by Caro LaFever
“Geez, Stravoudas.” The woman slapped a hand on one lush hip and pouted. “Why didn’t you tell me I was marrying into ancient aristocracy?”
Alex’s jaw tightened at her jibe. “Would it have made you any sweeter?”
“Doubtful.” She slipped her cell phone from her pocket and started to text.
“What are you doing?” He shouldn’t feel outrage, but he did. No woman had never simply ignored him time after time like Sophia.
“Relax, darling,” she drawled. “I’m letting Jake and Will know I’ve hit the jackpot and they can go ahead.”
“Henry and Christine will let them know.” He jerked his suitcase to his side. “There’s a car waiting for us at the end of the terminal.”
She glanced over to meet his fuming gaze. “Of course there is.”
Her tone implied he should be labeled as some filthy aristocrat who had somehow escaped the guillotine. He’d never thought much of his wealth. His dad had been a poor immigrant when he’d landed in New York. He’d celebrated his success not for the money he earned, but for how it showed he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Alex looked at money and success in much the same way. Yet, evidently, his fake fiancée did not. “You have issues with my money?”
“No.” She slid her phone back into her pocket. “I have issues with you.”
Before he could blast her, his own phone buzzed in his jacket. Yanking it out, he glanced at the screen and grimaced. “Hey, Henry.”
“We did some great work on the plane, but there’s still more to do.”
“I’ve been flying all night.”
“It’s morning here.” His partner’s voice swelled with enthusiasm. “We’ve got today and tomorrow before the emir’s party arrives. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
“I’m tired.” He glanced up to catch a strange look from Sophia. A speculative look tinged with pity. Pity? He graced her with his best fake smile and she gave him back another pout.
“What’s with you?” Puzzlement drifted into his friend’s voice. “You’re never like this.”
Three years of his life when he signed this deal.
Three years.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He slid a hand behind his aching neck and kneaded.
“Something’s wrong.”
An idea popped into his head. An idea that would solve his current problem with Henry and his bigger problem with Sophia.
“I’m in Paris.” He smiled across at his female nemesis who was going to be pissed in a moment. “With my lovely fiancée.”
She straightened and her mouth tightened. There was Sophia. Sharp as a tack and good at spotting a train coming down the track towards her.
“True.” His partner humphed. “So you and Sophie are going to—”
“She and I are going to go shopping for clothes.”
She vibrated with instant fury and her little hands fisted at her sides.
He gave her one of his smiles as an answer.
“Shopping.” Henry’s voice filled with horror. “You’d rather go shopping than work?”
“To be with my beloved bride?” He made sure his voice oozed with pleasure. “I couldn’t think of anything better to do with my time.”
His friend sighed. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
Alex clicked off his phone.
“I’m not going shopping.” She pointed a stubby finger at her bulging, old suitcase. “I brought plenty of clothes.”
Grabbing his own elegant Longchamp suitcase, he marched at a brisk clip towards the end of the terminal. He figured his long legs would eat the distance so fast Sophia would have a hard time keeping pace with him and mouthing off at the same time.
She huffed behind him.
Alex smiled again.
This was perfect. She’d be so angry with him after this shopping spree, she’d spend all her time in Paris spouting off her insults. She’d aggravate him to the point where he wouldn’t be thinking about her pretty bow mouth or her abundant breasts. All he’d focus on was the fact she was a pain in the ass.
The car awaiting them turned out to be a long, sleek limo.
“Of course,” she muttered from behind him.
“Get in,” he muttered back at her.
As the door slammed shut, she launched her expected verbal assault. “I have plenty of clothes.”
He smoothed his hands down his wool-clad legs. “What dresses did you bring?”
Punching her hands into the navy peacoat she’d stuffed herself into as soon as they’d hit the cold December air, she frowned. “I have a completely acceptable black dress.”
“One dress.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even bring the dress I bought you.”
“No.” She stared at him, her eyes blank.
The terrible tenderness for her surged inside, much to his disgust. The feeling pushed into curiosity even against his will. “We never did get to discussing your tragic story.”
“There is no tragic story.”
He remembered the shimmer of happy tears in her mother’s eyes. The way her dad had clutched her delicate shoulders. The panic in Sophia’s voice. His instinct was to push, to keep asking. He wanted to know; he wanted to understand. He needed to—
No. Wait.
He pulled himself back from disaster. He didn’t need anything from this woman other than for her to be angry at him for the next week. Or rather, for the next couple of months.
“Sophia.” He sighed and stifled his smile when she snarled at his condescending tone. “We are meeting one of the richest men in the world and his wife.”
“Yeah?” She sounded like a truculent teenager.
“Many times.” The thought of what that meant broke through for a moment, and he tightened his hand on his knee. But the current conversation, and the delight he always experienced when prodding this woman into a snit, overcame the tension in a flash. “You are going to need more than one ugly dress.”
“It’s not ugly.”
“If your Freddie chose it for you, it is.”
She huffed once more.
