The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

by Sandra Marton

  The door to the guest suite she’d commandeered in Damian’s absence stood open. One of the maids was emptying the dresser drawers; Esias stood by, supervising.

  “Leave my clothes alone!”

  The maid jumped back. Esias said something and the girl shot a glance at Ivy and reached toward the dresser again.

  “Did you hear me? Do—not—touch—my—things!”

  Esias barely looked at her. “His Highness said—”

  “I don’t give a damn what he said.” Ivy pointed to the door. “Get out!”

  The houseman stiffened but, well-trained robot that he was, he snapped an order at the maid. She scurried away at his heels as he marched from the room.

  Ivy slammed the door behind them, locked it and sank down on the edge of the bed.

  She would not remain on Minos. That was a given. What wasn’t so clear was how to escape. There were no bars on the windows of Damian’s palace, no locks on the doors, but why would there be?

  The island was in the middle of the Aegean. You could only leave it by sea or by air.

  And yes, there was an airstrip, a helipad, a couple of small boats in a curved harbor, even a yacht the size of a cruise ship anchored just offshore in the dark blue sea.

  But all those things, every ounce of white sand beach, dark volcanic rock and thousand-foot-high cliffs belonged to Damian. He owned Minos and ruled it with an iron fist.

  She could only leave Minos if he permitted it.

  Aside from Esias, who watched her with the intensity of Cerberus, that ancient three-headed dog guarding Hades, the people who lived in Damian’s tightly controlled little kingdom were pleasant and polite.

  The maids and gardeners, cook and housekeeper all smiled whenever they saw her. The pilot of Damian’s jet, poring over charts in a small, whitewashed building at the airstrip, had greeted her pleasantly; down by the sea, an old man scraping barnacles from the bottom-up hull of a small sailboat doffed his cap and offered a gap-toothed grin.

  They all spoke English, enough to say oh, yes, it was very hot this time of year and indeed, the sea was a wonderful shade of deepest blue. But as soon as Ivy even hinted at asking if someone would please sail her, fly her, get her the hell off this miserable speck of rock, they scratched their heads and suddenly lost their command of anything other than Greek.

  Terrified, all of them, by His Highness, the Prince.

  His Horribleness, the Prince.

  Ivy shot to her feet and went to the closet. There had to be someone with the courage to help her. Maybe the helicopter pilot. Maybe Damian had neglected to tell him that she was a prisoner. Either way, this was her last chance at freedom.

  She had to make it work and the best way to do that was to look and sound like Ivy Madison, woman of the world, instead of Ivy Madison, desperate prisoner.

  Quickly she stripped to her bra and panties. Grabbed a pair of white linen trousers from their hanger, stepped into them…

  “Oh, for God’s sake…”

  She inhaled until it felt like her navel was touching her spine. No good. The zipper wouldn’t budge.

  Ivy kicked the trousers off and turned sideways to the mirror. Her expression softened and she lay her hand gently over her rounded belly.

  The baby—her baby—was growing. Her baby…and Damian’s.

  No. A condom’s worth of semen didn’t make a man a father. Concern, love, wanting a child were what mattered. Where was Damian’s concern, his love, his desire for this baby?

  Nowhere that she could see. He wanted her child because he wanted an heir, and because he was the kind of unfeeling SOB who could not imagine giving up that which he believed was his.

  A man like that was not going to raise her baby.

  Two days out from under his autocratic thumb and Ivy had had time to think logically.

  Maybe she couldn’t afford a five hundred dollar an hour Manhattan lawyer but she knew people who knew people. It was one of the few benefits of a high-profile career. Surely some acquaintance could fast-talk a hotshot attorney into taking her case on the cheap, maybe even pro bono, if only for the publicity.

  Which was really pretty funny, Ivy thought as she tried and discarded another pair of trousers.

  She’d always avoided publicity. Sometimes she thought she was the only model who tried to keep her private life under wraps. But if winning the right to raise her child alone meant having her face plastered in the papers, she’d do it.

