“Sorry,” he said, coming back to her. “I didn’t mean to spend so long with him.”
“No problem. I got some good shots. Which is your table?” She nodded toward the vacant drafting tables.
“Upstairs. I’ll show you.”
He led her to a spiral staircase that ascended in one corner of the room. “We could use the elevator, but this is faster.”
It was also a treat. It had caught her eye earlier, a bit of wrought-iron frivolity in stark utilitarian surroundings. And yet it belonged.
“Was it original to the building?” It was a little added lagniappe, and she had already taken a number of shots of it.
“No. But I wanted something to catch the eye,” Alex said. “Something that was from the original period. I went to every salvage place in the boroughs, looking. I knew it when I saw it.”
“It’s perfect.” She motioned him to precede her up the steps. “Turn around,” she said when he was halfway up. She took several shots of him on the steps, and was seriously tempted to take one of his backside when, afterward, she followed him up. But she didn’t need any more reminders of how tempting Alex Antonides was.
His office was out of the mainstream, but connected to it. “I don’t let them up here,” he said frankly. “I need my space.”
“A perk of being the boss,” Daisy acknowledged. But she had to admit she liked his private aerie, too. The room in which he had created his office wasn’t large. Like the bigger room downstairs, it had tall, narrow, gothic arched windows and polished oak flooring. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held vast arrays of architectural titles, books about design, and a lot of history, art and photography books. Daisy studied the titles.
It was disconcerting to find many of the same titles she had on her own shelves. So, whatever it was, it wasn’t just physical.
She wished it were. He would be so much easier to resist. Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, she gave a little wave of her camera, asking permission to take photos. “May I?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ve heard that there’s a movement to minimize windows for energy conservation,” she said as she pointed the camera in his direction. “You obviously don’t believe that.”
“There’s a place for that. But light is good, too. And while you can conserve energy by building dark, I like light. So I try to make sure the windows are doing their job, too.” He stopped. “Sorry. Boring.”
Daisy lowered the camera. “It’s not, actually. And I’m a photographer. I like light, too.”
“Come on,” he said suddenly. “I’ll show you the best light of all.”
Without looking to see if she followed, he started up to the next level on the same spiral staircase. Daisy followed, expecting more office space. But when he reached the landing and unlocked the door, she knew better.
This was where Alex lived.
If he hadn’t said, “Welcome to my place,” she would have known it anyway. The light walls, the earth tones, the casual modern but not stark furniture, the plush dark rust and blue and gold oriental rug centered on the polished oak floor created a visual backdrop for the man she had known. Even if he weren’t standing there watching her take it all in, she would have known this was where he belonged.
There were, in the furnishings, in the books and papers on the coffee table, in the framed architectural drawings on the walls, signs of Alex everywhere. She was shaken by how instantly she felt at home, as if she, too, belonged here.
No. No, she didn’t.
She took a breath, steeled herself and tossed his words back at him, “So show me the best light of all.”
He smiled. “Right this way.”
Wouldn’t you just bloody know that it would be the skylight in his bedroom!
Daisy stopped dead at the door, realizing a split second before she crossed the threshold exactly where they were going. “I didn’t mean—”
Alex turned, flashing her a grin. “You asked for it.”
Daisy read the challenge in it—the very challenge she’d told Cal she could handle. And she could, damn it. So, deliberately, she stepped in and looked around. The skylight was above the bed. The bed looked to be the size of, perhaps, the Sahara Desert—but vastly more comfortable with its buff-colored duvet and a quartet of dark brown pillows.
“Very nice,” she said, doing her best to keep her gaze fixed on the skylight until she turned back to the living room again. “Let me shoot some photos out here.”
He smiled, but didn’t challenge her further, just let her wander around and look her fill.
Daisy resisted looking her fill. She’d have been here for hours, curious about the man, wanting to know him better, at the same time she knew she shouldn’t want to know him at all.
Alex’s apartment was not some sterile showplace. There were dishes in the sink, a newspaper on the counter. Two pairs of athletic shoes, a gym bag and a racing bike sat by what she supposed was the main front door—the one that didn’t lead down to his office. And one wall of the kitchen was painted as a mural of something that looked like the Greek islands—lots of blue sea and sky, white-washed buildings and blue domed churches. It drew her attention.
“Did Martha paint that?”
Martha was Lukas’s twin sister. Daisy had met her several times over the years. She knew Martha now lived part of the year in Montana—of all places—and part of the year on Long Island and wherever her husband, Theo Savas, was sailing boats.
It seemed an amazing exotic existence to Daisy who had been born in Colorado, came to the big city for university, and never left—except to go back home occasionally.
“She did,” Alex agreed. “Kind of bowls you over, doesn’t it?”
“I like it,” Daisy said.
“I didn’t,” Alex said, surprising her.
“What? Why not?”
He shook his head. “Memories.”
That startled her until she remembered him telling her about his childhood, about his brother who had died young.
“You could paint over it,” she suggested.
He shrugged. “I got used to it. I just wasn’t expecting it. I was heading out of town and I told her to paint whatever she wanted. She thought it would make me happy. Can we get on with this?” he said abruptly, gesturing to her camera.
