by Caro LaFever
The tabloid pictures did not do him service. They did not tell the full tale of what stood before her. The photos could not capture the length of his body, the vitality of his form. The black clothes took nothing away from the blinding beauty of his body.
Nor the blinding beauty of his face.
No picture or video or written story would ever be able to condense the vibrant blaze of energy and power flowing from his maleness. His presence crushed her back and she felt the press of the wooden scroll pinch on her skin.
He stared at her. She stared back.
The light gilded his dusky blond hair, sliding over the thick, well-cut curls. His eyes were dark. His nose was a plane of sharp definition, a bold declaration of his ancestry. The arc of his chiseled cheekbones fed down into a rigid jaw and a square, clipped chin.
“I finally see why my housekeeper was fooled.” His mouth barely moved, his lips a cruel slash across his face.
She’d tied her hair back as she regularly did before going to bed. Nevertheless, as usual, the hair had slipped its bonds and now tumbled around her neck and shoulders. “She was fooled because you put a fake picture of a fake wife on your desk.”
For a moment, she thought he’d lunge toward the bed and grab her and shake. The strength of his rage slammed into her like a life force, filling the air around her with its pressure.
Instead, he calmly folded his arms in front of him, his face blank. “Why should you care if I chose some random picture to put on my desk to prevent endless questions? What I place on my desk or anywhere else in my house is somehow your concern? How is this your business?”
“I made it my business.”
“Nai, you did. And as a result of this unwise decision of yours, you have made yourself my business.”
The unspoken threat hovered between them, harsh and stark. Sweat broke out on her forehead, in her palms. Why was she staying here, sticking up for herself when she should just go? Get going. Get gone. Get back into another kind of danger she didn’t know how to avoid, but would rather deal with than this man. “I’ll leave. Still, you deserved this. Your family and staff deserve to know the truth, not your lies.”
“Leave?” His broad hand hit the door and slammed it shut.
She gulped again.
Leaning a solid shoulder on the door, his arms folded once more. “Leave when I have not yet delivered what you deserve?”
“You can’t keep me here.”
“You don’t think so?” His smile was a brutal declaration of his power. “I can do anything I want with you. Anything.”
“I’ll go to the police.”
“Nai. Let us go to the police. Together.”
She hunched on the bed. What a dumb thing to say. The police would arrest her. Throw her into a black hole to please this arrogant asshole. Keep her locked in a cell until the thugs found her.
His rough chuckle, rude and raw, fanned her growing fear.
“I see you have a brain.” He never wavered from the door, blocking her escape. “How interesting.”
“What?” Irritation welled behind the fear. “I suppose you don’t think any woman has a brain.”
“You know me so well, gynaíka.”
“I don’t know you at all. And I never want to know you.”
“Yet, you are my wife.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She finally gained control of her frozen body and flipped the covers off. Thank goodness she’d put on her old flannel nightgown instead of one of her more skimpy ones. “Get out of here and I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”
His dark eyes narrowed as his gaze slipped over her long length. She knew exactly what he saw. She’d been staring at the same stick of a body since she’d shot to her full height at the age of twelve. Five feet, eleven inches of giraffe legs, skinny body, no curves. At the age of twenty-seven, she’d long ago discarded any wistful hopes for breasts or hips.
But she didn’t care. This man could sneer if he wanted. She’d never see him again, so it didn’t matter what he thought of her.
She stood to her full height, forced herself to thrust her shoulders back. Giving him a disparaging glare, even though horror ran like a river through her veins, she leaned forward to grab her clothes draped across the armchair.
“Do you think I’m going to let you waltz out of here unpunished?” His voice was serene. Too serene.
“Yes.” She clutched her jeans and turned to confront him. “You will.”
“You were right.” He didn’t move from lounging on the door. “You don’t know me at all.”
“What are you going to do?” She was proud of her sneer and proud of the way she slapped her jeans on the chair for emphasis. “Fling me into your dungeon and throw away the key?”
His sneer was much more lethal. “That sounds about right.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Folding her arms in front of her, mimicking him, she forced herself to laugh. “What will your lovely housekeeper say? Or your happy grandmother? What will they say when you treat your wife so brutally?”
The sneer on his face fell off, replaced by an ominous frown. “Let’s be clear. I’m the one in charge. You will answer my questions.”
“No.”
“You will tell me what your agenda is. You will confess who told you of this situation.”
“Not a chance.”
“Then, only then, will we take a trip to the nearest police station.”
Fear twisted into terror. The mob had connections in the police. Ultimately, this was how they’d gotten to her brother. Her poor puppet of a brother. They would find her immediately. They would use their power to get her. She would be trapped.
Her mouth went dry.
His brow arched at her silence.
Somehow, amongst the turmoil roiling inside, she noticed how dark they were compared to his hair. Burnt sugar cut with gold. Unwilling attraction zipped along her spine making her shiver.
His keen gaze observed the shiver and he gave her another ruthless smile. “This worries you, prospoieítai i̱ gynaíka mou?”
