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Bride by Day
Rebecca Winters


Whirlwind WeddingsBeauty and the beast?Cynical millionaire Perseus Kostopoulos is no Prince Charming–his Greek-god features are marred by a two-inch scar above his jaw. But Samantha can't help but find her boss attractive, especially when, in return for a simple favor, he offers to grant her three wishes! All she had to do is become his temporary wife….But this is to be a purely practical marriage; Samantha his bride by day alone. Only she hasn't been bought by the promise of wishes. Perseus himself is the prize she seeks…if only he'd make her his wife for real!Who says you can't hurry love?







“Do you, Samantha Telford, take Perseus Kostopoulos to be your wedded husband?” (#uaeaceaca-169f-5b3d-b47e-a0781d81837b)About the Author (#uda6a4cd5-47ad-5781-ae07-67f1f8f94a98)Title Page (#u38c8e6e9-5e60-5023-9c64-07a21f50cecb)CHAPTER ONE (#u52fd5a2c-e9ef-52df-96c9-e0261b792f5d)CHAPTER TWO (#u0ee7905f-82fc-59a4-ba3b-9945ccca38be)CHAPTER THREE (#ud48b0585-d71e-5f19-bb1f-21152dd5c674)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)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“Do you, Samantha Telford, take Perseus Kostopoulos to be your wedded husband?”

“Yes.” With all my heart, she murmured inwardly. No matter how bogus this wedding might be, she loved Perseus. Her part of the ceremony would not be a lie.

The pressure of his hand seemed to tighten a fraction before the priest asked in a solemn voice, “Do you, Perseus Kostopoulos, take Samantha Telford to be your wedded wife?”

“I do,” came the fervent response. Perseus was such a wonderful actor; he sounded as if the vows actually meant something to him. In the next instant he removed the flower garland from her lace-covered head. A strange smile hovered at the corners of his compelling mouth as he found her left hand and placed a ring with one exquisite teardrop-shaped diamond on her finger.

“Make no mistake, Kyria. We’re married in the eyes of God and the world. I’m your husband now.”







Everybody loves a wedding: they’re romantic and exciting. And in our WHIRLWIND WEDDINGS miniseries we have weddings that are more exciting than most!

WHIRLWIND WEDDINGS is a series that combines the heady romance of a whirlwind courtship with the joy of a wedding—strong heroes, feisty heroines and marriages made not so much in heaven as in a hurry!

Titles in this series are:





REBECCA WINTERS: Rebecca, an American writer and mother of four, is a graduate of the University of Utah. She has also studied at schools in Switzerland and France, including the Sorbonne. Rebecca is currently teaching French and Spanish to junior high school students. Despite her busy schedule, Rebecca always finds time to write. She’s already researching the background for her next Harlequin


romance!




Bride by Day

Rebecca Winters







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


CHAPTER ONE

“I’M SAM Telford from Manhatten Office Cleaners. My employer told me you wanted to see me.”

Samantha, who preferred to be called by the shortenend version of her name, had been forced to run all the way from her apartment, and had been caught in the middle of an early May cloudburst. She was dripping wet and didn’t dare sit down on any of the upholstered chairs.

The elegant, middle-aged secretary looked at her with vague disdain. “Are you the person who cleaned this office last night?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re the one. It’s after two o’clock. You were expected in long before now.”

“I was in class all morning. My boss didn’t reach me until I returned to my apartment a little while ago. Obviously something is wrong.”

“You could say that,” came the cryptic reply. “Please, just...stand there for a minute.”

Sam bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t afford to be in trouble, let alone lose her only source of income. Right now she was literally down to her last hundred dollars, and was counting on her next paycheck. At this point she was grateful for her job, and would die before she went begging to her father, a portrait painter of international repute who had never acknowledged her existence as a human being, let alone his daughter.

Through the art department she’d heard rumors that he was living somewhere in Sicily with his latest mistress.

Her jaw hardened. Someday, when she’d made a big success of her own artistic career—and she would if it killed her—she’d present herself to him. That day couldn’t come soon enough for her. She was living for the moment of confrontation, not only because of its shock value alone, but because she couldn’t wait to show him she’d made a success of her life, without him.

He’d gotten away with murder for years. But not forever, she vowed vehemently.

“Ms. Telford? Mr. Kostopoulos will see you now.”

The head man himself?

Sam’s nervousness increased. Kostopoulos Shipping and Export owned the impressive sixty-eight-floor office building located on the Upper West Side in New York City.

Trepidation set in as she walked through the double doors of the office she’d cleaned less than eighteen hours earlier. To her embarrassment, her tennis shoes squished on the marble floor, announcing her entry in no uncertain terms.

Automatically her eyes flicked to the wall. To her relief the Picasso was still there among a grouping of original oils and graphics. For a moment Sam had feared there might have been a theft during the night. It belonged in a museum like the D’Orsay in Paris where the whole world could admire it. Instead, it was part of a private collection only a privileged few would ever be allowed to see.

The simplistic yet charming painting of a pair of hands holding a bouquet of flowers had to be an original, though Sam recognized that it was an unknown version of Picasso’s masterpiece, Petit Fleurs.

She imagined he’d paid a fortune to obtain such a treasure. Most likely there’d been private negotiations between the Marina Picasso family and Mr. Kostopoulos.

In the broad light of day, the room’s clean yet exquisite Hellenic accoutrements deserved a second glance. But her curious gaze fell on the powerfully built male dominating the room. He was structured along the lines of a classic Greek god, and she couldn’t look anywhere else. He was definitely numero uno.

His taut stance and tightened facial muscles led her to believe some very fierce thoughts were running through his mind. She shivered at the possibility those thoughts had anything to do with her.

He stood at the window, totally oblivious to the luxury surrounding him. His right profile was in evidence while he stared at some invisible spot only he could see.

Living in an artist’s world of color as she did, Sam was immediately intrigued by his overly-long black hair. It put her in mind of an inky void no ray of sunlight dared penetrate. She imagined this was the color of darkness before God made the light.

Aquiline features and brows like eagle’s wings made him an arresting figure. But to Sam’s mind, it was the savage two-inch scar along his right jawline which quickened her interest. It appeared to be an old wound which had healed a long time ago, but stood out because he was a man who probably had to shave twice a day.

He didn’t look like a person who feared anything. Quite the opposite in fact. Since he made more money than even most wealthy people probably found decent, why hadn’t the scar been removed through plastic surgery?

Though perfectly groomed and wearing an expensive, hand-tailored gray silk suit, there was a primitive quality about him that hinted at untamed fires burning beneath.

She could well imagine anyone meeting him for the first time would speculate on the scenario which would have marred such an unforgettable male face—the kind of face she would love to sculpt if sculpting were her best medium.

“Come all the way in, Ms. Telford.”

Suddenly Sam became the focus of his unsettling scrutiny. In one sweeping glance his inky black eyes took inventory of her form and feminine attributes, then he scowled. Apparently he found her attire as distasteful as her person.

Her five feet four inches felt very tiny and pathetic standing there in her sopping wet outfit which consisted of nothing more than scruffy jeans and an old denim shirt she hadn’t bothered to tuck in. Decorated with a print from her own handmade blocks, the pattern looked more like black cat’s paws than odd-size circles, but Sam hadn’t been displeased with the result.

Maybe it was her hair the imperious-looking man didn’t seem to like. That morning she’d been in such a hurry to get her final art project to the university on time, she hadn’t been able to find her favorite scarf.

