A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks

by Caro LaFever

The something that had sparkled deep inside her, for a moment in time, went dim.

  “The chrysanthemums are pretty.” His voice came from behind her, mild and calm. As if her words had slid right off his hard hide.

  Fine. Whatever. Just so they were clear with each other.

  “They’re probably left over from All Saints Day,” he continued the litany, wading right into irritating and cementing the wisdom of her decision.

  She jerked to a stop and turned to confront her annoying guide. The rain misted around him, making the curls on the edge of his forehead look like twirled strands of gold. She wasn’t going to let his golden perfection distract her from the lecture that had to be delivered, though, if she were going to get any enjoyment out of Paris. “Let’s get something straight once and for all.”

  “I heard you the first time. No kissing. Got it.” His blue eyes were blank as if her rejection hadn’t been any big deal.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “No?” He frowned. “Then why are you hot under the collar now?”

  “Because.” Sophie took in a deep breath and returned the frown. “I don’t want or need you to be my tour guide here. Okay?”

  “I’m merely—”

  “I can find my way around Paris on my own.”

  “But I know—”

  “Look. Stravoudas.” His complete lack of listening to what she said fired her temper. Exactly as it always did.

  His laugh was long gone. As was the enchanting smile. In their place were a hard expression and a mouth twisted in exasperation.

  A twinge of regret ran through her, yet she couldn’t have him messing with her head as she headed into her meetings with the chefs. She couldn’t have him distract her with his smiles and the somethings in his eyes. She knew Stravoudas. Even with her complete rejection, he’d find some way to keep worming his way into what he wanted. The guy didn’t take rejection well. She knew that from observing him during the last few months. Rejection only inspired him into a further fit of charm until he finally bulldozed his way to victory. She had to admit to herself, she teetered on the fence of giving in to her growing attraction.

  He was sexy. He kissed like a dream. He did, occasionally, charm her.

  Another shiver ran through her.

  This was going to be tricky.

  “I’m working this week.” She forced herself to lay down the law, pushing the twinge of regret away. “You’re working this week.”

  “True.” He folded his arms in front of him, the line of his jaw tense.

  “Neither of us are going to have time to stroll around Paris taking in the sights.” Well, that wasn’t quite true. She figured in between the TV show shots, she’d have a minute to hike through the Louvre or take in the Eiffel Tower. Only not with him. Not with Mr. I-know-everything-about-Paris. “Certainly not with each other.”

  “Certainly.” His eyes were still blank, his expression had grown bland.

  So why were the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end? She shook off her unease. “Okay. Just so we’re clear this is all about work.”

  “And our deal.”

  The unease prickled on her skin. “The deal where I’m your pretend fiancée.”

  The emphasis she put on the one word didn’t appear to faze him. In fact, it seemed to amuse him. His wide mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. “My perfect fiancée.”

  A blast of rain shot down from the sky, yet it did nothing to quench the immediate blast of her anger. Was that what the clothes shopping had been about? First, she’d figured it was about getting her irritated. Then she’d thought maybe it was about his sexual interest. Now it suddenly became clear he was trying to make her into some kind of perfect woman. He was treating her like a doll. A doll he had to deck out in order to make sure she’d be worthy of being seen with him. What total shit. “You are such a dickhead, Stravoudas.”

  The smile disappeared to be replaced with a snarl. “What the hell?”

  “I mean it.” She swung around to walk away, but his beefy hand yanked her to a stop. “Let go of me.”

  “Let me get this straight.” The rain dripped down his cheeks and jaw, highlighting how lean and chiseled they were. “I fly you to Paris.”

  “You demanded I come to—”

  “A city you’ve always wanted to visit.”

  “Not with you being my guide—”

  “I feed you. All the time.” He tugged her closer, his fingers digging into her arm, his azure eyes blazing with temper. “I buy you a whole new wardrobe.”

  “One that I didn’t need and didn’t want.” Sophie swore she saw the rain sizzle on his hot skin and deep inside herself she responded with a reaction completely contradictory to her goals. Excitement mixed with fury swirled into a potent sexual heat.

  “And after all that, I’m a dickhead.”

  “Right. Exactly right.” She scowled into his hard face, her heart clang, clang, clanging in her chest. “A dickhead.”

  His mouth hardened and before she stopped herself, her gaze zeroed in on the movement. A fizzling tingle spread through her body, and suddenly she felt dizzy and unsettled.

  The jerk on her arm drew her attention back to the angry man holding her. He crowded in on her, his lips tight, his jaw rigid. “We both know what this is really about, don’t we, Sophia?”

  “What?” She tried to yank out of his grasp, but he refused to release her.

  “We both know you want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”

  “No.”

  He laughed. Not his fake laugh and not the laugh that made her want to reach out and touch him. No, this laugh held a threat. He came closer into her personal space, close enough that his breath heated the rain drops on her skin. “I might be a dickhead. But you want me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Me. And my dick.”

  * * *

  Alex fingered the stalk of asparagus and then passed over it to the next one. The owner of the vegetable stand nodded his head, smiling, apparently sure he’d get a sale. The rain pelted on the corrugated metal roofing of the covered market, making it hard to hear anything.

  All to the good.

  Even if she kept spewing names, he wouldn’t be able to hear her trash talk.

  Glancing across the market, he saw Sophia gazing at a lavish display of chocolates two vendors down from him. Her hair gleamed from the rain and the market lights emphasized the red in the strands.

  Their argument still burned in his blood.

  His accusation still rang in his head.