She had to get away. She had to convince him to leave her alone, let her go. She had only one threat. Only one way to gain back some measure of power.
“No, it doesn’t worry me.” Her hands tightened on her arms. “I’ll tell my story to the police. After that, I’ll tell my story to the press who follows everything you do.”
His mouth turned grim.
“After all.” She managed a tight smile. “It’s what a journalist does. Tell stories.”
Chapter 4
A journalist.
Why did this surprise him? This was why. This was her reason for being here.
A story, another salacious tabloid story about Aetos Zenos.
He’d once courted the press. Then found them a nuisance. Finally, he’d despised them for almost ruining his plans for the future. Yet they continued to buzz around his activities: dissecting, questioning, plaguing him. Now that he thought it through, it wasn’t surprising this new enemy came from their ranks.
He could see the headlines now.
The thought zipped through him—Theós. Thankfully, the Tucker deal was signed.
Because this story would destroy his reputation as a solid family man. A reputation he’d carefully cultivated these past two years. Even if he had Tuckermarkets safely in his grasp, this woman and her potential story and the subsequent fallout would be disruptive.
For his business. For his social life. For his actual family in Greece.
His grandmother, who was not crazy after all, might well go crazy when she heard this news. If she heard this news. “There will be no story.”
The woman’s face was pale, but her gaze was knowing. “Even if you turn me over to the police, I still get a phone call.”
Every muscle in his body screamed for action. The urge to grab her, control her and destroy her, swept through him in a fermenting stew of aggravation and wrath. Underneath, though, lurked his keen and cunning brain,
clicking on every cylinder. He’d had ten hours to plot and plan after speaking with his excited housekeeper. Mrs. Marvos had given him some information.
His pretend wife still literally existed.
His perfect wife still resided in his New York home.
This predatory woman still stood in front of him and thus, he could win. Would win.
“A phone call.” He looked her over, taking inventory of his enemy.
“Yes.” Her smile widened, although her skin stayed white as milk. “To my employer. The New York News.”
Not exactly a tabloid. Any newspaper would be interested in his fake marriage, however. Which begged the question—
“How did you find out about my marriage?”
She shrugged her shoulders. The dark flannel of her nightgown slid down her arm, exposing a slim collarbone, almost delicate. “I have my sources.”
His formidable brain continued to click. There were only two people who knew his secret: Hank and his sister. Jill seemed an unlikely source. Not only would she lose her house, but she and her husband would lose their new business—one he’d put a substantial investment in.
He was pretty sure it wasn’t Jill.
Hank knew where his paycheck came from. Why would he blurt this information out after two years? Why would he risk his job, his reputation, his friendship with one of the most powerful men in New York City?
Aetos’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her, taking a catalogue of her physical features. Her hair was a wild mass of curls falling far down her back. The color was striking, he’d admit. White-blonde, with a silver gleam in the strands.
Moonbeams.
He nearly snorted at the idiotic thought.
Tall. Quite tall. This woman would tower above Hank. Yet, he was forced to concede, there was a lithe elegance about her even in the atrocious bag of the nightgown she had on. He could imagine Hank going for this type of treat. Still, he couldn’t imagine any woman he wanted choosing such a piece of clothing to wear.
Not to his bed.
But maybe to good old Hank’s bed.
“Was your source Hank Fontaine?”
Her eyes widened at the hard tone in his voice. The color of those eyes suddenly struck him. He’d thought they were some sort of blue. Now that he’d zeroed in on them, though, they were nothing of the kind. They were so deep, so vivid…
Amethyst.
The color of the grapes in his grandfather’s vineyard. Rich violet. Vibrant with life.
“You could say that.” She interrupted his stupid thoughts with a short, pithy spike of a sentence.
With a vicious yank, he refocused his concentration on what was important. Hank had fallen under this woman’s thrall and divulged secrets. The betrayal was unexpected, which was unusual. He generally knew precisely what the people around him were thinking and doing. He’d learned to develop this instinct into a fine-tuned weapon. The fact he’d somehow missed this witch’s enchantment of his closest advisor was unacceptable. A shot of pure outrage ran through his blood and he straightened from the door.
The woman took a step back, sensing the threat.
“Do you often fall into bed with your sources to gain information?”
Her velvet gaze darkened to near black. “You jump to conclusions, don’t you?”
“There is no way Hank would betray me without a very good temptation thrown his way.” Disgust at the man’s weakness curled in his gut. Throw a pair of pretty eyes and long hair in front of most men, and they lost any sense of responsibility. Still, his employee would soon pay for this betrayal. Along with this mágissa, his witch.
“Right.” Her smile reappeared as if she were enjoying herself. “What would be your excuse, then?”
A flash of fierce antagonism rushed through him at the baseless accusation. “I’m not a man to spill secrets. Certainly not to women.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Storms of blue washed over the violet. “I remember now. You despise women, don’t you?”
Another accusation. This time accurate. How did she know this, this element of his personality? Aetos found himself floundering before a woman for the first time in almost twenty years.