For want of anything else, she’d been reduced to improvise, and had come up with a remnant from one of her originally designed, fishnet chains normally meant to hold hanging flowerpots. She had used it to tie back her thick, yellow-gold hair at the nape. If left unconfined, it flounced like an oversize mop.

“I’m in,” she couldn’t resist commenting because he was obviously trying to intimidate her.

The air crackled with tension. “My secretary said you were the person who cleaned this office last night.”

He spoke impeccable English in the deepest voice she’d ever heard. Yet in spite of his less than friendly demeanor, she caught traces of his attractive Greek accent. Let’s face it, Sam. He’s the most gorgeous male you’ve ever seen in your life, let alone your dreams.

“That’s right.”

“What happened to the man who usually cleans this suite?”

“Jack went home ill, and asked if I would finish up.”

He continued to stand motionless, feet apart. With her fanciful imagination, he could be the god Zeus, astride Olympus, issuing his latest decree. Sam thought he was closer to forty than thirty, yet she considered him young to run such a vast empire. If rumor among the night crew could be believed, legions of world-famous singers, models and movie stars had tried to become the wife of the mysterious Greek tycoon, but all had failed.

Of course it didn’t mean that there wasn’t a special woman somewhere in the cosmos who had a softening effect on him. Since Sam heard that he flew to Greece on a regular basis, she assumed he had a love interest in a beautiful woman from his own country and race. Someone who kept a low profile away from the public eye, and the paparazzi.

The woman would have to be incredibly brave to take him on... And very lucky, a tiny voice whispered.

“I’ll get straight to the point Last night, while in midflight between Athens and New York, a vitally important telephone call came in to this office. My secretary attempted to route it through to me, but there was too much static on the line, so she left the phone number on my desk. I drove here straight from the airport, only to discover that the note was gone.”

He hadn’t accused Sam yet, but the inference couldn’t have been more clear.

She smoothed a damp tendril away from her forehead, all the while conscious of his inquisitive eyes following the movement of her hand whose broken nails and calloused, oil-stained fingers were a far cry from those of his immaculate secretary.

Sam had never been the kind of person to envy another woman. But for once in her life, she wished she had the kind of remarkable looks and polish to attract a man like him.

“I’ve been cleaning the offices in this building for the last six months, and know better than to touch anything. All I did was dust, vacuum, and scour the bathrooms.”

His brows became a black bar of intimidation. “You saw nothing on this desk?”

Her eyes darted to the mirrorlike finish. Only a telephone was on display. For a man of Mr. Kostopoulos’s legendary business acumen, she wondered how he ran his megacorporation with everything out of sight.

“No. It looked exactly as it does right now, as if you’d just had it delivered from the furniture store.”

She shouldn’t have said that last bit. She knew she shouldn’t have said it. Speaking her mind was just one of her many flaws.

“If it isn’t in my head, it’s not important,” he stated bluntly, reading her thoughts with humiliating accuracy. “The clutter I leave to my secretary’s discretion.” His low voice rumbled through her body.

If the truth be known, clutter was Sam’s middle name. She’d lived with it all her life. In an office like this, where everything was in perfect order and spotless, she’d go crazy. In fact, she would have said so if he’d been anyone else except the man who could get her fired.

“Do you recall emptying the wastebasket?” he demanded in a decidedly chilly tone.

She lifted her rounded chin a little higher. “I would have done, but there was nothing in it.”

His lips twisted unpleasantly. No doubt he thought she was being impudent again. Clearly not satisfied with her answers, he buzzed his secretary. “Please come inside, Mrs. Athas, and bring your notepad with you.”

Seconds later, the woman who dealt on a daily basis with his billion-dollar clutter, entered his inner sanctum. She was carrying the small notepad in her hand. It’s yellow color triggered a memory.

Sam groaned, alerting her interrogator.

“You were about to say something?” he prodded, a merciless gleam entering those black depths.

“I—I remember now,” she stammered. “I did see a yellow piece of notepaper, but it was on the floor next to the wastebasket. I assumed someone had aimed for it, but had missed...”

The inference didn’t escape him and his lips thinned, making her quiver inwardly. “Since it was exactly what I needed, I—” She looked everywhere except at him. “I put it in my pocket.”

By now his hands were on his hips. To her consternation, his secretary had conveniently disappeared. Sam took this as the worst of omens.

He muttered several epithets not worthy of repeating before he demanded, “Explain to me why you would have confiscated a supposed piece of refuse from my private office.”

His arrogance was too much!

“Actually, there’s a perfectly good reason,” she fired back, cognizant of heat building in her cheeks.

“For your sake, there’d better be,” he stated with more than a hint of underlying menace.

Sam didn’t like to be threatened. Staring him down she began, “I was vacuuming the carpet beneath your desk when I saw the exact piece of paper I needed to finish my collage.”

“Collage?” he bit out.

“My senior art project,” she defended boldly because she was on steady ground. “At the beginning of this semester my professor, Dr. Giddings, insisted that we could only use those bits of paper left on the grass, the ground, the sidewalk or the floor. No cheating by dipping into garbage receptacles, no using scissors to alter shape. Everything had to go into the collage as found.”

Warming to her subject she blurted, “With the exception of newspapers, telephone directories or cardboard, we could use absolutely anything else made of paper. The whole idea of the project was to be as original as possible, and still create an interesting design worthy of hanging in an art gallery.”

Not stopping for breath she explained, “When Dr. Giddings first gave us the assignment, I didn’t realize how fun, how challenging this final project would be. For weeks I’ve been walking around the city with my eyes on the ground, and I’ve come up with the most amazing finds which are now attached to my canvas.”

By now his eyes had become black slits. “So you’re telling me that the note my secretary left on this desk is now a part of your collage?”

“Yes. But I didn’t take it from your desk. She must have created a draft and inadvertently knocked it to the floor without realizing it.”

While Sam spoke, he raked a bronzed hand through vibrant, ebony hair. She longed to twine her fingers in it, and the distraction made it practically impossible for her to concentrate.

What was wrong with her? Up to now she’d never become seriously interested in the men who’d wanted a relationship with her. Yet Mr. Kostopoulos, a total stranger, had already ignited a fire in her that was growing stronger with every sparring comment.

“Your explanation is so incredibly absurd, I’m half inclined to believe you’re telling me the truth.”

“It’s certainly no more absurd than the fact that you have a Picasso hanging on the wall.”

He blinked. “What does the Picasso have to do with this conversation?”

Obviously he wasn’t used to anyone standing up to him. She got a perverse thrill out of shocking him.

“It has everything to do with it. You’re an art lover who probably can’t paint a straight line.” Mistake number nine or ten. She’d lost count, but it didn’t matter. Something about him had made her lose control.

“Dr. Gidding’s is an artist who wouldn’t know the first thing about your corporate clutter. The point is, you both love Picasso. While you spend your millions on his art so you can look at it from your comfortable leather chair, my poverty-stricken professor, who probably won’t be a legend until long after he has gone, has made us study Picasso and put his credo to the test.”

The man confronting her looked incredulous. “What credo?”

“Picasso said, and I quote, ‘The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place; from the sky, from the earth, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web, from a scrap of paper. We must pick out what is good for us where we can find it.’ End of quote.”

He thought she was insane. Right now, she felt that she was...

“Being a disciple of Picasso, Dr. Giddings challenged us to create beauty from the scraps of paper we found.”

