shaking so hard she wondered if they’d ever stop.

“The paramedics are downstairs in the lobby, waiting to check you out,” the burly rescuer said. “Sorry to say, the generator’s still out, so you’ll have to take the stairs.”

Since Izzie never intended to get on another elevator in her life, that was just fine with her. But by the time they’d descended twenty-three flights of stairs and she’d gotten thoroughly poked and prodded by a young medic she was done.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” the medic asked, sticking up four.

She waved her hand at him. “I’m good, really. I hardly bumped it at all.”

“It was a hard knock,” Alex interjected, holding his cell phone away from his ear. “Let him do his job.”

Izzie made a face. “Four,” she sighed. “And I’m not seeing double...no halos, nothing...”

“Any dizziness?” he asked patiently.

“No.”

“Okay, I think you’re fine.” He started packing up his kit. “But you should be watched for the next twenty-four hours to make sure you haven’t suffered any kind of internal issues.”

Izzie nodded. “No problem. I’m going to rebook myself on another flight to the States tonight so there’ll be a whole planeload full of people ready to catch me if I keel over.”

The medic frowned. “Flying isn’t the best idea after an injury like that.”

She shrugged. “I have no choice.”

He gave her a long look. “Do you have someone in London you can stay with if that flight doesn’t happen? Otherwise we can admit you to the hospital overnight for observation.”

She blanched. Spending the night in the hospital wasn’t an option. She had to get a flight. “I do,” she lied. “Thanks so much for your help.”

Alex was still on the phone when she picked up her bag and walked over to him. He held the phone to one side. “We can’t get a flight to the States tonight. Give me your ticket and I’ll have my assistant rebook you on something tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow? “There must be a flight tonight...a red-eye? I’ll take a red-eye...”

He scowled. “By no flights, I mean no flights, Isabel.”

Oh. She bit her lip, frantically sifting through the alternatives, but coming up with none. “Can you see if she can make it as early as possible tomorrow?” she asked, dragging her ticket out of her purse and handing it to him. “I have that interview in the morning.”

He nodded, took the ticket and started rattling off the information into the phone. She left him to it, collapsing into one of the sterile-looking leather lobby chairs. If she caught a super early flight tomorrow she had a shot at making the interview, given the time difference. But she wasn’t even sure overseas flights left that early in the morning. In fact she was pretty sure they didn’t.

She swallowed hard and removed her fingernail from her mouth before she mangled it. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What she’d been obsessively working toward for the past four years, coming into the studio at eight when most reporters didn’t amble in until their 10:00 a.m. editorial meeting and working well past when most had left. She, a single girl in New York, had no personal life. Her job was her life. Which was fine, because dating was like some type of ancient torture for her, and in ten years she’d have a flourishing career to point to rather than a series of America’s worst matchmaking stories.

Her stomach dropped. She just hadn’t expected to be taking her big leap now.

An audition for an anchor job in the most high-pressure media market in the country was a daunting task for even the most experienced reporter. Ten times so for someone like Izzie, who tended to burn out like the brightest star when the stakes were the highest.

Been there, done that. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was not that Izzie anymore—the terrified, unsure eighteen-year-old who’d walked into that audition and blown the biggest opportunity of her life. She would not go back there. Ever. Particularly not when today, facing her mortality, she’d suddenly had a crystal-clear vision of how short life could be.

A shaky sigh escaped her as she leaned back into the smooth leather. What was she doing, anyway? If those emergency brakes hadn’t deployed, she and Alex would have been smashed to smithereens. Worrying about a job was just nuts! But to be fair, she’d spent her whole life worrying. On a low, chronic level that couldn’t be good for a person. About keeping her job. About how she looked. About what the future held. And right now, that seemed like a very, very stupid way to live.

Alex dropped down in the chair beside her. “You okay?”

She nodded, her brain settling into an oddly lucid state. “Actually,” she said slowly, “I am.”

He gave her a long look as if he was trying to decide if she’d lost it. Then handed her ticket back with some scribbles on it. “The best Grace could do was an eleven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

She did the calculation in her head. If she left here at eleven-thirty, she’d land in New York around one-thirty. Maybe, just maybe, James could get the execs to stay later.