  She’d do whatever it took to get Damian out of her and her baby’s lives.

  Damian Aristedes was a brute. A monster. A man who went into a rage when he was denied sex, who’d come close to forcing her to yield to him and, instead, had flown to Athens to find a woman who wouldn’t stop him from taking what he wanted.

  Why else would he have left her and Minos? That was what men did. Even Damian, who looked so civilized.

  He hadn’t been civilized when he’d taken her in his arms the other night. Neither had she. Just for a moment, she’d felt things threaten to spin out of control…Until she’d come to her senses, realized where things were heading, what he would want to do next…

  Ivy blinked, reached for the only remaining pair of trousers, sucked in her tummy and pulled them on.

  Okay.

  The zipper didn’t close but at least it went up halfway. A long silk T, a loose, gauzy shirt over that…

  She stuck her feet into a pair of high-heeled slides. Freed her hair from its clip, bent at the waist and ran her hands through it before tossing it back from her face. A little makeup…

  Ivy looked at herself in the mirror, gave her reflection her best camera pout and tried to imagine herself facing the helicopter pilot, whoever he was.

  “I know you must be awfully busy,” she said in a breathy whisper. It made her want to gag when she heard other women talk like that but whatever worked…“I mean, I know you have lots to do…”

  And what if the sexy look, the artful smile didn’t budge him? If he said sorry, he had to clear it with the prince?

  “Oh,” she said, “yes, I know, but—but…” Ivy chewed on her lip. “But I have to get to Athens without telling him because—because—”

  Because what?

  “Because I want to buy him a gift. See, it’s a surprise but it won’t be if he knows about it…”

  Not great but add a smile, fluttering lashes, maybe a light touch on the guy’s arm…

  Ivy’s sexy smile faded.

  “Yuck,” she said.

  Then she propped her sunglasses on top of her head, hung her purse over her shoulder and got moving.

  The helicopter was still on its pad.

  Better still, a guy wearing a ball cap and dark glasses was squatting alongside it, examining one of the struts.

  It had to be the pilot.

  Ivy paused, ran her hand through her hair, then down her torso. She was dusty and sweaty, thanks to the long walk to the helipad, plus she’d come close to turning her ankle on the road’s gravel surface. There were Jeeps garaged near the palace but you had to get keys from Esias.

  Fat chance.

  Besides, some men liked sweaty. All those times she’d had to be oiled before a shot…

  “Stop stalling,” she muttered as she walked past the hangars, placing one foot directly ahead of the other.

  Her modeling strut had always been among the best.

  She waited until she was a couple of yards away. “Hi.”

  The guy looked up, gave a very satisfactory double-take and got to his feet.

  Ivy held out her hand. “I’m Ivy.”

  He wiped his hand on his khakis, took her hand and cleared his throat. “Joe,” he said, and cleared his throat again.

  “Joe.” Ivy batted her lashes. “Are you the one who flies this incredible thing?”

  He grinned. “You got it, beautiful.”

  Perfect. He was American. And even with dust on her shoes and sweat beaded above her lip, she’d clearly passed the test.

&
nbsp; “Well, Joe, I need a lift to Athens. Are you up for that?”

  Joe took off his dark glasses, maybe so she could see the regret in his eyes, and peered past her.

  “Are you, uh, are you looking for somebody?”

  He nodded. “I’m looking for the prince.”

  “Oh, we don’t need him.” Ivy moved closer. “You see,” she said, lowering her voice and gazing up at Joe’s face, “he doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

  She launched into her story. It sounded so good, she almost believed it. Joe said “uh huh” and “sure” and “cool.” And just when she thought she had it made, he shook his head and sighed.

  “Wish I could help you, beautiful, but I can’t.”

