The Millionaires' Cinderellas

She curved her lips into what she hoped was a suitable smile. ‘And I’ll accept.’

He frowned. ‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. On one condition.’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m the one who lays down conditions, Miss Geary, not you.’

She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘That I’m back in London in time for Christmas.’

He had been expecting a demand for some over-inflated bonus and her request took him slightly by surprise. Would almost two months be long enough to have the desired effect? He glanced over to where Nat was chatting animatedly to his date and Zak’s lips curved into a smile. Of course it would! His brother would soon forget about Emma Geary. What was it they said? Out of sight, out of mind …

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ he said, glancing down at her barely touched plate of food. ‘Enjoy your last supper before you take up your assignment.’

‘Well, hopefully I’ll have time for a few more suppers before I leave.’

‘I’d like you to come out this weekend.’

‘You’re joking?’

His grey eyes bored into her. ‘No, Emma, I’m deadly serious.’

It was the way he said her name which made her words stumble. As if it were a big dollop of honey he was slowly licking from a spoon. ‘What’s the r-rush?’

Enjoying the familiar rush of power and the sudden tremble of her lips, he shrugged. ‘Why delay? Protracted farewells are so painful. Far better to make a clean break of it and get used to living without Nat.’

‘Where have you got planned for me—Outer Mongolia, I suppose?’

‘The Constantinides brand hasn’t reached quite that far, but give me time,’ answered Zak smoothly. ‘No, I’m sending you somewhere far more cosmopolitan than that.’

‘And am I allowed to know where—or is it a magical mystery tour?’

He felt a muscle begin to beat at his temple. It was anger but it was something else too—because her insubordination was turning him on. When you reached the position that he’d reached a long time ago, you never got a member of staff speaking to you with quite the same degree of insolence as Miss Emma Geary did to him. Nor anyone else, for that matter. And it was making him want to subdue her in the most fundamental way possible …

‘How does New York sound?’ he questioned silkily.

For a moment, Emma stilled. Was he some sort of sadist, as well as being a control freak? Didn’t he realise that New York was the city she’d lived in during her ill-fated marriage and it was packed full of bad memories? Meeting the obdurate set of his rugged features, she bit back the protest which had sprung to her lips. Because if she showed any weakness, then wouldn’t he leap on it like the bully he was?

She set her face into the most vacuous expression she could manage. ‘New York?’ she questioned, forcing a delight into her voice—a delight she was far from feeling. ‘How wonderful! The city that never sleeps!’

He winced at the cliché. ‘So they say. I’ve booked you a ticket for Saturday. A car will pick you up and take you to the airport—my secretary will be in touch with all the details. See you in the “Big Apple”, Emma.’

He had walked away before she could say another word but Emma could hardly chase him across the restaurant, demanding to know what he had meant. Surely he didn’t mean that he was going to be in New York at the same time?

Was that to keep an eye on her? To make sure she did exactly as he wanted?

She didn’t know and, right now, she wasn’t in a fit state to care. All she was aware of was a feeling of trepidation, which had somehow become all mixed up with a heart-racing excitement she didn’t dare analyse.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT was strange being back. Strange to hear the distinctive drawling accents and to watch people rushing everywhere with that particular sense of purpose which you only ever seemed to find in New York. Leaning back against the soft leather seat of the car, Emma watched the blur of skyscrapers appearing in the distance as the plush limousine headed towards the city.

Zak’s car had met her at JFK airport even though she would have been perfectly happy to find herself a yellow taxi. More than happy. It might have made her feel normal to have pulled her luggage through the busy terminal like all the other travellers. It might have reinforced an independence she was far from feeling.

Because the weirdest thing was that this trip seemed horribly similar to the first and only other she’d made to America—and that only increased her anxiety level. Because all those years ago, she’d been at the beck and call of a wealthy man who had called all the shots and now she was in exactly the same position. The main difference was that Louis had been weak—something her immaturity had failed to pick up on at the time. And Zak was the opposite. Zak was strong. Inside she knew that, though she wasn’t quite sure how. Just something bone-deep and certain assured her that the Greek tyrant had a core of steel.

What did he really want from her? The promise that she would leave his brother alone—was that all he wanted?

The car began travelling downtown and Emma looked out through the smoky windows at the brightly lit department stores. There was Sacs on Fifth—where Louis had once bought her a costly and rather traditional pearl necklace, then been delighted when she’d wrapped it around her blond hair like a coronet. That was one of the better memories—but there were bleak ones, too, piling in on her now like dark spectres.