For an instant their gazes collided, creating a new kind of turmoil in her breast, one that squeezed the air out of her lungs for no good reason.

After an eternity, “Where is this—” He paused. “Work of art?” The mockery in his grating tone was as unmistakable as his derision.

He didn’t believe her.

She felt another rush of adrenaline, the kind that prompted her to say things which generally got her into trouble. “At the university.”

“Very well. Then we’ll drive there and get it.”

“I’m afraid that note has already adhered to the wallpaper paste. If I try to pry it loose, my collage will be ruined.” To her mortification, the last few words had come out on a wobble. If she had anything to say about it, that art project was her passport to a brilliant future, one she intended to lord in her father’s face one day. Sam wasn’t about to jeopardize everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. Not for Mr. Kostopoulos, not for anybody!

“Even if I could extricate it, chances are you won’t be able to read what was written on it.”

She watched the ominous. rise and fall of his chest. “Then you’d better start praying that the gods are smiling kindly on you today. I need that number, and there’s no point in trying to dissuade me with those sodden eyes.”

“Sodden—” she practically shrieked the word.

“Hmm...like drenched blue pansies. I’ll warn you now—a woman’s tears have no affect on me whatsoever.”

She gritted her teeth. “And a man’s billions hold no sway with me. You think you’re some invincible god who can make mortals tremble with one bellow, and a simple lift of those black eyebrows. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Kofolopogos, or whatever your name is—”

By now her slenderly rounded body had gone rigid. “This mortal isn’t intimidated. Whoever called and left that number will call again. And if your secretary is so sensational, then she should have taken the number down on one of those pads that makes a copy. The point is, no phone number could possibly be as important as my final grade!”

At her declaration, his features froze. “Since you know absolutely nothing about my life except what you glean from the gossips in this building, I’ll let that comment pass.”

Unfortunately the truth of his remark deepened the fiery red of her cheeks. But it was the bleakness of his rebuke which sent an icy shiver through her body, taking some of the fight out of her, warning her not to antagonize him any further.

“Look Mr. Kostopoulos—I’m sorry I lost my temper. I’m sorry this whole thing has happened. But you have to know it wasn’t intentional. The trouble is, I’m not sure if my professor is still there. It’s the weekend. Everything could be locked up until Monday.”

“Then I’ll find someone to let us in, or call your professor myself.”

“But—”

“Shall we go?”

He ignored her distress and strode toward the doors leading to his private elevator. It was smaller than the ones built for public access. Next to his six foot three frame, she felt minuscule. He pushed a button and the door closed.

Like Persephone being spirited to the underworld by the merciless god, Hades, Mr. Kostopoulos plummeted them the sixty-plus floors to the car park below ground. Throughout the swift descent, her arm brushed against his, making her unbearably aware of his hard, powerful body, the faint, clean smell of the soap he used combined with his own male scent.

As far as she was concerned, he was the antithesis of her artistic, mostly bearded male friends who were generally undernourished, impoverished, and most importantly, benign.

This man projected an aura of physical and mental strength which came from facing life head-on, and enjoying every dangerous second of it.

She imagined he daunted the most self-confident male. That quality alone made him an exceptional man, one she secretly admired.

Without question his impact on the opposite sex was equally profound. Sam would be a liar if she didn’t admit he had a disturbing, earthy appeal.

Instinctively she felt that the forbidding Mr. Kostopoulos was a unique mortal who created his own destiny. She’d never met anyone remotely like him. Though loathe to admit it, he excited her in a frightening kind of way. That phone number had to be of life-and-death importance for him to go to these extremes. Something told her it had nothing to do with business.

Out of a sense of self-preservation, she purposely held herself rigid so they wouldn’t touch. In the close confines of the elevator, she didn’t want him picking up on any more of her private thoughts. The head of a worldwide conglomerate didn’t get to be that way without possessing the unnerving capacity to gauge the weakness of an individual and use that knowledge to the utmost advantage.

Upon exiting the private elevator, a mustached man from the garage had parked a black Mercedes sedan in the alley in front of the doors. He stepped forward and helped Sam into the passenger seat of the car while Mr. Kostopoulos walked around and got behind the wheel.

The two men conversed in what was undoubtedly Greek. It all sounded foreign and mysterious. Sam had taken Spanish in high school and French in college, but anything outside the Romance languages was anathema to her.

When the other man laughed, Sam cringed. She feared that her abductor was regaling his employee about the wild story she’d concocted.

Clearly Mr. Kostopoulos wouldn’t believe her until he had the note back in hand. Thank heaven she’d been honest with him and could prove it. Still, she didn’t like being talked about behind her back.

Once they’d cleared the drive and merged with the horrific city traffic, a deep voice murmured, “Relax, thespinis. George was confiding his little son’s latest antics. Your guilty secrets are still safe.”

Good grief. He knew everything she was thinking. Was her face that transparent?

“For the time being,” he continued in the same vein, “all I require is that you be my navigator. Keep in mind that I have an appointment at four-thirty.”

She fiddled with the hem of her denim shirt. “I’ll keep it in mind, but I can’t do anything about heavy traffic, or the possibility that the art department may be closed. You’ll need to go left at the next corner.”

He lounged back in the seat, negotiating lane changes with the expertise of a New York City cabdriver. “If you’re leading me on a wild-goose chase, be assured that you will find yourself out of work before evening.”

Sam bristled. “Since I’ m down to the last hundred dollars in my checking account, it hardly stands to reason that I would do anything to jeopardize my job at Manhattan Cleaners.

“Of course, that’s something you would never understand,” she complained to herself, but he heard her. Mocking laughter unexpectedly rumbled out of him, making her body tingle.

“You think I don’t remember what it was like for a destitute, barefooted boy on Serifos who was forced to scrounge for jobs no one else would do, only to be given a few pitiful drachma a day?”

There was such a wealth of emotion underlying his revelation, it took her a moment to realize he’d just given her a glimpse of the man behind his wealthy, sophisticated veneer. Unless of course he was trying to arouse her compassion. He was doing a wonderful job of it, but she wasn’t about to let him get to her any more.

“I recall reading the very same thing about Aristotle Onassis,” she taunted.

“Our beginnings are not so dissimilar,” was all he deigned to say.

Like most foolish people, Sam had made assumptions that Mr. Kostopoulos had been born to wealth, and had learned how to play with his inheritance, aggrandizing his unearned fortune in astronomical ways.

The fact that a dirt-poor young Greek boy had risen to Olympian heights on sheer grit and determination made him a much more devastating adversary, one she couldn’t help but admire despite his autocratic manner.

Sam found herself wanting to know more about him, but was in no position to be asking him questions. What little she’d heard about him had been gleaned from gossip in newspapers and magazines, and the people who worked in the building.

After meeting him in person, he was even more enigmatic than the journalists made him out to be. He was also more attractive, and he drove too fast for her peace of mind.

She had the strongest suspicion that his business headquarters in Athens—where the traffic was purported to be the worst—had everything to do with the fact that they’d arrived at the university in half the time it would have taken her, if she’d had a car.

He turned into a section reserved for faculty parking and pulled to a stop in the first available space.

“They tow away cars without permits,” she warned him.

“George can always come for us in the limo. Right now the only thing of importance is that note. Let’s go.”

Sam almost had to run to keep up with him. The second they entered the building, she breathed a sigh of relief to discover that Dr. Giddings’s secretary hadn’t gone home yet.

