by Caro LaFever
Why he’d risen every morning at four a.m., much to Sophia’s displeasure, was easy to explain. He wasn’t being bossy or nosy—both accusations shot at him from her unpainted lips more than once.
Nope. It was simple.
She woke him. Every morning.
He’d lived alone since moving out of the apartment he’d shared with Henry all through college. He liked living alone. After a childhood of sharing space with a bunch of females, he’d enjoyed the solitude. The quiet. Everything in the place he’d put it.
Sophia had disturbed every piece of his place with her presence.
When he’d settled in to watch some TV, the remote control was not where he’d left it. Several times, he’d had to pluck her coat from the couch and put it in the closet where it belonged. She not only discarded her ancient sneakers in the front hall, she’d also abandoned her surprisingly sexy high heels there too. All three pair.
He glanced at her tiny feet. They were clad with the heels that were black but sparkly. His sisters would like those shoes. “You found your shoes.”
She peered at the shoes, her forehead scrunched in a frown. “I had to look everywhere in that mausoleum of yours. They weren’t by the front door.”
Mausoleum? What the hell did she mean by that? His penthouse had been written about by some of the top interior design magazines in the world. Her contempt for everything he was and everything he had made him lose his patience and his manners. “Shoes are not supposed to be left at the front door.”
Her head whipped around, her eyes dancing. “Oh, no. Did I break one of your rules, Alexander?”
The elongated vowels in his name soured his mood even more than her clothing. “I had Mrs. Palmer bring them back to your bedroom.”
“How nice of you.” She snuggled into the corner of the seat, a smile tugging at her lips. “Or rather, nice of Mrs. Palmer.”
He gave her another grunt of disgust and the noise made her smile widen. Swinging around to stare out the limo once more, he went back to his list of grievances against her.
She watched the stupidest programs on TV. All those reality shows with roses and singers and exotic locations where people wore bikinis and ate bugs.
“Don’t you get tired of that stuff?” he’d yelled from his office as a particularly horrible singer launched into a screechy tune.
She’d laughed. “About as tired as you get watching game after game of football.”
How did she know he liked football? She hadn’t been around yet for his usual Sunday afternoon hangout with Henry and the guys.
Melanie. Melanie must have told her.
The thought of his ex-fiancée turned his mood darker.
Then there were the morning smells emanating from her separate bathroom. At least he didn’t have to share one with her. He’d had enough of that during his teenage years. Years where he’d been allowed maybe five minutes to take a shower in between sisters.
He’d forgotten.
The sweet smell of female shampoo. The waft of slinky perfume edging under the closed door. The drift of hairspray and lotion and ivory soap. Girly and addicting, with rich scents that teased his nose.
He’d forgotten.
The way a woman filled a bathroom with her things. The pile of glass pots and brushes and tubes of something haphazardly arranged on the wide marble counter reminded him of his sisters. For a woman who was all natural, Sophia certainly had a lot of female doodads.
He’d forgotten how females always had their doodads.
None of this was the reason he awakened every morning way before he usually did. Not the shoes or the TV or the doodads.
It was her humming.
She hummed past his bedroom every morning. A low, provoking purr. The noise woke every part of him.
Every damn part.
Naturally, he always woke with an erection. That had nothing to do with anything about Ms. Feuer. Yet he’d never managed to get himself back to sleep. Instead, he’d listen to the shower and wonder if the woman had a waist. Not wanting to speculate on that for long, he’d get out of bed and take his own damn shower.
What he did in that shower every morning for the last three mornings made his mood go mean. “You have no sense of color.”
“This is getting old.” Her brown eyes snapped. “I’ve worn every one of these suits on the TV show. They were handpicked by Freddie.”
“Your producer.”
“Correct.” She turned to stare out at the street.
“The man I’m meeting tonight.” He’d be tempted to pull this Freddie aside and have a word with him about his fiancée’s wardrobe if Sophia were his real fiancée.