The giant billboards and lights of Broadway reminded her of the Yankee Stadium where the Patterson band had been poised to make their big comeback—until it was cancelled at the last minute when a shocked promoter realised that the lead singer was barely able to stand. And there was St Patrick’s Cathedral, where she’d crept in to light a candle and to quietly weep for the death of her marriage and soon after that, for the death of her husband.

Shaking her head as if to clear some space, she became aware that Central Park was sliding past and that the car was now purring to a halt outside Zak’s Pembroke hotel.

She tried to take in all the beautiful details which she’d only ever seen on promotional literature. The art-deco exterior and the revolving door fashioned from rich, dark wood. The lamps made of wrought-iron and the carefully shaped box trees which added a splash of green to the urban environment. A doorman opened the door and she stepped into the gleaming marble lobby to see an enormous chandelier, its diamond shards glittering light down onto ornate displays of flowers.

In the confusion of a changed time zone and being in a foreign city, she felt a little disorientated. Should she go over to the main desk and ask whether Mr Constantinides had left a message for her? Or …

And then suddenly she was aware of a man towering over her. Of the olive-skinned hand which had reached out to pick up her suitcase as effortlessly as if it had been filled with butterflies rather than a rather large amount of shoes.

‘Welcome to New York,’ said a sexy and horribly familiar voice and she found herself staring up into the granite features of Zak Constantinides. Was that triumph she could read in his grey eyes? Very probably—since he’d got exactly what he wanted. He’d had her being shipped over to New York as if she were some kind of human parcel!

She wanted to react to him with nothing but cool indifference but somehow that wasn’t as easy as it should have been. She felt daunted by him, and she felt attracted to him, too, despite her determination not to be. It didn’t help that today he looked curiously accessible. He wore a soft cashmere sweater of the same hue as his eyes which hugged his muscular torso, along with jeans which emphasised the powerful thrust of his long legs. Once again she found herself acutely aware of his presence as a man and she didn’t want to be aware of him that way!

Beneath her own warm jacket—bought specially to withstand the potential cold of the November weather—Emma shivered.

‘You’re cold?’ he questioned.

‘A bit,’ she said airily, terrified that he’d guess her involuntary shudder had been more about desire than temperature. ‘I always find American hotels a bit heavy-handed with the air conditioning. And why on earth are you carrying my suitcase?’

‘Why not? You object to a little old-fashioned chivalry, do you?’

There hadn’t exactly been a lot of old-fashioned chivalry in Emma’s life and for a moment she was a little taken aback. ‘You greet all your guests in this way, do you?’

‘Not all of them, no. But for you, Emma—I’m prepared to make an exception.’ The words came out of his mouth before he realised that he meant them. Zak didn’t stop to ask himself why he had been watching the clock until he’d heard from his driver that her flight had touched down safely. Or why he’d felt the leap of his heart and the heat of his groin when he’d known that she was heading towards the city.

Yet wasn’t the truth of it that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her? That she had entered his night-time dreams like some pale and unwanted intruder, with her green eyes and the moon-pale spill of her hair. Hadn’t he found himself wanting her with an ache which had been intense and unfamiliar?

It was interesting that his fantasies weren’t matched by the reality of seeing her again—because she certainly hadn’t dressed up. Her face was completely bare of make-up, the stark ponytail was back and the clothes she wore beneath her functional jacket were distinctly unimpressive. Her muted appearance should have been a real anticlimax and yet she possessed an indefinable something which made him want to study the way the light fell on her chiselled cheekbones and the faint golden sprinkling of freckles over her nose. Just how did she do that air of vulnerability so beautifully? he wondered. Had she worked on her technique, just as a tennis player might work on her backhand?

‘You must be tired,’ he said softly as he became aware of the faint shadows beneath her eyes. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you where you’re staying—and then you can start thinking about dinner.’

His words penetrated Emma’s befuddled thoughts, shook her out of the somewhat dazed acknowledgement that his gaze was focused on her like a laser beam and that her body was glowing in response. ‘You mean, I’m going to be staying here? At the Pembroke?’

‘Of course you are. As you’re only here on secondment for a few weeks it makes much more sense. Where else did you think you’d be staying?’

She’d imagined some small studio apartment on the lower side of town. Somewhere where she’d be woken up by the early-morning sounds of street cleaning and kept awake by late-night revelry. The kind of place where it would be tough to find a taxi. Somewhere as far away from Zak as possible.