“Oh! Yes, of course!” Daisy grimaced, feeling a flush of confusion engulf her. That would teach her.
She pointed to the armchair near the window. “Go sit there and look at one of your books.”
Alex picked up a book and sat down with it, opened it at random, studied it as if he cared what was in it while Daisy moved and shot, moved and shot.
He turned a page. “I hired a matchmaker.”
Daisy’s finger slipped on the shutter release. Then, taking a slow careful breath so as not to jar the camera, she clicked off several more shots and lowered it again.
“Did you?” she said, heart pounding. “Good for you. I’m sure you’ll find exactly what you’re looking for. Turn a little more this way.”
He turned. “I found her on the internet.”
A breath hissed through Daisy’s teeth. “The internet? For heaven’s sake, Alex! How do you know she’s legitimate? She might be a charlatan—someone hanging out her shingle, looking to make money off poor unsuspecting fools.”
He looked up from the book and raised a brow. “Poor unsuspecting fools … like me?”
Daisy’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean that! I never said—” She retreated behind her camera again. “I just meant that not everyone is reliable, honest. Did you get letters of recommendation? What do you know about her background?”
“She has a degree in human relations. She was born and raised in Virginia. She came to the ‘big city’ when she was just out of college. Reminded me a little of you.”
“I’m not from Virginia,” Daisy bit out. “And I don’t have a degree in human relations.”
“So maybe she’s more qualified than
you are,” Alex mused, giving her a sly smile.
“Maybe she is. I’ve got enough here. Let’s go back down to your office.” Someplace less intimate. Someplace where she could focus on her work. She didn’t want to hear anything more about his matchmaker.
Alex picked up her camera bag, then started down the stairs again. He glanced back. “I went out with one of her suggestions last night.”
Daisy pasted on a bright smile. “How nice. Maybe you’ll have a wife by Christmas.”
He nodded. “Maybe I will. She’s a stockbroker. Nice enough. Intense, though,” he mused.
Daisy pointed him toward his drafting table. “Put out a drawing and focus,” she directed. She did not intend to get sucked into analyzing his date.
“Too intense for me,” he went on, even as he obediently pulled out a drawing, spread it on the table and stared down at it. “She’d talked nonstop about everything from chandeliers to parakeets to stock options to astronomy.”
“Well, it’s early days yet,” Daisy said briskly. “Maybe the next one will be better.”
If he’d been her client she’d have talked to him about that, tried to learn what he hadn’t liked, what was “too intense.” But she wasn’t finding a wife for Alex Antonides. He was someone else’s problem.
He kept his gaze on the drawing. “Maybe. I’m going out with another one tonight.”
“Another one?” That fast? Where was the “matchmaking” in that? It sounded more like trial and error.
He glanced around. “Amalie—that’s the matchmaker—has got a whole list.”
A list. Daisy wasn’t impressed. “Is she French? Or fake?” she added before she could help herself.
Alex raised a brow. “Her mother’s French. Is that a problem?”
Daisy raised her camera again, refusing to admit she was taking refuge behind it. “Of course not. I just wondered. I suppose she’s introducing you to French women then.” It made sense. He spent a good part of every year in Paris.
“Career women,” Alex corrected. “And I’m not looking for a French one. I live here now.”
That was news. Daisy stayed behind the camera. She kept moving.
Alex picked up the drawing and rolled it up. Whether she was finished or not, it was clear that he was. “She has a list as long as my arm,” he reported. “She said I need options.”
Daisy grunted noncommittedly. She didn’t think much of “options.” But then, when she helped people find the right mate, she was trying to find their soul mate, not a sex partner who was willing to share a mortgage.
“So,” Alex said, “I just have to find the right one.”
Good luck with that, Daisy thought. But she kept her skepticism to herself. If she expressed it, he’d tell her she should do it herself.
“All done,” she said, and began disassembling her camera and stowing it in her bag. “I’ll get to work editing these early next week. I’m going to be out all day tomorrow, and I’m not working this weekend. If you’ll give me your business card, I’ll email you when I’ve finished. Then you can let me know whether to send you a disk or email you files or send them directly to the magazine.”
Alex fished a card out of his wallet, started to hand it to her, then took it back and scribbled something on the back before pressing it into her palm again. “You can reach me at this number anytime.”
Not likely. But Daisy just pocketed it and smiled as she zipped her bag shut, stood up and hoisted it onto her shoulder. Then, deliberately, she stuck out her hand to Alex for a businesslike shake. “Thank you.”
He blinked, then stared—at her, at her hand. Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then in slow motion, he reached out and took her fingers in his. Flesh on flesh.
Daisy tried not to think about it. But his palm was warm and firm and there were light calluses on it, as if he didn’t only sit in his office and draw. She remembered those calluses, those fingers—the way they had grazed her skin, had traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her hip, the hollow of her collarbone. Other lines. Other hollows.
She swallowed hard.
Still he held her hand. Then abruptly he dropped it. “Thank you, too,” he said, his voice crisp. As businesslike as she hoped hers was.