“Lois?”

The older woman lifted her head. “Hi, Sam. What are you doing back here?”

Lois was trying hard, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to the imposing dark figure dominating the cubbyhole which served as the art department’s office. Who could blame her?

Under other less precarious circumstances, Sam would have introduced them. Finding out he was the Kostopoulos of Kostopoulos Shipping would have made Lois’s year. But because Sam hated the limelight, and sensed instinctively that her abductor hated it, too, she decided against divulging his identity.

“I need to get my collage back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! There must be over a hundred of them propped around the gallery. I’ve already locked it and am ready to go home. This has been a killer day.”

“You can say that again. Lois,” Sam whispered, “this is an emergency. I don’t have time to explain the details right now, but I can’t leave here without it.”

“Dr. Giddings won’t accept late work, Sam.”

“It wasn’t late. You logged it in yourself! It’s just that I’m in terrible trouble and have to fix something on it. I’ll bring it back first thing Monday morning. He’ll never know. If you’ll do this favor for me, I’ll give you that tablecloth I made last semester.”

Lois’s eyes rounded. “You told me you’d never part with it.”

Sam darted Mr. Kostopoulos a covert glance. “I—I I changed my mind.”

Lois followed Sam’s gaze. Lowering her voice she said, “Holy moly. You’ve been holding out on me. He’s incredible. I mean downright, knock-me-dead fantastic. Where on this overcrowded planet did you find him?”

“At my night job. Lois, please help me.”

“You really want your collage back that badly?”

“Yes. It’s a matter of life and death.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. In fact, Sam had the distinct feeling her life wouldn’t be worth the sum total of the scraps of paper stuck to her canvas if she couldn’t produce the desired note.

The bemused secretary sighed aloud and pulled a key out of the drawer. “All right. Go on in and get it.”

“Thank you!” Sam leaned over the counter and gave her a hug. “He’s going to help me look for it, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

With key in hand, Sam hurried down the hall, beckoning Mr. Kostopoulos to follow.

“What exactly are we looking for?” His deep voice reverberated in the darkness. She felt for the light switch on the wall, her heart thudding painfully. His nearness was starting to affect her that way, and the fear that she wouldn’t be able to pry the note loose without tearing it and the phone number to shreds.

“I-if I’ve done a halfway decent job, you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting it.”

“Is this a riddle of some kind?”

“Not exactly. It’s just that I’m hoping it will leap out at you.”

On that note, she found the switch which illuminated the gallery. Collages of every design and color, from white to psychedelic, filled the room, leaving little space to maneuver. Each one had to be three feet by four feet, therefore the unity of shape didn’t make their task any easier.

While she took in the enormity of the project facing them, a pair of unfathomable black eyes impaled her.

“I can already see a dozen projects which are fairly blinding me at the moment,” he growled with heavy sarcasm.

An imp of mischief not unmingled with fear made her want to prolong the moment of truth until the last second, but she supposed her last second was up.

“I’ll give you a hint. Mine will probably be the only one which will speak to you personally. That is—” Her voice caught, “if—as I mentioned earlier—I’ve accomplished my objective.”

His expression darkened. “We’re running out of time, Ms. Telford.”

“All right. I decided to create a collage of your office building.”


CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT do you mean, my office building?”

“Yours is the most beautiful one in the city, allgleaming cream with a royal blue motif. Since I work there every night, I decided to use it as the subject of my project. But I’ve filled it with people so it won’t look so lonely.”

One brow descended. “Lonely?”

“Yes.” By now she was busy looking for her design. “All buildings have an essence. Yours reminds me of a fabulous Greek temple, magnificent, but a little remote. I put people in all the windows to make it a happier place.”

Once again her tongue had run away with her.

But now that she’d met him, she understood why she’d felt those emotions. Like his building, he was aloof, yet magnificent. He was wonderful, in a scary, exciting kind of way.

When she discovered him staring at her with a strange look in his eyes, she hurriedly bent to her task, trying to pretend she was alone, but it was impossible to forget he was in the room with her.

Every so often she found herself casting him a furtive glance. He appeared to be studying each work of art with more than cursory interest. It shouldn’t have surprised her. A true art lover like himself could never remain indifferent, no matter the form. Many of the collages were bizarre, but she’d glimpsed a few which were true chefs d’oeuvres. Apparently he thought so, too.

Maybe she was a little nobody of no significance. But how she hoped he’d at least find her artwork outstanding. Then she chastised herself for speculating about foolish dreams when she knew his only interest was in getting the phone number off that yellow piece of paper.

What if it couldn’t be done? What if she couldn’t perform the required miracle?

Another five minutes passed as they continued to sift through the various canvases. Sam was beginning to wonder if her project was even in there when she heard Mr. Kostopoulos make a sound underneath his breath.

Her head jerked around in time to see him pluck one of the projects from a stack and hold it in front of him.

A smothered imprecation escaped his lips. “You made this with discarded pieces of paper?” His incredulity gave her no clue as to whether he liked her effort or not.

In a small voice she answered, “Yes.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then, “Where’s my note?”

Sam supposed the gruffness in his tone was to be expected. After all, she had taken it from his private office, even if she’d found it on the floor.

“It’s in the top right window.”

By this time she’d come to stand next to him, and pointed it out with a trembling finger. She could feel his gaze studying her with a thoroughness that left her shaken.

“That’s my office.”

“I—I had no idea,” she defended. “But I’ll admit it’s an odd coincidence.”

“Is it?” he challenged.

Thank heaven Lois chose that moment to poke her head inside the gallery. “Have you found your project yet? I’m closing up now.”

“Y-yes,” Sam stammered. “We’re coming. Thanks, Lois. I owe you.”

“Just remember to get it back here before eight Monday morning. I’ve seen Dr. Giddings hold up someone’s graduation for much less.”

“You’re graduating?” Mr. Kostopoulos demanded when they had left the building and were once more ensconced in his car with the collage safely deposited in the trunk.

Sam averted her eyes from his striking features. “A week from yesterday. But you heard Lois. If my professor finds out what I’ve done, I’ll have to take the class over again to graduate. In any event, the damage will cost me a drop in grade.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. If the worst happens, I’ll explain the circumstances to your professor.”

She shook her head. “Once he’s made up his mind, I doubt even you could sway Dr. Giddings.”

“We’ll see,” was all he condescended to say until they’d retraced their steps and had come in sight of his office building. That’s when she started to panic. He was expecting results she couldn’t promise to produce.

“Mr. Kostopoulos—I need special tools and am going to have to go to my apartment. If you’ll drop me off there, you can keep your appointment. I’ll phone you when I’ve finished.”

“What is your address?”

Pleased he was so amenable to the suggestion, she gave him directions, then sat back in relief because they’d be parting company shortly.

She would never be able to work with him standing over her shoulder. Not only was she nervous about the outcome, she was too aware of him on a physical level to pretend indifference to his presence.

“Turn left at the next light. My apartment is on the south, in the middle of the block. The traffic is so bad you’d better just let me out on the corner.”

As he slowed for the light, she reached for the door handle, but the catch didn’t give. Her head whipped around. “Will you please undo the lock?”

Her request fell on deaf ears because he had pulled a cellular phone from the inside of his suit jacket and was telling his secretary to reschedule his appointment for the following week.

Suddenly Sam’s heart began to race because she had this horrible premonition that he intended to come up to her apartment and watch her perform the required surgery.

