Sandra Marton - The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife

Not true, Ivy thought. Just look at the man now.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer. The pleasure of catching him off guard was wearing off. She’d prepared for this moment but the reality was terrifying. Her heart was hammering so hard she was half afraid he could hear it.

“You were outside Portofino’s today.”

He was gaining control of himself. His voice had taken on authority; his pale gray eyes had narrowed.

“Are you a reporter for one of those damned tabloids? I don’t give interviews.”

He really didn’t know who she was. She’d wondered about that, whether Kay had ever shown him a photo or pointed out her picture in a magazine, but she’d pretty much squelched that possibility at the restaurant, where she’d followed him from his Fifty-Seventh Street office.

He’d looked at her, but only the way most men looked at her. With interest, avarice—the kind of hunger she despised, the kind that said she was a plaything and they wanted a new toy.

Although, when this man had looked at her today, just for a second, surely no more than that, she’d felt—she’d felt—

What?

She’d seemed to lose her equilibrium. She was glad someone had joined him because she knew better than to confront him with another person around.

This discussion had to be private.

As for that loss of equilibrium or whatever it was, it only proved how dangerous Damian Aristedes was.

That he’d been able to mesmerize Kay was easy to understand. Kay had always been a fool for men.

That he’d had an effect on Ivy, even for a heartbeat, only convinced her she’d figured him right.

The prince of all he surveyed was a sleek jungle cat, constantly on the prowl. A beautiful predator. Too bad he had no soul, no heart, no—

“Are you deaf, woman? Who are you? What do you want? And how in hell did you get up here?”

He’d taken a couple of steps forward, just enough to invade her space. No question it was a subtle form of intimidation. It might have worked, too—despite her height, he was big enough so that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes—but Ivy was not a stranger to intimidation.

Growing up, she’d been bullied by experts. It could only hurt if you gave in to it.

“Three questions,” she said briskly. “Did you want them answered in order, or am I free to pick and choose?”

He moved quickly, grasped her wrist and forced her arm behind her back. It hurt; his grip was strong, his hands hard. She hadn’t expected a show of physical strength from a pampered aristocrat but she didn’t flinch.

“Take your hand off me.”

“It’ll take me one second to phone for the police and tell them there’s an intruder in my home. Is that what you want?”

“You’re the one who won’t want the police involved in this, Your Highness.”

His gray eyes focused on hers. “Because?”

Now, Ivy thought, and took a steadying breath.

“My name is Ivy.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.

“Ivy Madison,” she added, as if that would make the difference.

He didn’t even blink. He was either a damned good actor or—A tingle of alarm danced over her skin.

“You are—you are Damian Aristedes?”

He smiled thinly. “A little late to ask but yes, that’s who I am.”

“Then—then surely, you recognize my name…”

“I do not.”

“I’m Kay’s sister. Her stepsister.”

That got a reaction. His eyes turned cold. He let go of her wrist, or maybe it made more sense to say he dropped it. She half expected him to wipe his hand on his trousers. Instead he stepped back.

“Here to pay a condolence call three months late?”

“I’d have thought you’d have been the one to call me.”

He laughed, although the sound he made had no mirth to it.

“Now, why in hell would I do that? For starters, I never knew Kay had a sister.” He paused. “That is, if you really are her sister.”

“What are you talking about? Certainly I’m her sister. And, of course you know about me.”

The woman who claimed to be Kay’s sister spoke with authority. Not that Damian believed she really was who she claimed to be.

At the very least she was up to no good. Why approach him this way instead of phoning or e-mailing? What the hell was going on here?

Only one way to find out, Damian thought, and reached for his cell phone, lying on the marble-topped table beside the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling your bluff. You won’t answer my questions? Fine. You can tell your story to the cops.”

“You’d better think twice before you pick up that phone, Mr. Aristedes.”

His intruder had started out full of conviction, like a poker player sure of a winning hand, but that had changed. Her voice had gone from strong to shaken; those green eyes—so green he wondered if she were wearing contact lenses—had gone wide.

A scam, he thought coldly. She was trying to set him up for something. The only question was, what?

“Prince,” he said, surprising himself with the use of his title. Generally he asked people to call him by his first or last name, not by his honorific, but if it took royal arrogance to shake his intruder’s self-control, he’d use it. “It’s Prince Damian. And I’ll give you one second to start talking. How did you get up here?”

“You mean, how did I bypass the lobby stormtroopers?”

She was trying to regain control. Damned if he’d let it happen. Damian put down the phone, angled toward her and invaded her space again so that she not only stepped back, she stepped into the corner.

No way out, except past him.

“Don’t play with me, lady. I want straight answers.”

She caught a bit of her lower lip between her teeth, worried it for a second before releasing it and quickly touching the tip of her tongue to the flesh she’d gnawed.

