Playing the Greek's Game

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Zak,’ she whispered, although she didn’t know why she said it—and, in view of her reluctance to say it earlier, it now seemed like an intimacy too far.

  Zak heard the soft temptation of her voice and a powerful desire washed over him. Let her go, he urged himself savagely—but his body stubbornly refused to obey. Still his hand gripped the slim column of her arm and he was loath to pull his fingers away from the softness of her flesh.

  He looked down at her, mesmerised by her closeness and the way she was looking at him. Her green eyes had grown smoky and her lips had parted in unconscious invitation and he knew that if he were to dip his head, he could claim them in a kiss which would combust. He imagined pulling her hungrily into his arms. The jut of his hips against hers and the silent circling of his heavy erection against her feminine softness. The urgent journey to her room and then the discarding of clothes until he felt her naked against him.

  He could hear the powerful beat of his heart as the idea became a tantalising possibility and he could almost taste the desire which hovered in the air around them. She would let him do it. He knew she would. She would part her thighs and urge him into her sweet, molten tightness. Sweet heaven. Should he take her? Should he?

  The vivid images playing in his head were almost his undoing until he forced himself to picture the sordid aftermath of such a coupling. Of confessing to his brother what he had done. Of having to look into her cheating face the next morning. He let his hand fall to his side, self-disgust hardening his lips into a savage line of contempt, appalled at his own weakness.

  Was this how she had lured Louis Patterson? And then Ciro D’Angelo? And after that his brother? Like an earth-bound siren who could captivate men with her pale eyes and hair and the promise of her soft, curvy body?

  He took a step back. ‘You said you were tired,’ he said harshly. ‘In which case, I’ve always found it better to go to bed on your own.’

  And with that, he turned on his heel—leaving Emma staring after him, her lips trembling as she registered his withering contempt. Aware that she had been chastised for something she hadn’t even realised she’d been doing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE next morning Emma found an envelope shoved underneath her door and knew who it was from, even before she’d opened it. The stark black words seemed to leap off the expensive cream paper as her trembling fingers ripped it open.

  “We neglected to talk about your work last night. Meet me in the lobby at ten. Zak.”

  And that was it. No endearment. No polite wishes expressed that he hoped she’d had a comfortable night. Which of course, she hadn’t. The long hours of travel hadn’t helped at all, and she’d woken at four thirty absolutely buzzing and unable to get back to sleep. She’d lain staring at the unfamiliar room and remembering those strange and provocative moments in the corridor, when she could have sworn that Zak was about to kiss her. When she’d wanted him to kiss her. And that had only been the beginning of what she’d wanted—she who had sworn off men and all the bitter fall-out of emotional attachment.

  Had she gone completely crazy last night—or had she just been suffering from the potency of jet lag and wine? Opening up the blinds, Emma stared out of the window at the green oasis of Central Park. Either way, she wouldn’t be making a fool of herself by repeating it.

  Putting Zak’s note down on the dresser, she showered and dressed—and ordered breakfast from room service. She crunched her way through toast and jam, forcing the food down because she knew she needed it, rather than because she really wanted it. But at least the coffee was good and strong and afterwards she felt much better.

  But she was nervous when she arrived in the lobby and more nervous still when she saw Zak with his back to her, standing talking into his cellphone. How she hated the fact that her nerve-endings prickled into life when she saw him—when all she wanted to feel towards him was a cool impartiality. He was wearing a steel-grey suit and she was suddenly glad that she’d pulled something smarter from her wardrobe. She got the feeling that, in this city, clothes meant business.

  He turned and saw her, terminating his call in a couple of brief words. His grey eyes narrowing, they scanned her with unwilling assessment.

  Emma wondered what he saw. Had she failed on the sartorial front again? she wondered. Were a new sweater and pale jeans—stretchy enough for any ladder-climbing—still a little on the casual side for the wealthy hotelier’s taste? He was coming towards her now and it was impossible to read his thoughts from his expression. The pewter eyes were shaded by thick black lashes and his rugged olive features were as hard as marble.

  To Emma’s embarrassment, her own colour had started to rise—along with the realisation that the cold light of day had done nothing to lessen her desire for him. That last night had not been some erotic, one-off blip.

  But now she had to act normally. As if she hadn’t poured out her life-story to him over dinner last night and let the daylight in on the shadowy world of her past.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, summoning up the brightest smile from her repertoire.

  Zak noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes, which were at odds with the studiedly cheerful note in her voice. ‘You look tired,’ he observed.

  ‘That’s because I am.’

  ‘Been emailing my brother all night, I suppose?’ he enquired caustically.

  Emma thought he couldn’t have been further from the truth if he’d tried—why, she’d barely thought about Nat since the moment she’d arrived.

  ‘Actually, no. I wasn’t.’ Because what on earth would she have said? I’m sorry, Nat—I know I said that he was a tyrant and a control-freak, but last night I was longing for your brother to make love to me. I lay there waiting in my bed, imagining what I would do if he came to me, knowing that I would have opened the door and opened my arms to him. ‘I was too busy counting sheep to try to get to sleep,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But sadly, to no avail. So you’ll have to excuse any absent-mindedness and blame it on the jet lag.’