Leaning forward, he gave directions to the driver in French and then sat back. “We’ll have something to eat first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
Was that a snarl or a huff? He couldn’t be sure. Either way, he was well on his way to complete success. By the time he was done with Sophia, she’d be as filled with rage and confusion as he was.
Chapter 10
She should be angry at being forced to do his bidding once again.
Sophie stared down at the gloriousness of a Paris breakfast.
“Eat.”
His command coming from across the antique wooden table threatened to destroy her focus. But not even Alexander the Great’s ability to drive her nuts could sway her.
She needed to savor.
This was no pancake. This was perfection.
Inside the folds of wheat cake were thinly sliced red tomatoes and vivid green spinach. The egg and gruyère cheese still sizzled, sending a waft of rich scent to her nose.
Breathing in, she closed her eyes and let her senses take over.
She was in Paris. Paris.
“It’s a crêpe.”
He could be ignored, but not that statement.
“Honest? I had no idea,” she cooed in a sing-song voice. “I’m merely a poor, uneducated American.”
He grimaced, then shrugged. Reaching over, he took the spoon out of the earthenware bowl and sprinkled buttermilk over his own breakfast. A breakfast competing for the title of most glorious. Round mushrooms and chunks of glistening bacon filled his buckwheat pancake.
“It’s called a galette.” His voice oozed condescension.
She glanced across the table to meet his bland gaze. She was in Paris, finally. This was true. Still, it appeared she was going to have to lug a not-needed, not-wanted guide around throughout her journey. Unless she
put a stop to it right now. “I know. I don’t need an ongoing lecture—”
“I loved them as a kid.” He took a sip of his espresso. “Maman made them every Saturday, but they were never as good as the ones we got in Paris.”
An image of a long-legged kid, with ruffled blond curls and a wide grin, leapt into her head. She could imagine that boy wolfing down piles of food. Heck, even now, every time she ate with him, she’d noticed he had a huge appetite, even though none of it seemed to stick to his lean hips or flat stomach.
Something rather like reluctant affection crawled into her heart. Her inevitable irritation with him drifted away, replaced by hunger.
Hunger for food. Of course.
She sliced into one edge of gloriousness and slid it into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she hummed as the flavor of French butter, tart spinach, and creamy, nutty cheese warmed her mouth.
An odd sound came from across the table.
Was that a groan?
Her eyes popped open to meet his.
The mid-morning sunshine splashed in from the glass terrace doors, making his turquoise eyes gleam. The wash of green and blue blazed with…something.
Sophie pulled her gaze back to the gloriousness before her. This is what she needed to focus on, not the gloriousness of a man’s eyes.
“Good?” he offered, his voice low.
“Yeah, good.” She stuffed another bite into her mouth before she said something stupid like: what did I just see in your eyes?
The cafe he’d chosen wasn’t packed, but close. The chatter around them, the sound of clinking china and silverware, the noisy whir of the expresso machine, none of it could fill the growing silence between them.
An uncomfortable silence.
The realization struck her. For the first time in dealing with Alexander Stravoudas, she didn’t know what to say. Usually, the quips came easily, the putdowns spewed automatically, the snarls and huffs and yells never needed any prodding.
She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Neither, it appeared, could he.
Sneaking a glance at him, she was startled to find him still staring at her. The usual ire she felt towards him sprang forward. “What are you looking at? Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” He started as if coming out of a coma. Dark blond lashes immediately swept down, covering the turquoise, and she noticed how long they were. Indecently long for a man. This man should not have longer eyelashes than she did.
Her ire rose even higher. “Then don’t stare at me. You’re being rude.”
Mr. Perfect ignored her by digging into his breakfast. Was that an actual flush on his lean cheeks? Alexander Stravoudas? Blushing?
The thought brought back the reluctant soft spot she’d developed for this guy without even realizing it was happening.
Crud.
She might even, occasionally, sometimes, perhaps like Mr. Perfect.
Double crud.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth as he sipped his espresso. His lips were indecent too. Lush and ripe.
And warm. Very warm.
The kiss slammed back into her memory like an airborne missile. She’d built a big, gigantic wall around that memory, but with one hit, the kiss came rolling back. He’d tasted so good, like the bouquet of a fine burgundy mixed with the bittersweet zing of a dark chocolate truffle. She vaguely remembered her anger as she tugged him down to her level. There was also the hazy recollection of the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the touch of his hard hands on her waist.
But all of those faded in comparison to the taste of him.
Lost in that taste, she’d had to have more. So she’d done something incredibly stupid and stuck her tongue into his mouth.
Mr. Perfect. Her tongue in Mr. Perfect’s mouth. And liking it.
Triple crud.
“Why are you blushing?”
Sophie started in her chair. She needed to forget about that kiss. She was in Paris. Finally. That’s what she needed to remember. “It’s too warm in here.”
A caramel brow rose. “We’re right by the window.”
Instead of answering an unanswerable question, she swiped her espresso cup into her hands and sipped. For all her attempts at focusing on where she was, the kiss could not be forgotten and when added to this inexplicable affection welling inside her, it meant only one thing.