“She’s a woman. But yes, you’ll meet her tonight.” Her plump hand smoothed down her leg and his ring twinkled at him. For once, something she had on looked good on her. The warm color of the golden diamond made her skin turn creamy.
The thought made him shake his head.
Creamy skin.
What the hell was he thinking?
At least she’d followed his directions in this one area if nowhere else. It had taken him two days to impress on her the need to wear the ring. All the time.
The limo swung around the corner and approached the hotel housing the bar where he’d held his weekly Friday night happy hours for years. At first, it had been only him and Henry, sinking into a booth, swigging down a beer. Twelve years later, the tradition continued, but now included almost all of their fifty-five New York staff.
Every single one of those fifty-five people had stopped by his office during the last four days to congratulate him.
Sincerely. Heartily. Enviously.
“Sophie’s the bomb,” Matt, the intern, had stated, his grin wide. “You’re one lucky guy.”
“You got my favorite girl,” Jamal, his structural engineer, moaned in despair.
“I hope she hangs around here,” Carly, the receptionist, squealed. “She’s a lot of fun.”
He hadn’t realized the connections Sophia had made while he’d been busy wooing Melanie. Sure, he’d spotted her at some of his happy hours along with Melanie’s other friends. Yet after spending a time or two under her close observation and having to fend off more than a few potshots, he’d steered clear of Ms. Feuer.
His staff apparently hadn’t.
His mood didn’t move farther south; it boiled over. “I’m not letting you attend any more functions with me the way you look now.”
“Letting.” Her voice turned raw with rage.
“Yes. Letting.”
Her hand fisted in her lap, his ring flashing. “The way I look now.”
“Yes.”
The limo stopped. He didn’t usually hire a limo to get around. He had his Porsche parked in the penthouse’s underground garage. Or he walked. Took a taxi. Still, tonight he’d thought it might be good to make a splash, arrive in style, start this next wave of press on a positive note.
“We’re finally here.” She spun away from him. “Thank God.”
Before he or the approaching driver could react, the provoking woman popped the door open and sprang out onto the pavement.
“Sophia.” Alex lunged, trying to keep her back from the press, but she moved too fast. “Hell.”
“Okay, okay.” With a flip of her hand, she marched through the throng of paparazzi. “Take your pictures, guys, but I need a drink after a long day of baking.”
“Sophie.” One of them laughed. “Where’s your guy?”
“Can’t have you walking around alone, Soph.” Another one joked.
“He’s back there.” Another flip of a tiny hand while she sashayed to the front door. “I can’t wait for him to catch up.”
And with that, she disappeared into the hotel.
“Sir?” The driver’s face was impassive as he held Alex’s door open.
* * *
Sophie liked these people.
She liked Jamal’s big laugh and Matt’s funny faces. She enjoyed hearing about Carly’s advent
ures in dating. Henry had bounded over as soon as she’d walked in and given her a tight hug while his PA, Andrea, had burbled her delight at seeing her again. Even Mr. Perfect’s PA, Christine, had unbent enough to send her a chilly smile of greeting.
The fact they all worked for or with him was a fact she found hard to swallow. How could these intelligent, pleasant people work with such an arrogant, nasty man? She hadn’t seen any of them since the demise of the Perfect Couple’s engagement and she had to admit, she’d been a bit worried about their reaction to the new one.
“I’m very happy for you and Alex,” Andrea gushed.
Guess the worry wasn’t needed.
“I couldn’t be happier at the news,” Carly raved.
Guess there were other crazy people, beyond her friends, parents, and co-workers, who thought this engagement wasn’t…crazy.
“I think you’ll be good for Alex.” Christine smiled once more.
Guess his PA had no idea how close she was to losing her boss to the flames of a bakery oven.
I’m not letting you attend any more functions with me the way you look now.
The fury at his bossy pronouncement made her clench her fists. She’d had to stalk away from him or she would have socked him in the eye. She knew he’d arranged their arrival for the press for effect. But she’d figured, in a split second of decision, he’d rather walk through the crowd of paparazzi alone then walk through it with a black eye and her by his side.