There were several reasons why she couldn’t allow him over her threshold. For one thing, her one-bedroom apartment was in complete chaos. For another, there simply wasn’t enough room inside for both of them. The kitchen and living area were combined. The only place he’d be able to sit down was the couch, and it would take her five minutes just to clear a space for him.

She started to tell him he couldn’t park in the zone marked for trucks making deliveries, then realized it was pointless. A man like Mr. Kostopoulos wrote his own rules.

By the time she was freed from the confines of the car, he’d removed her collage from the trunk and had preceded her to the front doors of the building.

Once inside the outer lobby, she punched in the code which gave access to the elevator entrance. Already she was feeling claustrophobic.

Taking a deep breath she said, “It won’t be necessary for you to come all the way up. If you’ll give me a number where you can be reached, I’ll call you the second I’ve finished.”

The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside. His dark eyes swept over her once more. “I’m already in the neighborhood. There’s no point in my leaving until I get what I came for.”

At that remark, they rode the rest of the way to the seventh floor in silence. He followed at her heel until they came to her apartment three doors down the hall.

Before she could bring herself to unlock it, she turned to him, slightly out of breath. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited in your car.”

His brows furrowed. “If you’re worried what your lover will think, I’ll be happy to explain why your privacy is being invaded.”

Heat swarmed her cheeks. “There isn’t enough room for me, let alone anyone else.”

He gave a negligent shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Then I don’t see the problem. My childhood was spent in a room not much larger than a closet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She clenched her teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not ready for company?”

“I’m not company,” he retorted with maddening non chalance. “Come. Give me the key.”

In the next instance he’d removed it from her rigid fingers and had opened the door, signaling that she should precede him.

That brief contact of skin against skin sent a quickening through her body she’d never experienced before. The sensation electrified her, confusing her on too many levels.

“Where shall I put this so you can get started?”

The bland question indicated that he hadn’t been fazed by the brush of their fingers. She berated herself for reacting so foolishly, and marched over to the card table where she whisked away some orange peels, the visible remains of a breakfast hastily swallowed earlier that day.

Without apology she muttered, “You can put it down here.”

Of necessity, he had to follow in her footsteps, stepping over not only her hair dryer, but the spray-stained newspaper still spread on the floor.

Last night she’d given her project a final protective coating, but because of the inclement weather, her apartment had felt more humid than usual. She was so afraid the collage wouldn’t dry out, she’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to speed the process by using her hair dryer.

“I’ll look for my hammer and chisel.”

Along with most of her other art supplies, she’d put the tools from her sculpture class in the tiny linen cupboard next to the bathroom. But since her sophomore year, she’d stored a lot of dyes and acrylics there, as well. It took some doing to find what she needed, and she ended up putting everything on the floor to be cleaned up later.

When she returned to the living room-cum-kitchen with her tools and put them on the card table, she found Mr. Kostopoulos perched on the arm of the couch studying the latest tablecloth she’d created. It was one to which she’d applied a hot wax design, then dyed, before draping across her secondhand couch to dry out.

With nowhere to pace in her postage stamp dwelling, he’d had little alternative but to plant himself there, unless he’d wanted to remain standing.

Suddenly she saw something clasped in his left hand. To her horror it turned out to be her rolling pin which she used for everything under the sun except cooking.

For the first time since meeting him, she thought she detected a tiny flicker of mirth in the black recesses of his eyes. He held up the well-worn kitchen utensil whose roller contained so many dents it resembled the surface of the moon. “I presume you keep this handy in case of intruders.”

She blinked. Until he’d mentioned it, she hadn’t thought of using her rolling pin as a weapon. “What a wonderful idea!”

Her spontaneity must have amused him because his lips twitched ever so slightly, a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

“Actually, I used it to create my collage.”

In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”

“You want me to explain?”

“Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”

His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.

In another aside he added, “I’m fascinated to discover how this instrument contributed to the final product.”

Did he even like the final product? He still hadn’t said a word about it.

“If you really want to know, I’ll demonstrate.”

Without meeting his penetrating gaze, she took the rolling pin from his hand, then tore off a corner of the newspaper lying on the floor.

She could sense his body next to hers as she wadded the paper in her palm, then cleared a glass and some cutlery from her minuscule counter so she’d have room to work. Placing the little wad in the center, she began pressing it down with the roller. She ran over it this way, then that.

“You have to do this about ten times until you achieve the desired crinkled effect. I did this to every piece of paper in the collage so that each one resembled an old man’s weathered face. Then I opened the paper and applied a hair spray meant to add lighter streaks to dull blond hair. Every tiny crease captured the glaze, gilding it, producing an all-over effect not unlike faience, a kind of fine porcelain with thousands of weblike lines.

“After the piece dried, I cupped it in my palm, shaping it to resemble people or the Greek motif on the outside of your building. Then I curled the ends under, and dipped them in wallpaper paste before working the treated paper into the collage.

“As you can see—” Her eyes darted to the canvas propped on the card table. “The spray enhanced every color, but more importantly, the overall impression should convince the viewer that he’s looking at a collage made of the most translucent bone china.” After a slight pause, “At least, it’s supposed to create that effect.”

“Rest assured you achieved your goal. In fact, you achieved a great deal more than that,” came the cryptic comment. As he said the words, his dark gaze trapped her astonished one, sending a strange thrill of sensation chasing across her skin.

Unused to the hairs standing on the back of her neck, she rushed over to the card table to begin her task.

Out of the periphery, she watched him approach her only folding chair and examine the half dozen remnants of upholstery cloth she’d hand woven before he fingered various fishnet chains she’d designed. They were hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.

While he was thus engrossed, she laid the canvas flat on the tabletop. Using her hip for leverage, she positioned it against the wall. Carefully she placed the edge of the chisel at the base of the window in the collage and started to tap the handle with the hammer.

But she hadn’t counted on the card table jiggling under the pressure.

It caused the canvas to slide, which in turn sent the sharp end of the chisel into the fleshy portion of her palm. Unknowingly she cried out as blood gushed all over her artwork.

She had no idea anyone of Mr. Kostopoulos’s size could move as fast as he did. In a lightning gesture he’d pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and had grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding.

Oblivious to the pain, her heart began to thud from the close proximity of their bodies. She heard him mutter another unrepeatable epithet. “The wound is too deep to close by itself. You’re going to need stitches and a tetanus shot.”

“I’ll be all right,” she murmured breathily. For some reason, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. She had to fight the urge to cling to him and draw from his strength. “I don’t have any insurance and can’t afford a visit to the doctor.”

“You think I’d let you pay when I was the one who forced the issue?” His scathing tone left her in little doubt he was taking full responsibility. “We’re leaving for my doctor now.”

“But my collage! I’ve got to get the blood off it.”

No sooner had she spoken those words than he relinquished his hold of her hand and took her canvas to the sink to run cold water over the soiled portion. Within seconds it looked like new again. In a deft movement, he propped it on the card table, much the same way she’d done the night before.

Immediately his concerned gaze flicked to her injured hand where she pressed the handkerchief to apply pressure.

“It’s to your credit that you had the foresight to spray the collage with a protective sealer. Otherwise the water would have permeated the paper and ruined your unique masterpiece. Now that we’ve erased that worry, we can go.”

His compliment, albeit grudgingly given, filled her with such warmth, she went along without protest.