The realization did not lighten his mood. “Who are you?”
“Why, I’m Natalie.” She ignored the threat in his words, and instead, foolishly, gave him another of her witchy smiles, along with another lie. As if she held all the cards. As if she was in control. Of him.
No one—ever—controlled him.
One stride and he was before her. His hands grasped her shoulders. He glared into her widened eyes and relished her gasp of dismay. “Enough.”
“Let me go.”
There weren’t any more smiles or accusations. Only fear mixed with horror filled her expression. Her milky skin turned as white as the marble of an ancient Greek statue. A savage pleasure roared in him. A triumphant burst of satisfaction that he held her in his hands and in his power. No female would ever hold the upper hand with him.
Ever again.
“Let me go.” Her voice was marginally stronger, but he felt the tremble of her muscles.
“We’ve played your game for too long. Now it’s time to play mine.”
“This isn’t a game.”
He tightened his grasp. “No, it isn’t. I’m glad you finally accept this.”
The smell of her drifted into his nostrils. Wildflowers. Rain. Fresh. The tendrils of scent swirled into his brain, blurring his senses. For a moment, he swore he held a modern day Circe in his hands, a female demon come to destroy him and turn him into a dumb animal.
“Skýla!” Cursing her, he thrust her away. He paced to the door and took in a deep breath of clear air. With relief, he sensed his brain coming back to life, the muscles of his chest relaxing. The heat of his skin, the skin he hadn’t realized was on fire, turned quickly to cold resolve.
“Let me go and I won’t say a word.”
He laughed. His back to her allure, he leaned against the door, blocking her. “You take me for a fool?”
What was he going to do with her? She was right. He couldn’t throw her into a dungeon, though the thought pleased a primitive part of him. He couldn’t take her to the police. She would eventually get her story out. And he couldn’t merely let her go. That would entail trusting her, and he never trusted a woman.
What the hell was he going to do with her?
His cell phone chirped in his pocket. The noise filled the silent room with an irritating call. Who would be calling him at five a.m.? Not even his efficient staff would call at this time of day.
Aetos slid the phone out and glanced at the number.
His giagiá. That would be the type of person who would call at five a.m.
This was not the time to bring his grandmother into the picture.
He let the call go to voicemail. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he turned to face the witch.
She stared at him, clutching her old jeans again. For a second, he felt the draw once more. The wild length of her blonde hair, the richness of her eyes, the pale beauty of her skin.
He turned his attention away from her siren allure.
Then the answer came to him, quite easily. The idea burned his pride, but he had no choice if he wanted to get her out of his life with his reputation intact and his family safe. She was a woman, in the end. Not a siren, not a sorceress. Just a woman. Best to be done with her once and for all. He opened his eyes to stare at her. “How much?”
The woman jerked as his cold words hit her. “What?”
His phone buzzed once more.
With a growl of disgust, he yanked his cell out of his pocket again. Doris, his cousin. Gripping the phone and ignoring this call, too, he glared at the woman. “How much is it going to cost me to get rid of you and keep your silence?”
Her mouth fell open and for the first time, he noticed the lush streak of it. The plump passion of the lower lip, the cupid’s bow of the upper giving her the face of a goddess. The color flared at
him, a burgundy brilliance. Was it the milk-white of her skin which caused the amazing contrast?
Aetos frowned in frustration. Theós. He’d gone mad. “Well? How much?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Tightly.
Temptation vanished as surety set in. He could practically see the dollars dancing in her head and her hard heart. This he knew. This he understood.
Why was there a simmering rage inside him instead of a confident satisfaction?
The buzz of another call heightened his aggravation. He barely glanced at the phone, but the number stopped him. Ka Marvos? Ka Marvos never called him. He had not informed her of his decision to come home and meet his lovely wife for himself. If she’d heard him enter the brownstone, she would have greeted him not called him.
“Fifty thousand dollars.” The witch’s voice was hard and flinty. All woman.
Raising his head, he stared at her. The sum was paltry. Too paltry for the story she held. The New York News might not buy it without more proof than her word even if she worked there. But some tabloid would take it. Pay her a fortune. Hound him for specifics on the marriage. Dig into the records until the truth would inevitably come out.
His phone rang once more.
“Gamó̱to!” he cursed.
For many years now, women had kept their place, the place he defined in his life. Even his grandmother sooner or later did what he wanted. Why did it seem, then, that in a few short hours, chaos had descended on his life, and with it a tribe of furies had been unleashed?
“Nai,” he growled into the phone.
The words rushed over him, pounded into him. Ka Marvos was not her usual pleasant and placid self. This didn’t surprise him in this instance. The news she bore was not pleasant nor placid.
“Nai.” He clicked off the phone and looked at his pretend wife.
Who now had to be his perfect wife.
He knew what he had to do with her. And it would take him straight to the hell of his own making. Straight into his family’s loving arms.
Chapter 5
The plane hummed quietly under her feet.