“Thank you,” she murmured, sliding the ticket into her purse.

“No problem.” His gaze sharpened on her face. “What did the paramedic say?”

“He says I’m fine...just to keep an eye on my head.”

“You mean have someone keep an eye on you,” he corrected. “For at least twenty-four hours probably. Any of those girlfriends of yours live in London?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure I’m fine. I’ll just book a hotel, get a good night’s sleep and it’ll all be good.”

His dark brows slanted together. “You don’t fool around with a head injury, Isabel. It’s serious stuff.”

“I don’t have a head injury. I have a bump on my head.”

He gave her a dark look and raked his hand through his hair. “Give me a second. I’m going to see if I can find a nurse or someone who can keep an eye on you.”

“No way I—dammit—” she cursed as he turned on his heel and strode off, already talking into his phone. She didn’t need a nurse. She needed to get back to New York.

He came back five minutes later, his frown deeper. “My assistant couldn’t find someone on such short notice.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” she said, trying not to look relieved. “I’ll make sure I keep an eye on myself and if I feel the slightest bit strange, I’ll go to the hospital.”

“No, you won’t.” His eyes darkened to a forbidding cobalt-blue. “I have plenty of space at my place in Canary Wharf. You can stay with me.”

Her jaw dropped open. Her stay with him at his place? Umm...no. “That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but I can’t impose like that.”

“You need to be watched.” He reached down and picked up her bag. “I don’t know about you but I need a hot shower and something to eat. Let’s go.”

She shook her head. “Alex, I—”

“Isabel. I had a friend suffer a massive hemorrhage after he hit his head. We all thought he was fine. He died that night, at home alone.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, scared silly.

“Exactly. You’ve had a brutally traumatic day, you look like you’re going to pass out, and I’m the one responsible for you whacking your head. So do me a favor and stay at my place so I don’t have to spend the night worrying about you expiring in a hotel room.”

And what was she supposed to say to that? Suddenly, staying alone in a hotel room seemed the height of stupidity. The thing was...despite how she knew instinctively she could trust him, despite how he’d taken care of her in that elevator, she didn’t know him. He could be an ax murderer for all she knew. On the other hand, she knew that was ridiculous. As a reporter she lived by her instincts, and her instincts told her she could trust Alex.

“Just say yes,” he muttered. “I’m out of patience.”

She chewed on her lip. “All right. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble...”

A rueful smile curved his mouth. “I have a feeling you are trouble, Isabel Peters. Having you stay with me is not.”

But Izzie wasn’t at all sure that was the truth. Seated in the low, sleek sports car Alex had parked in the underground lot, her pulse raced as fast as the high-performance engine rippling beneath her. It might have been the way she couldn’t look at his muscular thighs on the low bucket seat beside her without remembering how that hard, male muscle had felt under her hands. Or the fact that despite his abrupt dismissal in the lobby earlier, there had been a spark between them in that elevator. Unless she was totally deluded...which had been known to happen when it came to her and men.

Tired of watching Izzie sit on the sidelines in Italy, her girlfriend Jo had finally staged an intervention. “You have to engage with men to catch them,” she’d advised caustically. “We aren’t participating in immaculate conception here.”

Izzie was clear on that. She just happened to be very, very bad at engaging.

She darted a sideways glance at the hard profile of the drop-dead-gorgeous man beside her. Could he actually be attracted to her? Or was she just kidding herself about that chemistry in the elevator? A man like that could have any woman he wanted. Why would he want vanilla when he could undoubtedly savor crème brûlée any day of the week?

The left and right sides of her brain warred with each other. Suddenly she was very, very tired of being Izzie the responsible. The girl who never took a risk. And it occurred to her that until she did, she might never know who she really was.

A flock of butterflies swooped through her stomach on a wild roller-coaster ride. Did she have the courage to find out tonight whether vanilla cut it? And if so, would it go down as the single most stupid thing she’d ever done? Or the best?