She glanced around. Barreling into the bar, she’d been bombarded with congratulations for the last fifteen minutes. Only now could she catch her breath.
Low-slung couches lined one side of the room while the glass windows on the other side looked out on 44th Street. The central fireplace lit the surrounding tables with warmth while the back bar did a brisk business.
Where was he?
Why should she care?
The man could not stop jabbering on and on about her clothing. As if he knew anything about women’s clothing. The pantsuits she wore to any public function were hand-picked by Freddie. Freddie knew everything about fashion and she would not—
“Sophie.” Her six-foot, blonde panther of a producer appeared before her eyes, a wide smile creasing her elongated cheeks. Fred had had a bit too much plastic surgery in Sophie’s opinion, but whatever. “You are amazing.”
Well, yes, she was. Yet she had a gut feeling Freddie wasn’t talking about her baking skills. “Hey, Fred.”
“There is not another man in New York who would generate this much buzz for our show.”
Her gut had been right as always.
“Where is he?” Freddie’s long, flowing locks swished over her shoulders as she glanced around the bustling bar. “Don’t tell me he isn’t here.”
“I’m sure he’s here.” Her brushoff in the limo wouldn’t have been enough to ravage Alexander the Great’s mighty pride. “Somewhere.”
Anywhere far from her side was just fine with her. The last three nights of having his lean arm encircling her—his large, ugly hand on her hip, his heat burning down her side—the last three nights had been enough to ruin her usual predictable dead-to-the-world sleep pattern. What she needed tonight was for him to stay far away so she could finally get a good night’s sleep.
“I don’t see him.” Freddie kept peering around the low-lit bar. All the rows of dark leather couches were filled and the crowd circling the gleaming wood bar was large. Yet much as Sophie hated to admit it, Mr. Perfection would stand out anywhere and she couldn’t see him either. “I have to talk to him about coming on the show.”
Horror thumped low in her stomach. “No, Freddie, you can’t—”
“I have this great idea.” The older woman’s blue eyes blazed with delight. “In Paris, you and Alex can pretend to be visiting—”
“No. Absolutely not.” Visiting Paris had been her dream for years. The last thing she wanted while living her dream was dragging an arrogant—
“Here you are, Sophia.” The lean arm, the arm she’d become far more used to than she wanted to admit, slinked around her. “It’s hard to find you in the crowd. You’re extremely…short.”
The last word came with a pointed clip like a poker sliding into her side. But it only made her smile. Exactly as she thought, she’d pricked his pride and now he was trying to prick her. Instead, he’d confirmed she’d made a score.
“Alex Stravoudas.” Her producer said his name as if choirs of angels were about to appear and sing an anthem. “I’m amazingly glad to meet you.”
One of his brutish hands rose to shake Fred’s ring-adorned hand. “I’m always glad to meet one of Sophia’s friends.”
His pointed tone slid right into smooth.
The charm offense. Of course.
Freddie’s smile threatened to ruin her plastic surgeon’s last operation. “I’m Sophia’s TV producer.”
The long, hard body along her side tensed. “You’re the fabled Freddie?”
“Yes,” her producer crowed. “And I have quite a bit to discuss with you.”
“No, Fred.” Soph tried to intervene, but Fredia Schermerhorn had not vaulted to TV success by being timid.
“I think it would be wonderful if you joined Sophie during several of her visits to pastry chefs while you’re both in Paris.”
“Do you?” His arm tugged. Very slightly, very softly. Before she knew it, Sophie had been eased into the crook between his arm and chest. His heat went through her and she was hit with the impression that…she fit. Then, then his hand—the burly, broad hand—moved. Every atom in her body zinged to immediate life as his hand absently smoothed across her hip.
He’d never moved his arm before. Or his hand.
Every other time, she could tell the arm and the hand were there for show and nothing else.