Unbelievably, she found herself back in his car where a new, strange silence prevailed. He seemed to be in a world all his own. For that matter, so was she. The events of the last few hours had left her bemused and shaken.

As soon as they merged with the traffic, he managed to get her to a private clinic in record time.

Of course the receptionist knew him on sight, and though there were still some patients in the waiting area, one word from him and Sam was rushed into the first available examining room.

Apparently Dr. Strike was a compatriot of her abductor. The second the attractive, dark-haired man breezed inside, his face broke out in a broad smile. “Perseus!” he called to Mr. Kostopoulos, and they began conversing in Greek like longtime friends.

Sam sat there in stunned surprise. The image of the god Hades faded from her mind as she remembered her favorite story from Greek mythology.

The strong, handsome Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae, rejected by his mother’s abductor, the cunning King Polydectes, set out to prove he could do anything, even free his mother, and eventually brought home not only the head of Medusa to turn the king and his courtiers to stone, but acquired a wife in the form of the beautiful Andromeda whom he rescued from the sea monster.

It may have been a coincidence, but to a large degree, Mr. Kostopoulos’s life appeared to have paralleled that of the mythical Perseus. As today’s world viewed him, Perseus Kostopoulos was a presence to reckon with. Even Sam had attributed him with godlike characteristics the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.

Were there more similarities? Was he on a quest of some kind? Was there still a woman to be rescued whom he’d make his own?

For an unknown reason, those fanciful thoughts were very disturbing to Sam who could wish she were that special woman he’d been roaming the world to find.

Realizing what dangerous channels her thoughts were drifting into, she made a determined effort to concentrate on the doctor’s instructions as he put in three stitches, bound her hand with gauze and gave her a tetanus shot. All the while he spoke, she felt his speculative gaze.

Naturally he was trying to work out why someone of Perseus Kostopoulos’s stature would be in the company of an insignificant college student like herself.

Though too discreet to be obvious, Sam sensed the doctor’s curiosity which, oddly enough, her companion hadn’t satisfied. Apparently he wished to keep the particulars of their association to himself.

As soon as she thanked Dr. Strike for fitting her in so fast, she felt Perseus’s hand at her elbow to usher her out of the clinic. Already he’d taken on the persona of the strong and brave Greek god in her mind, and she no longer thought of him as Mr. Kostopoulos.

With a sense of déjà vu they returned to her apartment where he submitted her to more toe-curling scrutiny. “While you obey doctor’s orders and keep your hand elevated, I’ll fix you something to drink and get to work.”

Actually, she felt too weak to argue with him. Deep inside she knew her injury played only a minor part in what was really ailing her, but she’d rather die than allow him to discern the truth—that his presence was wreaking havoc with her emotions.

As an unfamiliar lethargy depleted her energy, she removed the tablecloth from the couch and sank down in one corner, content to watch him for a change. In a few hours she’d have to report to her night job and didn’t know how she was going to make it to the front door, let alone walk the eight blocks in the warm May drizzle.

“There’s some tea in the cupboard over the stove.”

As if he were used to this, he shed his suit jacket and tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and boiled some water. Through half-closed eyes she watched him maneuver in the tiny space, obviously no stranger to mundane tasks when necessity dictated.

Though he dwarfed her apartment, she had to admit she liked his solid male presence, and didn’t mind the invasion as much as she’d supposed.

Despite their cajolings, no other man had ever made it past her front door. Perseus, on the other hand, had simply removed the key from her trembling fingers and taken over her apartment and her life. And you let him Sam, because you couldn’t help yourself. You still can’t...

Her head fell back against the couch. She had to admit that for a little while it felt good to be waited on. So good, in fact, she almost forgot the reason for his unexpected entry into her life. That is until he handed her a cup of hot tea before going to work on her collage.

He seemed to know exactly what he was about. When he bent over to dislodge the note with her tools, she noticed the play of muscle across his shoulders, the strength of his rugged physique. If she were into drawing human figures, he’d make a perfect model in all his raw, male splendor.

Once more upset at the direction of her uncontrollable thoughts, she drank her tea thirstily. He’d made it strong, and had added more sugar than she generally used. Her mouth curved upward. Greeks had a noted penchant for sweets. She guessed he was no exception.

“I’ve worked it loose,” his deep voice announced with satisfaction. “What’s the next step?”

Totally engrossed in thoughts of his likes and dislikes, she didn’t realize until too late that he’d caught her staring at him. This time prickly heat washed over her entire body, even to the roots of her abundant gold hair.

Quickly averting her eyes she murmured, “I intended to use a solvent to loosen the paste and soften the paper enough to open it. Just a moment and I’ll get it.”

“Tell me where it is and I’ll find it.”

The authority in his tone warned her that if she tried to get up, he’d use his daunting physical strength to prevent her from leaving the couch.

Faced with the knowledge that he’d have to get into her bedroom closet to locate the solvent, she didn’t know which alternative was the most unpalatable. Especially considering that her more intimate apparel and nightware hung from hooks on the door.

Of course a woman’s underclothing would hold no mystery for a man like Perseus Kostopoulos, but it wouldn’t be just any woman’s undergarments practically hitting him in the face. They would be hers.

Perhaps most women didn’t care, but she’d never grown up with a father or brothers. Since her morals prevented her from having an intimate relationship with a man outside of marriage, she’d been very selective about the men she had allowed in her life.

To date she’d only had one semiserious boyfriend. When he found out she expected marriage before going to bed with him, he accused her of being an outdated prude, and he moved on to someone else. That was just fine with her. She preferred her solitary existence, and hadn’t counted on an unknown entity like Perseus knocking the foundations out from under her.

“Why the hesitation?” he mocked, seemingly as amused by her reticence as he was irritated.

She closed her eyes in defeat and lay back against the cushion with her hand propped upright. “I-it’s in a box on the closet floor in the bedroom.”

He’d disappeared before she had the courage to open them again. Several minutes passed by with no sign of him. When he didn’t come back out, she started to grow nervous and got off the couch to investigate.

Revived by the tea, she didn’t feel as unsteady as before and hurriedly made her way to the bedroom.

“The box is in plain—” But the rest of the words never came out of her mouth. He had virtually emptied the contents of her closet. Not the stuff on the shelves or floor, but everything on hangers, mainly samples of fabrics she’d been designing since her early teens.

In .actuality, the contents bore more resemblance to the materials of an upholstery department in a furniture store than they did a woman’s wardrobe. The few ancient skirts and blouses she possessed had been shoved into one corner.

He’d laid out the large samples across her unmade twin bed. Some were woven, others were hand-painted or stenciled. He didn’t even bother to lift his head to acknowledge her presence, let alone apologize for the liberty he’d taken.

“Where did you get these?” he asked in that low, vibrant voice she’d be able to recognize out of a thousand others.

“I made them.”

His dark head reared back, and he sent her a piercing glance she couldn’t decipher. “If that’s true, then you have a touch of genius in you.”

“You think?” Her words came out more like a squeak.

“You mean you don’t know?” He actually sounded angry.

Inordinately pleased by the compliment, she forgot to be mad and smiled at him. For Perseus Kostopoulos, a known art lover and head of one of the world’s most prestigious textile companies, to give her such an unsolicited accolade, gave her hope that she wasn’t wasting her time completely.

Over the years Sam had received compliments on her work from her peers, but for some reason, she’d never elicited praise from her professors.