  Some of the tension left his body, her words placating him in a way they shouldn’t have done. Had he been worried she’d tell Nat that his big brother had been coming on to her? And hadn’t an extra layer of guilt begun to gnaw away at him, knowing that it would have been the truth? ‘Have you eaten?’ he questioned.

  ‘Yes, thanks. I had breakfast in my room.’ She smiled again, determined to dispel this damned atmosphere with a little professional crispness. ‘It’s a beautiful autumn morning and I’m looking forward to my first working day in New York! And you still haven’t told me anything about which part of the hotel needs restyling.’

  Her smile did strange things to him. Made that damned heaviness start throbbing at his groin again. He’d lain awake for a long time last night, going over what she’d told him about her growing up. About her flighty mother and the dancing which had angered the neighbours. He’d wanted to think less of her—but the stupid thing was that her story had produced the opposite effect. He’d thought about the reality of what her young life must have been like and had found himself experiencing a reluctant tug of sympathy. What Emma had experienced had been nothing short of neglect, he realised—some people might even have called it abuse. Somehow it made her early marriage to the dissolute rock-star almost understandable.

  Until he told himself fiercely that this was how she operated. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her marriage to Patterson would have given her an inkling of her own power and taught her that such fragile beauty was rare. With that pale waterfall of hair and amazing body, she must have quickly learnt what effect that delicate vulnerability could have on a man. Especially a man with all the clout to protect her. Had she told Ciro her pathetic story the way she’d told him—and had that been what had prompted the ruthless Italian to give her such a cushy job? Was that what had made his own brother curtail his philandering ways after all these years of messing around with women—to devote himself to her so wholeheartedly?

  Zak’
s mouth hardened. Well, she could use her charm on some other poor sucker than Nat—because there was no way that some illegitimate junkie’s widow was going to end up marrying into the Constantinides family.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said abruptly, turning as he began to walk in the direction of the function rooms, obviously expecting her to follow him.

  Emma tried to take in the general mood and feel of the hotel as she scurried to keep up with him. She’d done her homework on the plane over by studying all the literature—but seeing the Pembroke’s interior for herself was much more impressive than in the glossy pages of a brochure.

  The Granchester was massive—but this hotel was like its small and perfectly formed little sister. Its understated elegance only reinforced the amount of money which must have been spent on it—and she found herself wondering if all this had been inherited from his wealthy father. Hadn’t Nat told her some complicated story about the family money, which had gone in one ear and then out the other? And hadn’t that been one of the things which had been so obvious to Nat—that she truly wasn’t interested in the might of the Constantinides fortune? She sighed. Not that Zak would ever believe that, of course.

  ‘This is the room you will be restyling,’ he said, stopping at last in front of some art-deco double doors, which were decorated with exquisite stained glass. He pushed them open and Emma stepped into a room that was almost completely empty—but who needed furniture when a room looked as amazing as this? The proportions were generous, the high ceiling a shimmer of silver mosaic which looked as if it were composed of moving water—and best of all was the terrace, with its stunning views of Central Park and the quiet gleam of the lake beyond.

  ‘Oh, Zak—it’s lovely,’ she said, looking up to find his eyes fixed on her. And something in that hard and searching gaze made her quickly amend her words—as if suddenly she wanted to encourage him to revise his poor opinion of her. ‘I’m sorry, that’s right up there as the most unoriginal observation I could have made. Of course it’s lovely. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘No, I don’t—though it’s always gratifying when a professional approves.’ For a moment, he relaxed a little. ‘This is the room you’ll be working on.’

  ‘And do I get help?’

  ‘You do. You’ll get an assistant and an office you can use, as well as a charge card.’

  ‘And I run my costs past …?’

  ‘No need to run them past anyone.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Really?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve seen your Granchester budgets.

  Since I note that you have an admirably frugal outlook, I’ll give you a free hand.’

  Stupidly pleased by this small sign of trust, Emma smiled. ‘And hadn’t you better tell me what you’re planning to do with it—what kind of vision you have for it?’

  His answer was the last thing Emma was expecting to hear.

  ‘I want to turn it into a wedding venue.’

  ‘A wedding venue,’ she repeated slowly.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘That’s because I am.’

  He slanted her a glance. ‘And why is that, I wonder?’

  She looked at him, tempted to be honest and yet, why shouldn’t she be honest? What was the worst thing that could happen—that he wouldn’t like plain speaking and send her home? She shrugged. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who’s particularly interested in weddings.’

  ‘Show me any man who really is,’ he said acidly. ‘But there’s a huge market for them—particularly here. Guests who stay here want to tie the knot here—they want the view and the glamour. Up until now I’ve always resisted—because, frankly, the attendant publicity is always a bore. And weddings seem to breed a hysteria in the female of the species which I can do without.’

  She saw the cynical twist of his lips. ‘But something’s happened to change your mind?’

  ‘Not something. Someone.’

  ‘Someone?’ she echoed, her heart pounding. ‘Wh-who?’

  He didn’t appear to notice the stumbling of her voice. ‘Her name is Leda.’