“Goodbye.” One more polite smile and she’d be gone.
Alex nodded, his gaze fixed on hers. The phone on his desk rang. He grimaced, then picked it up. “What is it, Alison?” There was barely concealed impatience in his tone. Then he grimaced again. “Right. Okay. Give me a sec.” He turned back to Daisy. “I have to take this.”
“Of course. I was just on my way.”
She was down the steps and out the door without looking back. There. She’d done it—beard the lion in his den.
And survived.
Just like she’d told Cal she would.
Staring at the skylight in his ceiling in the dark didn’t have much to recommend it. There were stars. There were a few small clouds scudding along, silvery in the moonlight.
There was Daisy.
Alex flipped over and dragged the pillow over his head. It didn’t help. She was on the insides of his eyelids, it seemed.
The whole day had been a bloody disaster. Well, no, that wasn’t true. Before 3:00 p.m., things had been pretty normal. He’d been a little distracted, there had been a lot to do, but he’d got some work done.
And then Daisy had shown up. Exactly as he’d planned.
She was supposed to come, take her photos, and leave again. He was supposed to smile and look professional and competent and disinterested, and see her on her way. Asking her to take the photos was supposed to settle things between them, put them on a business footing.
It was supposed to pigeonhole her—and convince Alex that he wasn’t really attracted, that he hadn’t been thinking about her fifty times a day since he’d seen her again, that she didn’t draw his gaze more than any other woman, that he was perfectly happy to watch her walk out of his office and out of his life.
The operative word was supposed. The truth was, well, something else altogether.
And the day hadn’t been all that normal before three o’clock, either. He might have got some work done earlier in the day, but shortly before Daisy was due to arrive, he’d found himself walking over to look out the window every few minutes. It was a nice day, sunny, brisk. He was enjoying perfect fall weather. No more, no less.
So why had his heart kicked over at the sight of her down there on the sidewalk, pointing her camera up at his building? Why had he stopped Steve abruptly halfway through a question to go down and intercept her before she came in? Why had his fingers itched to reach out and touch her? And why had he had to fight to suppress the urge to kiss her when she’d turned and bumped straight into his chest?
She drove him crazy. She got under his skin. The minute he saw her, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything or anyone else.
The feeling persisted the whole time she was there—this desire to touch her, to smooth a hand over her hair, to pull her against him, to touch his lips to hers. His heart had begun hammering the moment he’d seen her, and it was still banging away when he’d had to take that phone call and she’d left.
He’d wanted to stop her, to say, “Hang on. Wait,” because it was too soon, there had been so little time, he had not had enough of her yet.
But at the same time, he knew it was stupid—he was stupid.
Daisy Harris—Connolly!—was not what he wanted—or needed—in his life.
And it didn’t matter that she was divorced now. She still apparently wanted things he didn’t want. Wanted things he wasn’t prepared to give. So the one bit of common sense he had, had kept his mouth shut.
He hadn’t said, “Wait.” Hadn’t stopped her or called her to come back.
It was better she had left. And better still that he had had a date that night with one of Amalie’s “options.”
Whoever she was, she would erase Daisy from his mind.
Except she
hadn’t.
Her name was Laura or Maura or Dora. Hell, he couldn’t remember. She had been pleasant enough in an airheaded sort of way. But he’d spent the evening making mental comparisons between her and Daisy.
Suffice to say, Dora/Maura/Laura had come up short on all counts.
She didn’t have Daisy’s charm. She didn’t have Daisy’s ability to listen. She didn’t have Daisy’s smile or Daisy’s sparkling eyes or Daisy’s eager enthusiasm.
She wasn’t Daisy. He was bored.
He’d been polite enough. He’d listened and nodded and smiled until his jaw ached. He’d dutifully told her a bit about himself, but his comments were flat and uninteresting even to his own ears. It wasn’t hard to tell she was bored, too.
“You win a few, you lose a few,” she’d said, smiling and shaking his hand when they’d left the restaurant to go their separate ways.
It was nine-thirty. Shortly after ten he was home.
And that was when he began to realize his mistake. He’d not only lost, he’d lost big-time.
He hadn’t vanquished Daisy from his mind by having her come take photos this afternoon. On the contrary he now had a whole host of new images of Daisy—on his turf.
Now when he stood at the window, he could look down at where he’d first spotted her, camera to her eye, taking pictures of his building, her hair loose in the wind. And when he grew tired of pacing his apartment and went back down to his office to do some work, the minute he sat down at his drafting table, he could almost feel her presence just over his right shoulder where she had been that afternoon.
He crumpled up half a dozen attempted drawings before he gave up, stomped back upstairs, stripped off his clothes and took a shower.
She hadn’t been in his shower, at least.
Not this one, anyway. But he’d shared a shower with her five years ago, and the memories flashed across his mind with such insistence that he’d cranked the hot water down till only the cold beat down on his body. But his arousal persisted.
He wanted to go for a bike ride, burn off the energy, the edge. But not in Brooklyn. Not at midnight. There was stupid—and then there was stupid.
Breaking the Greek's Rules Page 6