She needed to stay mad. All the time.
“Once we’re done here, we’ll start building a suitable wardrobe for you.”
He had perfect timing. She’d give him that. “I have a suitable wardrobe already.”
“No, you don’t.” He looked straight at her and any hint of the something she thought she’d seen earlier had vanished. In its place was his usual pomposity. “And I’m not arguing about this any longer.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sophia.” He puffed out a gusty breath, as if he were dealing with a squalling child. “I brought your lease with me. Would you like to review certain provisions?”
She scowled at him.
“I guess that means no.” He placed his knife and fork slantwise on his empty plate. “Shall we go?”
Did she have any choice?
The brisk wind cut through her peacoat as she trundled beside him. The narrow, cobble-stoned streets of the Marais district made her think of medieval times. Intimate restaurants, glistening jewelry stores, boutique hotels, pastry shops brought her into the future. The combination made something zing in delirious pleasure inside her.
She stuttered to a stop and peered into the nearest pastry shop. The elderly lady sliding a pan of cream-filled chouquettes into the display case smiled. Puffy vol-au-vents marched in a line like little doughy soldiers while buttery croissants curled into curvy clusters.
“They call them boulangerie here.” Her trusty guide’s voice came from behind her.
Sophie swung around to scowl at him again.
“What?” He raised his big, brute hands in a questioning gesture. “I’m trying to be a good host.”
“I don’t need you to follow me around and spout information. Especially about things I already know all about.”
“Perhaps I want to.” His words went soft at the end and that something filled his eyes once more.
Now her brain stuttered to a stop. What did he mean? What was going on? This, this something could not be…something.
Again, she couldn’t think of a thing to say to Alexander Stravoudas.
A whisk of wind tore a strand of hair out of her ponytail and whipped it across her face. Before she could push it back, one of his hands slipped along her skin, chasing the lock, brushing a line of goose bumps in its wake.
He was close. Too close.
His turquoise eyes looked down at her, the long, blond lashes catching the sunlight. His broad shoulders blocked out the Paris street, blinding her to anything but him.
Sophie couldn’t stop herself. She stared at his mouth.
The memory of their kiss rolled over her determination to put it away forever. The memory of how he’d swirled his tongue in her mouth too: invading her, taking her, making her want him with a fierce need.
She stepped back with an abrupt jerk.
Exactly as she’d done at the golden ball.
His hand dropped to his side.
“Aren’t we on a mission to buy a bunch of clothes I don’t need?” she quipped, trying to find her way back to the intense dislike she’d had for this man.
The edge of his mouth moved into a reluctant grin. “You do need clothes. A whole lot of them. You’ll see when we get there.”
“Where is there?” Better to focus on clothes than kisses.
He waved down the winding street. “Around the corner. Come on.”
A few minutes later, Sophie eyed the discreet shop. White Grecian pillars gave the place a look of permanence while the wispy lemon dress in the store front spoke of whimsical tendencies. A simple black-and-gold sign stated: Élodie.
; “The store’s name means foreign riches in French.” Her trusty guide grinned at her. “My maman and sisters shop here every time they come to Paris.”
The memory of his stylish sisters and his intimidatingly chic mother made her shudder. She stared at the lemon dress. The thing looked really, really small.
“Not that dress, Sophia.”
The usual irritation surged, mixing with the old insecurities. “I know I can’t fit in to that tiny thing. You don’t have to point—”
“Wait.” He sighed. “Why do you always take what I say and twist it around?”
For some stupid reason, she felt a twinge of tears behind her eyes.
“Hey.” His rough hand grabbed her elbow and swung her toward him. “Look at me.”
She glared into his sun-spangled face. The light carved golden streaks across his lean cheeks, lit his blue eyes, warmed his brows and lashes to honey.
“What I meant is that’s not the color for you, krotída mou.”
The stupid nickname again. “What are you calling me?”
His mouth took on a wry edge and then, he laughed. His head tipped back and his blond curls slid over his broad shoulders, glistening in the sunlight.
His shiny perfection only highlighted her wretched incompatibility for what they were about to do. “Don’t laugh at me.” Her tone was prickly, and at the same time, wobbly.
His gaze snapped back to her and the laughter stopped. “I’d rather you laugh with me.”
The stupid tears threatened once more.
He looked nonplussed when she didn’t answer with a typical snappy comeback. “You’ll enjoy this. I promise.”
She would not. “I hate clothes shopping.”
His startled gaze went wide.
“I just do. So there.” Insecurity wound through each word, making her sound foolish.
“You’ll like this place.” He gave her an encouraging nod.
Staring at him, she made a last ditch effort. “I don’t—”
“Don’t start.” He paced to the glass-lined double doors and swung them open. Glancing over his shoulder, he gave her his smile. The real one. “Come on. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
* * *
The wary, fragile Sophia, who had the ability to yank his heart from his chest, had reappeared.