There had been times when she’d been tempted to tell them she was Jules Gregory’s daughter, in order to evoke even a little recognition. But pride had always held her back. If she couldn’t succeed on her own, then she refused to trade on her father’s name.

As far as Sam was concerned, he was a despicable man who couldn’t have cared less that her mother had passed away, or that his daughter had been left on her own.

Swallowing her bitterness, Sam leaned over to get the solvent, then headed for the kitchen. Perseus followed her and took the can from her hand to open the lid. Again she felt the brush of his skin with a sense of wonder and trembling.

Refusing to meet his eyes which had been studying her since her flight from the bedroom, she rummaged for a dish in the cupboard. “If your secretary wrote the number in pen, the solvent won’t destroy it. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it might wash out any notations made by pencil.”

“She uses both,” he muttered, before pouring some liquid into the bowl she handed him. “That’s the chance we’ll have to take.” So saying, he put the crumpled piece of yellow paper in the liquid. “How long shall I leave it in?”

Her injured hand had started to throb. Worse, she could feel a headache coming on, probably because this wasn’t going to work, and then he’d leave and she’d never see him again.

The idea that he might be walking out of her life in a few minutes was enough to bring on a migraine, let alone the sense of loss to her heart.

“Give it a minute, then take it out and test it to see how soft it’s getting.”

He did as she suggested, then shook his head. “It needs more time.”

“Leave it another two minutes.”

Once again he submerged it.

She watched from a little way off, consumed by curiosity, and the nagging fear that her time alone with him was numbered by precious minutes ticking away far too fast.

Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer she blurted, “Why is this particular number so important to you?”

His body tautened, making her wish she’d kept silent.

“Twenty years ago my beloved fiancée plunged a knife into my jaw, then disappeared.”

His fiancée?

“I’ve been looking for her ever since.”

Sam’s musings had been right. He was on a quest for the woman who’d undoubtedly marked him in ways that went much deeper than his scar. Sam already hated that woman with a ferocity she couldn’t even explain to herself.

“Little by little the field of the search has narrowed,” he spoke on, unaware of her uncharitable thoughts toward the woman he loved. “She’s grown tired of running from me. Quite the reverse,” he muttered grimly. “In fact, my sources indicate she’s probably the one who phoned my office leaving her private phone number with Mrs. Athas.”

The explanation was so shocking, so different from the picture Sam had in her mind of his being scarred in a street fight, she started to shiver and couldn’t stop.

“But if she loved you enough to get engaged, and you loved her—”

His features hardened. “More than life itself. We made our own vows on Delos, at the temple of Apollo.”

His admission shouldn’t have devastated her. Perseus Kostopoulos couldn’t possibly mean anything to her.

But he did...

“Then why—”

“I think this is soft enough now,” he broke in without answering her burning question. Something told her she’d heard all she was going to hear.

Sam hadn’t been aware of holding her breath until he unfolded the edges of the yellow note. Her heart plummeted to her feet because the writing was no longer there.

As if he’d suddenly been scalded, he let the paper fall to the counter.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered in anguish. “I—I wish to heaven I’d never cleaned your office.”

“It’s too late for regrets, Ms. Telford.” The words dropped like rocks. “Where is the wallpaper paste? I’ll repair the damage to your collage.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll do it.”

“Not with an injured hand.”

Like lightning he disappeared, then returned with the paste which he’d found on the floor in the hall.

In very little time he’d put the missing piece back so that it looked as if it had never been removed. All she would have to do was spray that spot one more time to make it like new.

“Thank you,” she murmured, but doubted he’d heard her because he’d retrieved his cellular phone from his suit jacket and was talking to someone in Greek. Undoubtedly he was calling one of his contacts to let them know he’d been unsuccessful in obtaining the phone number.

Any second now he’d leave her apartment and be lost to her forever. She couldn’t bear it, but what could she do unless she held him prisoner at gunpoint. The only problem was, she didn’t own a gun because she didn’t believe in them.

What an irony that this was the , first time she’d ever wished to own a firearm. A double irony because she would use it to keep Perseus inside, instead of out.

When he’d finished his conversation, he eyed her intently.

Here it comes. He’s about to tell me goodbye, and I’ll never be the same again.


CHAPTER THREE

“I’VE canceled my appointment and arranged for our dinner to be delivered.”

Sam reeled and held on to the couch back for support. “What?”

“After what I’ve put you through today, I need to make amends. Furthermore, I’m hungry and wager you are too.”

“Well, yes...but—”

“Then it’s settled,” he cut in without a qualm. “While you obey doctor’s orders and rest, I’ll clean things up.”

“No, please. I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re in no position to stop me. By the way, while we were at the doctor, I contacted Manhattan Cleaners and told them about your injury. The person in charge said you should take off as much time as you needed to heal. I told them you’d get back to them in a few days.”

On that succinct note he began tidying the room. Sam sank back on the couch, too bemused by the circumstances to argue. Someone upstairs had heard her, and granted her a few more minutes of Perseus’s precious company. But ungrateful wretch that she was, she was greedy. She wanted it to last forever.

Unfortunately it was only a short half hour later that she heard a knock on her apartment door, and jerked to a sitting position. But Perseus was faster and had opened it before she could get up from the couch. “Kalispera, Arianna,” she heard him say.

The dark-haired, middle-aged woman answered, “Gia sas, Kyrie Kostopoulos.” She was holding a huge sack, yet even from the distance, Sam could detect a delicious aroma filling the room which made her mouth water. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had smelled so good.

“Efcharisto.”

Except for that last word which she’d figured out meant, “thank you,” Sam didn’t understand the rest of their conversation before the woman went away again, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Arianna is the best cook in New York. Tonight we will enjoy mincemeat kebab and baby lamb, roasted with tomato and cheese. For dessert, galato bouriko, a sinful custard pastry I promise you’ll enjoy.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise as he handed her a heaping plate of food. “Everything looks wonderful.”

“It is. But later, when we reach Serifos, and you taste my housekeeper Maria’s cooking, then you will know the true meaning of ambrosia.”

Her heart did a queer little thump, and the first bite of lamb never reached her mouth. “What do you mean, when we reach Serifos?”

He had already made huge inroads into his food. Without meeting her gaze he said, “The gods didn’t smile kindly on you after all. Because you stole something from my office that wasn’t yours, you must make restitution.”

His words were delivered in such a silky tone, it took a second before she understood their thrust.

Here she’d been praying that Perseus wouldn’t walk out of her life. Now it seemed she might be granted her wish. But wasn’t there an old Spanish proverb somewhere that said, Beware lest you get what you asked of God?

She started to grow nervous and lost what little appetite she had.

“It’s more than probable that my fiancée. who has returned to Serifos after a twenty year absence with the sole intent of marrying the heartbroken fiancé of her youth, hoped to reach me by phone and beg my forgiveness before we saw each other again.

“I’ve decided that I’m glad I couldn’t return her call after all. Bringing you back to Serifos as my wife will speak more eloquently than any words I might have said to her.

When all danger has passed, you will be freed to continue with the rest of your life. Be assured, thespinis, your nights will be your own. You will only have to act the part of my bride, by day.”

Bride by day?

He actually planned to use Sam as a pawn to help him face his adored fiancée? Apparently the woman presented so great a danger to his peace of mind, he’d even used the word with Sam.

At such a ludicrous, preposterous idea, Sam should have been laughing hysterically. Or throwing the kebabs in his face... But neither reaction surfaced. Rather, a strange ache had entered her heart as she watched him absently rubbing an index finger over his scar. She wondered if it still hurt him after all this time...