‘It was such a rush to get out here that I didn’t stop to think where I’d be staying,’ she said, her dismissive air not quite ringing true.

‘Well, you’re here now—so you can relax.’

She was aware of people staring at them as they crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. Some of those were the staff, obviously—probably wondering why their boss was carrying the suitcase of this rather ordinary-looking guest. But some of the guests were giving them the once-over, too. Younger women wearing conspicuous signs of wealth had openly envious looks on their faces, while their older male partners glanced up briefly from where they were tapping addictively on their computers.

Zak didn’t speak until the elevator doors had shut out the rest of the world and he found himself alone with her. She was staring steadfastly at the red arrow which was indicating the floor count as the lift rode upwards and it was an odd sensation to be in the company of a woman who wasn’t focusing her attention entirely on him. ‘Not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever received from a member of staff who’s just been told she’s staying in one of the world’s finest hotels,’ he observed wryly.

Realising that she couldn’t keep avoiding his eye, she turned to look at him. ‘Are you surprised?’

‘I am—a little. I thought you’d revel in the opportunity to enjoy some of the Pembroke’s legendary hospitality.’

Emma gave a short laugh because, ironically, he couldn’t be more wrong if he tried. Money didn’t ‘do’

it for her. Not any more. She’d learnt that the simple things in life meant more than all the glitz and glamour in the world. She’d seen only too well that wealth could bring with it nothing but emptiness and a great dark void. Until she remembered that she was supposed to be a gold-digger of the first order and so she widened her eyes in the most gold-diggery way she could manage.

‘I suppose when you put it like that.’ Deciding that licking her lips would be a little over the top, she injected a longing note into her voice instead. ‘Will I be staying in a very big suite?’ she questioned.

‘Not as big as mine,’ Zak murmured as the greedy look in her eyes demanded—and got—a predictably mocking response from him. But he hadn’t counted on his body’s interpretation of this as some kind of basic flirting. So that hot on the heels of his sardonic retort came an inexplicable need to see her blond hair spread all over the pillow of his vast bed. To see those pale green eyes slitted with desire as she welcomed him into her arms.

Silently he cursed himself as the jerk of an erection made his groin grow heavy. What the hell was he thinking of? She was everything he despised in the opposite sex and—even if she hadn’t been—she was dating his brother.

‘We’re here,’ he said abruptly.

They had reached the thirty-second floor and Emma stepped out, noting the general air of luxury which immediately surrounded her—the gleaming hardwood floors on which lay priceless silk rugs. The walls were hung with original art and most of it was very impressive and she found herself wondering what the Pembroke’s nightly rate was.

‘Is my room on this floor?’ she asked.

‘It is. It’s right here.’ He pushed open the door to her suite. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll come by and pick you up for dinner.’

Emma forced a smile. ‘I think I’d rather order from room service, if it’s all the same with you.’

‘I disagree—that’s the worst way of coping with jet lag. You’ll fall asleep and be wide awake in the middle of the night,’ he demurred with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘And besides, there are things we need to discuss.’

‘Things?’ She stared at him. ‘What kind of things?’

He met the startled greenness of her eyes and once again felt the unwanted punch of desire. ‘It’s no great mystery. You’re here to work, Emma—and so far I haven’t told you what you’ll be doing. We’ll eat downstairs in the restaurant and I’ll brief you. I’ll pick you up in an hour.’

‘An hour and a half,’ she amended stubbornly.

‘Done.’

He turned and walked away, leaving Emma resisting the desire to watch him. Instead, she went into her room and closed the door behind her, her attention immediately caught by the enormous glass windows.

The view was distracting—a jumble of light-spangled skyscrapers, which together formed the instantly recognisable skyline of New York. It was beautiful, she thought—even if it did bring back some uncomfortable memories and even if she was slightly too tired to appreciate it.

She forced herself to unpack, knowing that if she did it now, it would mean she wouldn’t awake to an even bigger chore of badly crumpled clothes. She put her shoes in the wardrobe and her underwear in the walnut drawers and went through to the bathroom to shower, feeling all the travel grime being washed away beneath the warm jets. Afterwards, she brushed her wet hair and pulled on an irresistibly fluffy white bathrobe, thinking that she’d just have a cup of coffee to wake herself up before getting dressed.

She clicked on the machine, turned down the air conditioning and then sat down on the huge bed where giant, squashy pillows were jostling for space. What was the collective term for pillows? she wondered dreamily. A pile of pillows, or a heap of pillows? Laying her head down on one of them, she heard the hypnotic gurgle of the coffee machine as her eyelashes drifted to an irresistible close.