The hand shifted once more, hard fingers pressing into her flesh. Warmth curled along her hip and into the pit of her stomach. A sexual warmth.
Another horror leapt to life inside her.
Wrenching away, she forced a smile. Let the man deal with Freddie on his own. Because, clearly, Sophia Feuer had gone crazy and couldn’t handle Alexander Stravoudas handling her. “I need a drink.”
Both of them—tall, lean, blond and bewildered—stared at her.
Freddie finally frowned. For sure, her plastic surgeon wasn’t going to be happy when she visited him next. “We need to nail the details of your Paris trip down.”
“I gave Henry our order.” Alex’s gaze never left her face. “He’s bringing your drink over right now.”
“Here you are, Soph.” Henry sidled into the conversation. A delicate, lowball glass filled with coffee-colored alcohol topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings swept in front of her. “Just like Alex ordered.”
A buttercup. Sophie jerked her head up from the drink. How did he know she loved this drink in the winter? Had Melanie gabbed about the drinks they shared when they had a MUST meeting? The thought came again, the recognition that this man swirled in and out of her life, noting everything, knowing too much. “I think I’ll have a glass of wine tonight.”
“You don’t like wine.” Alex’s mouth edged down. “You don’t appreciate it either.”
His comment came like a slap. Her temper roared back to life and her hand fisted once more.
“What a thing to say to your fiancée, Stravoudas.” Henry’s booming laugh came from behind her. “You can’t expect her to be a connoisseur like you. I assume Sophie spent her time learning about pastry while you stomped around your grandfather’s French vineyard. Each of you are experts in your own area.”
She gave her fake fiancé a puzzled look. He’d spent time in France? His grandfather owned a winery? Evidently, she had more to learn about him than the mere fact he had four sisters. Curiosity curled inside her brain and even though she cursed it, she still wanted to know more about him.
“I’m sure Sophie will have tons of things to teach you when you’re touring Parisian patisseries.�
�� Freddie had not deserted her quest.
“What’s that?” Henry bent forward, his shaggy black hair falling on his forehead.
“While Sophie and Alex are in Paris, we’re going to do a whole series of shows of them touring a variety of pastry shops.” Her producer’s face glowed with inspiration. “I’m even talking to some of the top pastry chefs about doing a series of demonstrations.”
Henry’s heavy brows lowered. “Who are you?”
“My bad.” Sophie waved a hand between them. “This is my TV producer, Fredia Schermerhorn. Freddie this is—”
“Henry Kluge. Alex’s partner.” His words were clipped. “Are you talking about the trip to Paris in a couple of weeks?”
“That’s the one,” Freddie burbled.
“I’m sorry.” Henry’s voice lowered along with his bushy brows. “But Alex isn’t going to have time to tour pastry shops when we’re in Paris.”
Sophie slid a glance towards her tall, blond tormentor. Wouldn’t his ego object to being told he couldn’t do something?
He appeared relieved. He didn’t want to explore Paris with her.
She sucked in a breath. She didn’t want that either, right? Right.
“I’m sure he’ll have a little time here and there.” Her producer wasn’t going to let go of her dream easily.
A brutish hand clamped onto her elbow. “I’ll let you two hash out my Paris schedule.” There was a hint of amusement dancing on the fringe of his words yet when she glanced at him again, his gaze was solemn. “I need to have a word with Sophia.”
She allowed herself to be tugged away because she really didn’t want to squash Freddie’s dreams herself. Let Henry play the heavy. By the look on her producer’s face, he was doing a fine job of it.
“So that’s Freddie.” Alexander let go of her elbow.
“Yes.”
“And she’s the one who chooses all your clothes.”
“Not all.” What was with this guy and his obsession about her clothes? Her nails pressed into her palm.
“But most.” He looked at her and she saw the clear amusement in his eyes. For the first time, she noticed his eyes weren’t merely blue. They were the exact color of her favorite pastry sneakers.