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_aaae667e-3b26-5c48-9199-49a8e2ba4928)

LEANDROS ALEXIOS CONSTANTINOU, Alex to all who knew him, stood on the terrace of his Canary Wharf penthouse at sunset, drinking in the spectacular light that blazed a golden path across the Thames. It never failed to take his breath away, this 270-degree panoramic vista of the city skyline and the river. Especially on a night like this, one of those warm, sultry summer evenings in London that made you think you’d be nuts to live anywhere else.

Worth every penny of the £2.5 million he’d paid for it, the peace and relaxation it brought him at the end of a fourteen-hour workday was usually foolproof. But not tonight. Not when all hell was breaking loose with his company back in New York, he was 3,500 miles away and his partner was an engineering genius, not a business brain. Not when a woman he was undoubtedly attracted to was showering in his guest room. The type of woman he’d vowed he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole after Jess had walked out on him.

He stared at the sky as its deep burnt-gold hue darkened into an exotic orange, then pink, streaks of color floating across the darkening horizon. He was more thrown by that free fall that could have plunged him and Izzie into oblivion than he’d care to admit. He supposed he wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t. But he didn’t like where it was sending his mind. The uncharacteristic, impulsive things it was making him do. Like bringing a chaotic bundle of nerves named Isabel Peters home with him.

Truthfully, though, he hadn’t had much choice. It was his fault she’d hit her head. He couldn’t let her stay alone in a hotel room—not after losing his former teammate Cash as he had. And without a nurse to look after her, responsibility fell squarely in his lap.

Speaking of which... He turned and cocked his head toward the open windows. Izzie had been in that shower forever. All he needed was for her to collapse and drown. She’d certainly been pale enough.

Hell. He strode inside, stopped outside the bedroom he’d put her in and opened the door. “Are you okay in there?” he yelled.

“I’m good,” she called back over the sound of running water. “Getting out now.”

He shut the door, firmly, as his head went directly to an image of her naked and slippery under his hands, foam highlighting those curves.

He went back outside and switched on the lights. A whisper-soft breeze picked up as he walked to the edge of the terrace and rested his forearms on the top of the concrete wall. At least she was keeping his mind off Taylor Bayne, who’d taken his European expansion plans and dismantled them with a flick of his Rolex-clad wrist this morning.

Christós. His gut twisted in a discomforting reminder of that disaster of a boardroom this morning at Blue Light Interactive. He’d known something was up the minute he’d shaken the normally gregarious CEO’s hand and the other man had studiously avoided his gaze. Waved him to the massive dark-stained table, where the fractures in the deal had started to appear, one by one. All of a sudden things that hadn’t been issues before became major sticking points and Bayne was backpedaling faster than a quarterback who’d run out of room.

He let out a string of curses. What had made Bayne do a complete 180 like that? And how had he misread him so badly? For a man whose life had been a series of carefully orchestrated steps to take him where he was going, it was disconcerting to say the least. For Alex, there were no missteps. No deviations. No distractions. Only the master plan.

When he was six, growing up in sports-obsessed New York City, he’d decided he was going to be a famous football player. Never mind his father’s plans for him to take over C-Star Shipping as the family’s only male heir. For Alex it had only ever been about football. From the first time he’d held that piece of rawhide in his hands playing in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, he’d known it was the only thing he ever wanted to do.

A successful high school career and a brilliant Hail Mary pass to win his college team a national championship made his dream of playing professional football a reality. He got an offer from a New York team. Had been touted as the next big thing. That was when his father had hit the roof...this “hobby” of Alex’s had to stop. It was time for him to be a man and join the ranks of tough, brilliant Constantinou businessmen.

His hands tightened around the railing, the dusky, early-evening sky transforming into the dark Boston bar where his father had sat him down with a bottle of whiskey and hell in his eyes. Tonight they were going to hash this out, he’d told Alex. Didn’t he realize the shame he was bringing on the Constantinou name by abandoning his birthright for a frivolous career like American football?

Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of the bottle hitting the worn wooden table was indelibly imprinted in his head. The bitter taste of the whiskey he’d never liked lingered in his mouth even now. His father’s harsh, nicotine-stained voice as he brushed aside Alex’s quietly issued plea. You’ve achieved your dream. Let me go after mine. Hristo’s reply, sharp as a knife. Sign that contract, Alexios, and you are no longer a part of this family.