Odd sounds began to penetrate her dream. She heard the rattle of a trolley, which made her think she was still on the aircraft, and then some sort of muffled thumping. And the next thing she knew was a hand on her arms, pushing against the fluffy towelling robe, and she fluttered open her eyes to see Zak standing over her, his face dark with an odd kind of tension.

For a moment neither of them spoke—their gazes locking and holding as if time and place had been suspended, leaving them shut in their own private universe. Her heart thundering, she stared up at him with a sudden longing—aware of his proximity and the mesmerising tang of sandalwood. Aware too that she was completely naked beneath the robe and that her breasts had started to tingle in response to his narrow-eyed scrutiny.

‘What is it?’ she mumbled from between dry lips.

Zak watched as a tiny pink tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Unbelievably beautiful. ‘I couldn’t wake you,’ he accused thickly.

It occurred to her that he could have phoned her—but she didn’t say so because his hand was still on her arm and, shamefully, she didn’t want him to remove it. Was that because she was still half asleep and therefore disorientated—or was the real reason that she liked him touching her? That she was enjoying the sensation of his fingers pressing through the robe and into her skin.

‘Well, you’ve woken me now,’ she said, stifling a yawn.

Reluctantly pulling his hand away, he walked over to the window. Staring hard at a view he usually took for granted, he tried to focus on the brilliant gleam of the skyscrapers’ lights instead of the soft accessibility of her body beneath the voluminous robe. But it was damned near impossible. All he could think of was the translucent quality of her skin and the vulnerability she’d exuded when she’d been asleep. And then she had woken and those pale green eyes had slitted open at him in lazy question, just like in his forbidden fantasy—and he cursed himself for forgetting two vital facts.

She was not his kind of woman!

More important still, she was his brother’s woman!

There was no way he could deny the powerful sexual chemistry which had sizzled between them right from the start—and Zak was far too experienced to pretend it hadn’t happened. That it wasn’t happening how. And didn’t that justify what he was doing by bringing her here to New York? If she could put out like this for her lover’s brother—then wasn’t Nat better off without her?

‘I’ll be waiting downstairs in the restaurant,’ he gritted out. ‘Be there in fifteen minutes.’

Emma sat up as he walked straight past the bed without another look in her direction but she could feel the sudden disapproval radiating from his powerful body. What was his problem? Was he angry because he’d just been looking at her as if he’d like to eat her?

And wasn’t her problem that she’d wanted him to?

Getting off a bed which now felt contaminated, Emma scrambled to find some underwear, guilt washing over her as she clipped on a lacy black bra—acknowledging the heavy aching in her tender breasts. Because wasn’t the pitiful truth of it that she had wanted Zak Constantinides in a way she’d never wanted anyone else? She bit her lip in horrified remorse. Not even her own husband!

He must have felt the powerful vibes which had shimmered between them—because you’d need to be made of stone to ignore them. He already thought that she was a sexually voracious gold-digger—so wouldn’t her behaviour only reinforce his poor opinion of her?

She needed to pull herself together and she needed to grow a little backbone. She wasn’t just some puppet which he could manipulate at will. Hadn’t she worked hard at the Granchester—hard enough to establish herself as an interior designer who was respected by others in the business? She’d done all that with determination, hard work and very little in the way of formal training. So was she prepared to let all that crumble away, simply because her body was reacting in a way she didn’t want towards a man she didn’t like?

No, she was not.

And she would start by sending out the subliminal but very clear message that she was not out to entice him.

She had the kind of looks which she could dress up or down—and tonight was definitely a night for fading into the background. She picked out a pair of black velvet trousers and teamed them with a floaty white shirt. Her hair had acquired a slight kink from where she’d slept on it while it was still damp—so she brushed it and then wove it into a loose bun, which sat on the back of her neck. Make-up she deliberately resisted and a dangly pair of shell earrings was her only adornment. After all—wasn’t ‘casual’ the new black?

But the moment she walked into the restaurant she realised that she was woefully underdressed. Or rather, overdressed. She’d never seen so much flesh on show and every other woman in the room was all buffed and honed and highlighted with the sparkle of jewels.

Emma kept her head high as she gave Zak’s name to a rather bemused-looking waiter and as he led her towards the Greek’s table she was acutely aware of being watched. She’d forgotten what it was like to be judged by your companion. To have people look you up and down and form an opinion about you when they didn’t even know you.