What kind of a woman was this fiancée who held him in thrall to the point that he’d never remarried or stopping trying to find her, even though she’d done such a horrific thing to him?

Was he truly so frightened he might fall under her spell again, he would turn to a total stranger and marry her in his desperation to combat his beloved’s attractions?

Sam couldn’t imagine a love like that or comprehend it, and decided she didn’t want to know.

But a little voice deep inside called her a liar for not owning up to the truth. Just once in her life, Sam had to admit she’d like to know how it felt to be the sum total of a man’s existence.

Liar, the voice whispered again. Not just any man. Face it, Samantha Telford. You’ll probably never see him again, but by some error in the cosmos, Perseus Kostopoulos has crossed your path, and given you the once-in-a-billion chance opportunity to remain in his life for a little longer. As his wife!

Isn’t that what you wanted?

“For a woman who is never without words, your speechless state is extremely gratifying because it means you haven’t rejected my decision out of hand. That’s good, since the alternative would be that you come live with me, not as my wife, but my pillow friend.”

Her cheeks flushed. “You mean, your mistress.”

“I would treat you exactly the same way, but I’m afraid the world would not be as charitable to you, if you follow my meaning.”

She was very much afraid that she did. Living with Perseus under those conditions would be tantamount to destroying her good name and reputation. Being his wife would be an entirely different proposition.

“Of course to make this more palatable for you, I’m prepared to grant you the three wishes of your heart. You have only to voice them to realize your wildest dreams.”

Her eyes narrowed provocatively. She was feeling as capricious and daring as the moment afforded. The corner of her mouth lifted. “My wildest dreams?”

It was beyond her wildest imagination—let alone her dreams—to be sitting in her tiny apartment a few feet away from the renowned and breathtaking Perseus Kostopoulos, having just heard him propose marriage to her, no matter his not-so-secret agenda.

“Three wishes, you say?”

A trick of light made his eyes seem even blacker and more mysterious. “As my closest friends will attest, once made, I never go back on a bargain.”

She could believe it.

“Well, that’s easy. For one, I’ve always wished I had enough money to give every deserving, struggling artist at the university a free stipend so he only had to work at one job instead of two or three, in order to afford college.”

“Done,” came the pronouncement, as if from on high. “Since I’d already planned to purchase your art project and have it hung in a place of honor in the foyer of my building, I’ll contact Dr. Giddings and establish a perpetual fund in your name which he can administer to needy, deserving art students.”

The idea that he planned to buy her collage and put it on display almost made her plate of food fall off her lap onto the couch. But to think what such a monetary gift would mean to impoverished students...

“You’d really do that?” Sam cried out in unabashed astonishment.

“What’s your second wish?” he continued in the same vein, completely ignoring her outburst.

He was sitting on the rickety chair he’d carried from the corner and placed opposite the couch, calmly finishing a second helping of lamb.

Her second wish. It was really her first, but at his suggestion, she’d wanted to propose the most outrageous demand she could think of.

Just remembering her hard working, courageous mother made her eyes cloud over. She bit her lip to put a brake on her emotions.

“When Mom died, I didn’t have the money to fly her to Cheyenne, Wyoming. She was born there and ought to have been buried in the family plot. I designed a headstone I wanted to have erected to her memory, but it was too costly to have made.”

“Done,” he came back again in a low, solemn tone. “Remember that you only have one more wish. It must be something you want for yourself.”

Her third wish.

Sam eyed him covertly. This was only a game.

She had no intention of acting on any of it.

“To have the time and luxury to create beautiful designs for cloth, ceramic tiles and fine-boned china which other people will clamor to buy.”

“Done.”

In a lithe move, he rose to his full height and relieved her of the food she’d barely tasted.

He took everything to the sink, then said over his broad shoulder, “At my villa on Serifos, there’s a whole wing you can devote to your work. Cottage industries in the Cyclades have always been the secret of my financial success.

“Frankly, it’s been many years since I’ve seen designs and patterns as fresh and exciting as yours. Through my marketing experts, you’ll make a small fortune. By the time I’ve granted you your freedom, you’ll be launched and successful, and you’ll never have another money worry again.”

While she sat there in a complete stupor, he suddenly turned and gave her his undivided attention. “I sense there’s a fourth. Tonight I’m in a benevolent-enough mood to indulge your slightest whim.”

He wanted protection from his fiancée at any cost, even to binding himself to a temporary wife he didn’t love.

All along, Sam had been right about him. He had remarkable sensitivity and a superior intellect which could ferret out a person’s most closely guarded secrets without even trying. His perception was positively scary.

Deep, deep down inside that core of her being, she’d been waiting for the day when she shouted at her father that she and her mother had made an even greater success of their lives than he had-without his acknowledgment or help—then walk proudly away and never look back.

Perseus Kostopoulos was the only god-like mortal who could actually help her achieve that dream before she was old and gray—and somehow he knew it, even if she hadn’t told him the particulars.

“I—I don’t know.” She tried to sound unaffected, but was failing miserably. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Do that. I’ll be back at ten tonight.” He took her door key from the kitchen counter and let himself out of the apartment without waiting for a response.

What a clever man to leave her alone so she could contemplate the rest of her life without him.

Before she’d left her apartment earlier in the day to make the walk to his office in the rain, she’d given little thought to a love interest in her life because she’d been too busy getting ready to graduate, too busy to start making her way in the world.

That was before she’d met Perseus Kostopoulos.

Now his stamp was all over her lonely, claustrophobic apartment, from the bedroom to the kitchen sink.

She eyed the gauze bandage wrapped around her hand, evidence of the care she’d received from his own, personal doctor. Her arm ached from the tetanus shot she’d been given, further evidence of that concern.

Sumptuous Greek food he’d had specially prepared for her still sat on the plate waiting to be eaten. Her violated collage, one he planned to buy and place in his office building for the whole world to see, sat propped on the card table, expertly repaired by his capable hands.

Strong, masculine hands which had caught hers to stop the bleeding. Hands she secretly longed to feel in her hair, on her body. Until now, she’d never had such an erotic thought in her life.

It came to her like a revelation that she had fallen in love with Perseus on sight. She didn’t care what other people would say about such an absurd, ridiculous statement only hours after having met him.

She couldn’t help it. Something told her that if she couldn’t have his love, body and soul, for the rest of her life, then she wouldn’t want any other man’s.

Her mother had said the same thing about her father. She’d loved Jules Gregory from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. Like mother, like daughter.

Since the possibility of Perseus returning her love was nonexistent, could she be content with the proverbial half loaf?

At least she’d have a chance to be close to him for as long as he allowed it. Maybe he’d need to keep her at his side for a long, long time. Long enough to thwart his fiancée. Long enough for him to turn to Sa—

Stop it, Sam. You’re being delusional.

If you agree to his proposal, you can never let him know the real reason why you’re willing to enter into something which can only cause yourself pain and heartache in the end.

The problem was, she was already experiencing those searing emotions, and he’d only been gone twenty minutes. She couldn’t abide the thought of his never coming back...

Though she tried to stay busy straightening her apartment, and still keep her injured hand raised, the next hour passed with agonizing slowness.

By five after ten, she’d worked herself up to a crisis state thinking that maybe he wasn’t going to come back, that he’d only been playing with her emotions as final punishment for removing the note from his office in the first place.




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