  Ivy forced a smile. “But you can. I mean, it’s just a little trip. And afterward, when the prince knows about the surprise, you know, after I’ve given it to him, I’ll tell him how great you were, how you did this for me—”

  “Sorry, babe. This chopper doesn’t leave the ground unless His Highness says it’s okay. You want to use the phone in the office over there to call him, that’s fine. Otherwise—”

  “For heaven’s sake! Do you need his permission to breathe, too? You’re a grown man. He’s just a—he’s just a pompous, self-serving—”

  Joe stared past her, eyes widening.

  “Glyka mou,” a husky voice purred, “here you are.”

  Ivy’s heart sank. She closed her eyes as a powerful arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. How foolish of me not to have thought to check here first.”

  Ivy looked up at Damian. He smiled, pleasantly enough so the pilot smiled, too, but Ivy wasn’t fooled.

  Behind that calm royal smile was hot royal rage.

  “You cannot do this,” she hissed.

  His eyebrows rose. “Do what?”

  “You know what. Refuse to let me leave. Make me into your—your—”

  He bent his head and kissed her, the curve of his arm anchoring her to him while his mouth moved against hers with slow, possessive deliberation. She heard Joe clear his throat, heard her heart start to pound.

  And felt herself tumble into the flood of dark sensation that came whenever his lips touched hers.

  “I hate you,” she whispered when he finally lifted his head.

  His smile was one part sex and one part macho smirk. “Yes,” he said. “I can tell. Joe?”

  The pilot, who’d walked several feet away, turned to them. “Sir?”

  “We are ready to leave,” Damian said, and he took Ivy’s elbow and all but lifted her into the helicopter.

  They flew to Athens.

  Even in her anger, Ivy felt a little thrill of excitement as they swooped over a stand of soaring white columns. She’d been to Athens before but it had been on business, four rushed days and nights of being photographed with no time for anything else except a hurried visit to the Parthenon.

  Was that the Acropolis below them now? She wanted to ask but not if it meant speaking to Damian.

  She didn’t have to. He leaned in close, put his lips to her ear and told her what was beneath them.

  The whisper of his breath made her tremble. Why? How could she hate him and yet react this way to him? To any man? She knew what they were, what they wanted…

  “I should have thought to ask,” he said. “Is the flight making you ill?”

  Ivy pulled away. “Not the flight,” she said coldly, but he didn’t hear her, couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engine, and that was just as well.

  His show of concern was just that. A show, nothing more. She was his captive and that was how he treated her and why in God’s name did she respond to his touch?

  He must have had the same effect on Kay. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have given in to his demands. The bastard! Forcing Kay to do what he wanted, then turning his back on the situation he’d created once Kay was gone, unless…

  Unless he really hadn’t known about the baby. Unless the story Kay had told her was—unless it was—

  “Ivy.”

  She looked up. Damian was standing over her; the helicopter had touched down. He reached for her seat belt. She ignored him, did it herself and walked to the door. Joe was already on the ground. He held up his arms and she let him help her down.

  “Careful of the rotor wash,” he yelled.

  And then Damian’s arm was around her waist and he led her to a long, black limousine.

  “One for each city,” Ivy said briskly. “How nice to be a potentate.”

  Damian looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Perhaps she had, she thought, as the limo sped away.

  That time in Athens, doing a spread for In Vogue, Ivy had spent hours, exhausting hours, in Kolonaki Square.

  The photographer had shot her against the famous column that stood in the square. Against the well-dressed crowd. Against the charming cafés and shops. The stylist had dressed her in haute couture from Dolce & Gabbana and Armani and elegant boutiques in this upscale neighborhood.

  Now, Damian took her into those same boutiques to buy her clothes.

  “I don’t need anything,” she told him coldly.

  “Of course you do. That’s why I brought you here.”

  “I have my own things, thank you very much.”

  “Is that why your trousers don’t close?”

  She blushed, looked down and saw only the slightly rounded contours of her gauzy shirt. Damian laughed softly.

  “A good guess, neh?”