  Emma screwed up her eyes, wondering why the name sounded familiar until she remembered where she’d heard it before. Leda was the name of the woman she’d seen him dining with, back in England. The woman with the dark, dramatic hair and amazing cheekbones.

  ‘That’s the woman you were with in London? The one in the miniskirt with the thigh-high boots?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘She’s getting … married?’ she questioned faintly and suddenly she wondered if she’d read it all wrong. Was Zak about to marry the stunning woman who’d been his date? And if that was the case, then why no huge sense of relief that the tricky billionaire would soon be settling down and might therefore stop interfering in the life of his brother? Why was her instinctive feeling one of jealousy—a terrible, debilitating jealousy, which made her fingers curl into two tight little fists by her sides? Why did she suddenly want to open her mouth and scream? ‘Who … who’s she marrying?’

  ‘Some banker from out of town.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s a good guy, if a little on the unexciting side. But he’ll make her happy.’

  Emma looked into his pewter eyes and remembered something else. What had Nat said to him? Everyone thought you two would get married. Did Zak regret letting Leda go? Was he bitter about the fact that she was now about to marry the ‘good guy’?

  She turned her face up to his. ‘This is a pretty wonderful thing you’re doing for her,’ she said quietly, her eyes searching for some kind of reaction.

  ‘It’s a commercial decision, not an emotional one,’ he snapped.

  Emma heard the hard note of finality in his voice and forced her attention back to the project, reminding herself that it was no business of hers even if he was still lusting after his ex-girlfriend. ‘Did you have any particular ideas about what you wanted for the refurb?’ she asked. ‘Traditional or contemporary?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my province,’ he said as he glanced at his watch. ‘I’m no expert and I’m not particularly interested. I assume you’ll know the kind of things which prospective brides want and I’m giving you a free hand.’

  Emma raised her eyebrows. ‘It didn’t occur to you that since I’ve been brought here under duress—I could completely sabotage your wedding room by making it all bubblegum pink and girly? Can you imagine how that would go down at the Pembroke? Why, the taste gurus would have a fit!’

  He leaned forward and the musky tang of sandalwood once again invaded her senses.

  ‘So they would. But that would be a very bad idea,’ he warned softly. ‘You see, people who cross me always live to regret it.’

  She suspected he was referring to his brother and not bubblegum-pink walls, but his closeness was distracting.

  ‘That sounds awfully like a threat,’ she said quietly.

  His lips curved into a smile. ‘Not really. Just a quiet warning to let you know exactly where you stand.’

  ‘I’d have to be pretty dense not to have realised that already. Tell me, do you always try to intimidate your staff?’

  ‘Only the ones who give me trouble—but they are few and far between and I don’t generally tolerate them for very long.’

  ‘So if I told you that I found your attitude insufferable and that I didn’t want to work for you?’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘So delighted that I’d be tempted to give you a year’s salary in lieu of notice.’

  And he would have won, Emma realised. He would have achieved what he’d wanted to do all along. He would have managed to get rid of her without having to sack her—and she would have let Nat down.

  ‘You really are a brute,’ she accused crossly.

  ‘I’ve never denied that. But most women seem to enjoy the way I treat them.’

  ‘Are you so sure of that?’

  ‘Put it this way—I’ve never had any complaints.’

&
nbsp; Emma saw his eyes darken as their gazes clashed. Saw the tiny muscle flickering at the olive skin of his temple and the subsequent hardening of his mouth, as if he regretted his undeniably flirtatious words. But he couldn’t take them back, could he? Nor could he dispel the darkly erotic images they had provoked.

  And suddenly she wanted to lash out. She wanted to tell him to stop making her feel this way. As if she would do anything to have him take her in his arms and have him kiss away the unbearable tension which was building and building inside her. She could see the tension in his own big body and she wondered what might have happened next had not a bouncy little brunette entered the room.

  ‘Hey, Zak!’ said the brunette breezily, stopping dead when she saw their frozen pose and looking uncertainly from one to the other. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  Quickly, Zak stepped away from Emma, his heart pounding as he forced himself to acknowledge just how close he’d been to taking her in his arms. Would he have kissed her? Would he? Even though she was his brother’s woman—would he have been disloyal enough to lick his way into her soft, trembling mouth?

  Swallowing down the unbearable combination of guilt and frustration, he forced himself to smile at the new arrival, even though smiling was the last thing he felt like doing. ‘No, Cindy—you’re not interrupting anything. This is Emma Geary, the interior designer from the Granchester we’ve been expecting. Emma and I were just establishing something fundamental, weren’t we, Emma?’ And that something was that his brother had fallen for a woman who it seemed would put out for just about anyone with a Y chromosome and a bulging wallet!

  Emma heard the unmistakable edge of contempt in his voice and thought how unjust it was. He made her feel cheap. As if she’d done something wrong. Yet the sizzling attraction which had flowed between them had happened because he’d been flirting with her, boasting about his success with women. She hadn’t provoked it—so why the hell should she be blamed for it? Realising that Cindy was still looking bemused, she reached out to shake the girl’s hand, aware of the faint tremble of her own fingers.