Her stomach was in knots as Zak rose to greet her and she saw that his gaze was hooded. She thought she sensed disapproval as he looked at her—and, although she’d chosen her outfit with just that result in mind, there was a very feminine part of her which cringed beneath his critical scrutiny.

‘You look like you’re just off to a rock festival,’ he commented acidly.

She surveyed the pristine elegance of his dark suit. ‘And you look like you’re about to perform some hostile boardroom bid.’

For a moment his lips almost curved into a smile, until he reminded himself that he was not here to be amused by her. Maybe it was a good thing that she looked as if she was about to start lighting incense, or sit cross-legged on the floor before starting to meditate. He sat back as the waiter handed her a glossy menu. ‘How about I order to save time? The steak here is very good.’

Emma gave a polite smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but I don’t eat meat.’

‘You don’t eat meat?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which part of my original statement needed clarification, Mr Constantinides?’

He stared at her critically. ‘No wonder you’re so damned pale.’

‘You should try it some time—less meat in the diet is supposed to mean less aggression.’

At this he did laugh. ‘A real man eats meat, Emma.’

There was something about his primitive boast which made her feel quite peculiar and Emma quickly looked down at the very limited vegetarian section of the menu. Did he really think he could come out with all that macho ‘real men eat meat’ stuff and get away with it? Yes, he did—and the horrifying reality was that he could. She suspected he could do pretty well anything he put his mind to, especially where women were concerned. She remembered the way she’d found him looking at her when he’d shaken her awake. That compelling hunger she’d surprised in his eyes. And hadn’t that look made her feel a corresponding rush of desire, which had made her feel as if she were melting beneath his gaze?

Suddenly, Emma felt a trickle of fear sliding down her spine because she suspected that Zak Constantinides knew perfectly well the extent of his power over women. And the very last thing she needed was for him to discover that he had awoken a strange and nebulous need in her.

‘And you’re really going to have to lose the “Mr Constantinides” tag,’ he mused.

‘I would have thought that my constant reinforcement of your superior status would have bolstered your ego.’

‘I don’t need anything to bolster my ego,’ he said softly. ‘So do you think you could try saying “Zak”?’

She snapped the menu shut and looked up. ‘I’ll have the aubergine lasagne and side salad, please…. Zak.’

‘And I’ll have the rib-eye.’ He handed the menus to the waiter, thinking that her soft English accent managed to do erotic things with the single syllable of his name. He fixed her with a questioning look. ‘Wine?’

She thought she probably shouldn’t. In fact, she definitely shouldn’t. Wine might make the meal seem like a pleasure, rather than the necessity it clearly was. But Emma was strung out—and the idea of having to endure an evening facing Zak Constantinides without something to help relax her was more than she was prepared to tolerate.

‘A glass would be lovely.’

He nodded and the sommelier was dispatched, returning with two glasses of red wine so rich that Emma could smell it from five paces away. She took an eager sip and put the glass down with a little sigh, looking up to meet the curiosity lancing through his grey eyes. ‘The wine’s very good,’ she said politely.

‘Of course it’s good—do you really think I’d drink anything but the best?’

‘Silly of me not to realise that everything you do is a testimony to how wonderful you are.’

‘Very silly. But I haven’t brought you here to talk about the wine, Emma. Or about me.’

‘I didn’t think you had,’ she said, her heart suddenly beginning to race, because suddenly she suspected what was coming next.

‘I want to know what it’s like being back in New York,’ he questioned—and now his voice took on a harsh tone. ‘You lived here when you were married, didn’t you?’

So he hadn’t forgotten that she’d lived here—and he hadn’t cared that she might be upset by that fact. Of course he hadn’t—for he had made his hostility towards her very clear, right from the start. He didn’t care how much she hurt—because he saw her simply as an obstacle to be removed from his brother’s life.

She wanted to tell him that her past was none of his business and yet a feeling of resignation made the words die in her throat. Because in a way, hadn’t this conversation been inevitable from the moment she’d first walked into his office? He was determined to know more about her and she couldn’t keep stonewalling questions which were bound to keep coming, could she? It all boiled down to whether she was ashamed of her past. Maybe a little—but she was proud of the way she’d risen from the ashes of it to start all over again.

‘What is it you want to know?’ she questioned.

‘I want to know how a small-town English girl managed to meet and marry someone like Louis Patterson. And whether the price you paid for your ten minutes of fame was worth it.’