Damian’s belly clenched. Lucas had it right. He’d been too long without a woman.

“A delivery boy at the service entrance held the door for me.” She smiled thinly. “He was very courteous. Then I used the fire stairs.”

“If you’re Kay’s sister, why didn’t you simply ask the doorman to announce you?”

“I waited all this time to hear from you but nothing happened. Telling your doorman I wanted to see you didn’t strike me as useful.”

“Let me see some ID.”

“What?”

“Identification. Something that says you’re who you claim to be.”

“I don’t know why Kay loved you,” Ivy said bitterly.

Damian decided it was the better part of valor not to answer that. Instead he watched in silence as she dug through the bag slung over one shoulder, took out a wallet and opened it. “Here. My driver’s license. Satisfied?”

Not satisfied, just more puzzled. The license said she was Ivy Madison, age twenty-seven, with an address in Chelsea. And the photo checked out. It was the woman standing before him. Not even the bored Motor Vehicle clerks and their soulless machines had been able to snap a picture that dimmed her looks.

Damian looked up.

“This doesn’t make you Kay’s sister.”

Without a word, she dug into her purse again, took out a business-card size folder and flipped it open. The photo inside was obviously years old but there was no mistaking the faces of the two women looking at the camera.

“All right. What if you are Kay’s sister. Why are you here?”

Ivy stared at him. “You can’t be serious!”

He was…and then, with breathtaking speed, things started to fall into place.

The sisters didn’t resemble each other, but that didn’t mean the apple had fallen far from the tree.

“Let me save you some time,” Damian said coolly. “Your sister didn’t leave any money.”

Those bright green eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not here for money.”

“There’s no jewelry, either. No spoils of war. I donated everything I’d given her to charity.”

“I don’t care about that, either.”

“Really?” He folded his arms. “You mean, I haven’t ruined your hopes for a big score?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

Indeed, Damian thought grimly, that was exactly what he’d done.

“You—you egotistical, self-aggrandizing, aristocratic pig,” she hissed, her voice shaking. “You haven’t spoiled anything except for yourself. And believe me, Prince or Mr. or whatever name you want, you’ll never, ever know what you missed!”

It was an emotional little speech and he could see she was determined to end it on a high note by shoving past him and striding to the door.

There was every reason to let her go.

If she was willing to give up so easily and disappear from his life as quickly as she’d entered it, who was he to stop her?

Logic told him to move aside.

To hell with logic.

Damian shifted his weight to keep her trapped in the corner. She called him another name, not nearly as creative as the last, put her arms out straight and tried to push him away.

He laughed, caught both her wrists and trapped her hands against the hard wall of his chest. Anger and defiance stained her cheeks with crimson.

“Damn it, let go!”

“Why, sweetheart,” he purred, “I don’t understand. How come you’re so eager to leave when you were so eager to see me?”

She kicked him in the shin with one of her high heeled boots. It hurt, but he’d be damned if he let her know that. Instead he dragged her closer until she was pressed against him.

He told himself it was only to keep her from gouging his shin to the bone.

And that there was no reason, either, for the hot fist of lust that knotted in his groin as he looked down into her flushed face.

Her eyes were wild. Her hair was a torrent of spun gold. Her lips were trembling. Trembling, and full, and delicately parted, and all at once, all at once, Damian understood why she was here.

What a thickheaded idiot he was!

Kay had obviously told Ivy about him. That he had money, a title, an eye for beautiful women.

And now Kay was gone but Ivy—Ivy was very much alive.

Incredibly alive.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again. “What a fool you must think me,” he said softly. “Of course I know why you’re here.”

Her eyes lit. Her mouth curved in a smile. “Thank God,” she said shakily. “For a while there, I thought—”

Damian silenced her in midsentence. He thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.

She cried out against his mouth. Slammed her fists against his chest. A nice touch, he thought with a coldness that belied his rising libido. She’d come to audition as her sister’s replacement. Well, he’d give her a tryout, all right. Kiss her, show her she had no effect on him and then send her packing.

Except, it wasn’t happening that way.

Maybe he really had been without a woman for too long.

Maybe his emotions were out of control.

Sex, desire—neither asks for reason, only satiation and completion. He wanted this. The heat building inside him like a flash-fire in dry brush. The deep, hungry kiss.

The woman struggling for freedom in his arms.

She was pretending. He knew that. It was all part of the act. He nipped at her bottom lip; she gave a little cry and he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasted her sweetness, caught the little sound she made and kissed her again and again until she whimpered, lifted herself to him, flattened her hands against his chest…

Thee mou!

Damian jerked away. The woman stumbled back. Her eyes flew open, the pupils so enormous they’d all but consumed the green of her irises.