His heart contracted, his knuckles shining white against the concrete barrier. He’d been so hurt, so angry, he’d signed the three-year contract the next day. And true to his word, his father had disowned him—had never come to another game.

He’d played incredibly well—become a superstar. He’d made an insane amount of money. But he’d never earned his father’s respect. And then, on one fateful evening, in the third year of his career, it had all been taken away from him. He’d had to learn what it was like to be a survivor. To hit rock bottom, claw his way out and start all over again.

Sophoros had been the result of that single-minded determination. Alongside his best buddy from college, brilliant software 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 bug.”

“The natural order of things,” he agreed with a lazy smile, tilting his glass toward her. “Where did you go to school?”

“Columbia.”

“But you aren’t from New York.” He lifted a brow. “I can hear the faint traces of a Southern drawl.”

She shook her head. “California. Palo Alto. I moved to New York to go to school.”

“Are your family still out West?”

“Just my dad. My parents are separated. My mom lives in New York and my sister—” her lips curved “—well, she’s a nomad. She models all over the world. I never know what city I’m calling her in.”

He took a sip of his drink, feeling the smooth brandy burn its way down his throat. “How old were you when your parents separated?”

A rueful glint lit her eyes. “It’s kind of like the divorce that never happened.”

Sounded like hell to him. At least his mother had made up her mind and gotten out. He folded his arms and tucked his drink against his chest, resting his gaze on her face. “How so?”

She shrugged. “My mother’s an actress. Used to the bright lights and the big city. She was always leaving for shoots, for extended appearances in London in the theater...and eventually she just stopped coming home. I think she decided one day that we and Palo Alto just weren’t exciting enough for her.”

He frowned. “Would I know her?”

She hesitated, looked as if this was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Her name is Dayla St. James.”

A vague recollection of a dark-haired bombshell floated into his head. “Was she in a wartime movie? Played a woman whose husband never came back from the front?”

She nodded. “That’s her. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

“Kind of.” He studied her face. “You don’t look much like her.”

“So she likes to tell me.”

He drew his brows together. “I didn’t mean you aren’t beautiful, Isabel. Surely many men have told you that you are.”

Her gaze dropped to her brandy. She swirled it around the glass. “You don’t need to humor me. My mother is a gorgeous movie star...my sister is a glamorous international model. I get it. I’ve been living with it my whole life.”

He held his tongue and counted to five. Anything he said here could and would be used against him. He had three sisters. He knew how their minds worked. “You should have more confidence in yourself,” he said flatly. “You’re a beautiful girl.”

She pressed her lips shut. Stared at him.

His phone rang. Thank the Lord for small favors.

“Can you set the table while I take this?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Plates are in the cupboard beside the sink.”

His partner Mark’s cheerful voice boomed over the line. “Grace told me what happened. You okay, man? That must have been one hell of a ride.”

“This whole day’s been one hell of a ride.” Alex elbowed his way through the door to his study. “But yes, I’m fine.”

“Blue Light wasn’t good?”

He sank down on the corner of his desk. “Something happened between our last meeting and today. Bayne was backing off left, right and center.”

“I think I have the explanation for you,” Mark drawled. “And you aren’t going to like it.”

An uneasy feeling snaked its way up his spine. “What?”

“Taylor Bayne met with Frank Messer last week in London.”

Alex uttered a low curse. “How do you know?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

He grimaced. “No.” His partner, who had seen him through the darkest of times when his career ended and was still his only close confidant, was a programming genius. Which, translated, meant he was a hacker who could crack anything. “So what were they talking about?”

“Don’t know.” He heard his partner take a sip of something, which was undoubtedly coffee. He was addicted to it. “But you can be damn sure it had something to do with today.”

“He’s laying the groundwork for the court case.” It was all starting to fall into place. Having watched Sophoros’s stock value skyrocket, his ex-director of software, Frank Messer, was getting greedy, figuring he’d let them off far too lightly when they’d parted ways seven years ago. So now he was taking them to court claiming he should have been given a much bigger settlement the first time around. And apparently was trying to alienate the people Sophoros did business with.