  A clerk glided toward them. Damian took Ivy’s hand and explained they needed garments that were loose-fitting. Ivy said nothing. This was his show; she’d be damned if she’d help. So he cleared his throat, let go of her hand and, instead, curved his arm around her and drew her close.

  “My lady is pregnant.”

  There was an unmistakable ring of masculine pride in his voice. Ivy flashed him a cool look and wondered what would happen to all that macho arrogance if she added that she was pregnant, courtesy of a syringe.

  “She carries my child,” he said softly, and placed his hand over her rounded belly as if they were alone.

  And that touch of his hand, not proprietary but tender, changed everything.

  For the first time, Ivy let the picture she’d refused to envision fill her mind.

  Damian, holding her in his arms. Undressing her. Carrying her to his bed, kissing her breasts, her belly. Parting her thighs, kneeling between them, his eyes dark with passion as he entered her and planted his seed in her womb.

  “My child, glyka mou,” he whispered and this time, when he bent to her, Ivy rose on her toes, put her hand on the back of his head and brought his lips to hers.

  The clerk in a tiny boutique on Voukourestiou Street said there was a little shop that specialized in maternity clothes only a few doors away.

  Ivy said they didn’t need anything else. A dozen boxes and packages were already on their way by messenger to the limousine that waited on a quiet, shady street near the square.

  To her amazement, Damian agreed.

  “What we need is lunch.” He smiled, tilted her face up to his and gave her a light kiss. “My son must be hungry by now.”

  Ivy laughed. “Using a baby as an excuse to fill your own belly is pathetic.”

  “But effective,” he said, laughing with her.

  They ate in a small café. The owner greeted Damian with a bear hug and the cook—his wife—hurried out from the kitchen, kissed Damian on both cheeks, kissed Ivy after introductions were made, then beamed and said something to Damian, who laughed and said neh, she was right.

  “Right about what?” Ivy said, when they were alone.

  Damian took her hand and brought it to his mouth. “She says you are carrying a strong, beautiful boy.”

  Ivy blushed. “Do I look that pregnant?”

  His eyes darkened. “You look happy,” he said softly. “Are you? Happy, today, with me?”

  He had phrased the question care
fully. She could answer it the same way. Or she could just say that she was happy, that when she didn’t stop to think about why they were together, about how he’d come into her life, about what would happen next, she was incredibly happy. She was—she was—

  “Lemonade,” the café’s owner said, setting two tall glasses in front of them. “For the proud papa—and the beautiful mama.”

  Ivy grabbed the glass as if it were a life preserver.

  After a moment, Damian did, too.

  She should have known Damian wouldn’t leave without stopping at the maternity boutique.

  They went there after lunch and found the jewel-like shop filled with exquisite, handmade clothes that could make even a woman whose belly was ballooning feel beautiful.

  Desirable.

  Ivy caught her breath. Damian heard her whisper of distress and brought her close against his side.

  “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I have exhausted you.”

  “No. I mean—I mean, I guess I am a little tired.”

  He smiled into her eyes. Pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  “What is your favorite color, glyka mou?”

  “My favorite color?”

  “Green, to match your eyes? Gold, to suit your hair?” Instead of waiting for her answer, he turned to the hovering clerk. “We want everything you have in those colors.”

  “Damian!”

  “Please, do not argue! You are tired. We are done shopping for the day.”

  His tone was imperious. Arrogant. Ivy knew she ought to tell him so…

  Instead she buried her face against his shoulder and thought, Just for today, just for now, let this all be a dream.

  Not the beautiful clothes, the elegant shops. They didn’t matter.

  Damian did.

  She could pretend, couldn’t she? Pretend he was her wonderful, incredible lover? Pretend they were together because they wanted to be? Pretend they had planned this baby, longed for it together?

  What harm could it possibly do?

  They flew home in the gathering twilight, trading the lights of the city for those of ships, of islands, of stars.

  This time, Ivy went willingly into Damian’s arms when he insisted on carrying her from the helicopter to the Jeep he’d left beside the airstrip hours before.