He slammed his fist against the desk. “Christós, Mark, we should have buried him while we had the chance.”

“Truer words have never been said. The lawyers think we have a hell of a fight on our hands.”

Great. Just what he needed to hear after this fiasco of a day. “I need the jet, Mark. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Way ahead of you, buddy. Grace has them working on it tonight. She’ll give you a call in the morning with an update.”

“Good.” His twenty-three-year-old PA was a formidable force way beyond her years. She’d have that jet in the air tomorrow morning if it was humanly possible.

“Alex...” Isabel’s voice rang out, a panicked, shrill sound that made him stiffen.

“Is that a woman’s voice?” His partner’s tone deepened to one of incredulity. “Seriously, Alex, I don’t know how you do it. You’re grounded in London for a few hours and you have a woman there already?”

“It’s a long story,” Alex said shortly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he beat it toward the kitchen. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.” His partner’s voice dripped with amusement. “Enjoy yourself, buddy.”

He disconnected the call, arriving in the kitchen just in time to see Isabel standing on top of the counter, her hands pressed against a row of wineglasses that had toppled over and threatened to crash to the floor.

“What are you doing?” He hoisted himself up beside her and grabbed a handful of the glasses.

She pushed the rest back onto the shelf. “I’m sorry. I—I just thought we’d want the wineglasses. You had that bottle of wine on the counter and then I got a little dizzy and knocked one over and there was this chain reaction and—”

Visions of an exhausted Isabel falling and cracking her head open on the hard tile let loose a string of curses from Alex. He jumped down to the floor, reached up, wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her down, setting her bottom on the counter. “Did you really think this was a good idea?”

She pushed some stray curls out of her face, her cheeks turning a bright red. “I didn’t feel dizzy before I went up there.”

He shook his head. “You need to eat.” And if he were a smart man he would back away right now. Back away from the eye-level temptation staring back at him.

“Alex...?” She sank her teeth into her lower lip and gave him one of those wide-eyed looks.

“What?” he asked roughly.

“Am I a total idiot or do you want to kiss me?”

He blinked. Closed his eyes. He never lied. Ever. But right about now it seemed like a good idea. “Can I pass on that one?”

“Alex.”

He opened his eyes.

“My friend Jo told me I never engage.” She bit down harder into her lip. “With men, I mean. Which is why I’m asking the question. To see if I’m seriously deluded or not.”

He bit out a curse he hadn’t uttered since his college days. “I’m not the right guy for you, Isabel.”

She gave him a determined look. “I’m talking about a kiss. Not the rest of our lives.”

He shook his head. “Same answer.”

She hesitated, swallowed hard. “You said in the elevator that it’s better to face the unknown than fear it. What if you’re my modern-day Steven Thompson?”

“This time you should walk away,” he muttered.

“Please answer the question,” she pleaded. “Otherwise I’m going to feel like a total idiot. Good or bad, I can take it.”

He pressed his hands to his temples. It’d taken a lot of nerve to ask that question. And it had been his mistake in ever admitting he found her attractive. “Yes,” he conceded finally, “I want to kiss you but—”

“Alex.” The tension in her face slid away. “Get on with it, will you?”

“This is an insanely bad idea,” he groaned. But he was already stepping into her and lowering his mouth to the lush temptation in front of him. Because really, how much would one kiss hurt? “You just about passed out up there,” he murmured against her lips.

“I’m fine,” she said, tilting her chin up so their lips touched more firmly. Then the insanity of the day took over and he brought his mouth down on hers in a sensual tasting that explored every centimeter of her undeniably sweet lips.

His brain told him this was a bad idea even as he reached up and cupped the back of her head to change the angle of the kiss. Deeper, harder it went until she sighed and melted into him, curling her hands into his shirt. He was not unaware of how easy it would be to slip her panties off, wrap her legs around his waist, release himself and take her right there, right now. Exactly as he’d imagined it a few minutes ago...




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