  You want me.

  He’d been harsh, hard. He’d also been right. Because as soon as he’d barked his words, she’d blushed. And before she’d looked away, he’d seen confirmation in her big, brown eyes.

  Ms. Feuer was on fire for him.

  The dickhead.

  “I’ll take these.” He indicated two stalks and passed over the euros requested. Turning his back on Sophia, he sauntered up the aisle to the fresh fish.

  He loved this market, had since he’d been a boy. The stalls filled with kebabs and couscous. The simple wooden tables full of Parisians taking a break from work and tourists from around the world going through their guidebooks. The sharp smell of lavender from the south mixed with the spicy scents of paprika and cloves.

  The excitement he’d felt as they’d walked to the steel gate, the anticipation of showing something to her he’d known she’d appreciate, all of that was gone.

  I don’t want to kiss you.

  Her words stung in his memory, although he knew they were a lie.

  “I don’t usually enjoy fish that much.” Her voice piped in beside him.

  Alex glanced at her and noticed the three plastic bags she held. “Then I guess you can eat chocolate instead.”

  She narrowed her eyes, long, dark lashes veiling her gaze. Still, he saw the latent heat and even over his firm conviction never to give her another chance, his cock went semi-erect. He’d been co
rrect when he’d concluded Ms. Feuer would delight in slapping him down if he showed any interest. Yet he’d stupidly stepped right into the path of that slap. But his cock didn’t care.

  Not about being correct.

  Not about his conclusions.

  Not even about the slap.

  “You’ll like this fish.” He pointed at the fresh sole and the vendor started wrapping coarse brown paper around the chosen pieces.

  “I hate it when you tell me what I’m going to like,” she snapped.

  His cock hardened further.

  Alex accepted the bag from the vendor and headed for the wine. A good Pouilly Fuissé would go nicely with the lemon cream sauce he planned on pouring over the sole.

  “I hate it almost more than when you do this ignoring crap.”

  Stopping in the row of wine bottles, he began to peruse.

  “You can’t belittle me by pretending I don’t exist. I won’t let you do it. Not anymore.”

  He spotted the bottle he wanted. La Roche. Some of the best vines in France, his grand-père had often said.

  “You know, Stravoudas, not every woman needs to bow down before you.”

  An instant image of Sophia on her knees before him caused his cock to harden in a complete erection.

  He ignored it. And her.

  “I’ll take the Martine Barraud.” He waved at the bottle he wanted and the vendor dutifully plucked it from the shelf.

  Pulling his belt loose, he stowed the wine in the side pocket of his navy trench coat. As he swung the flap closed, he glanced over to see her staring, wide-eyed, at his crotch.

  Before he could stop himself, he slipped. “Like what you see?”

  “No.” The word came out in a rush and her tiny hand tightened on her bags of chocolate.

  He deserved it. He’d slipped and got another slap.

  What he needed was to forget this woman even existed. He had plenty of work to focus on during the next few days and plenty of reasons to stay out of her way. Except for the foolish fact he’d put them in the same apartment together, all alone, he shouldn’t have any trouble keeping himself far away from Ms. Feuer.

  Turning, he paced through the market and into the open lane. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and Alex welcomed the cool moisture on his hot skin.

  “So. What?” She followed behind him, the slap, slap of her sneakers splashing in the puddles. “Are you going to ignore me from now on?”

  Oui. He was.

  The family apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain was a mere thirty-minute walk from here, less for a guy with long legs. He turned to gaze at her short, stubby ones. “We can take a taxi.”

  “He speaks. To me.” She stomped in the puddle again and a wash of icy water splashed onto his good wool pants.

  Alex squashed his aggravation. He was a gentleman. The woman had flown across the Atlantic, hadn’t slept in hours, plus she’d been forced to buy clothes, something she plainly hated. She wasn’t like him. She didn’t appreciate beautiful things. There was no understanding inside her of the subtle magic of this city nor would she feel the current of excitement he always felt when he came to Paris. He needed to stop this ridiculous campaign to win her over. Why did he keep trying to pound his head against the wall of her dislike? Sophia was right. This was about work and deals. Nothing more. “There’s a taxi stand at the corner.”

  “Where are we going now?” She sounded tired. Too tired to walk the enchanting streets of his favorite city.

  See? He’d been correct. “To my family’s apartment. It’s about thirty minutes away.”

  “By taxi?” She cocked her head and the end of her ponytail flopped onto her shoulder like a sinuous red-tinged snake.

  “No.” He gripped the bag carrying the fish and asparagus. “Walking. By taxi, we’ll be there in minutes.”

  Staring at him, she scowled. “Why the heck would I come to Paris only to take a taxi everywhere?”

  A jolt of surprise echoed through him. Not many women would elect to walk dank, dreary streets in December. Even if this was Paris. Also, this was a woman who’d declared she had no interest in doing anything with him. Regardless of the fact that this was a lie, why would she pivot a one-eighty and declare she wanted something else entirely?

  “We’re walking,” the woman stated.

  “Suits me.” Swinging around, he marched across the street, making for the Seine. Whatever odd quirk in her personality made her make this decision, he didn’t care.

  Not one little bit.

  Instead of worrying about her, thinking about her, he was going to enjoy.

  He’d walked almost all of Paris’s streets at one time or another, but this was his favorite route. Down Rue Vielle du Temple, with its funky mix of bistros and galleries, across Pont au Change to the Île de la Cité, past the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette spent her last days. Then came the exquisite La Sainte-Chapelle, with its stained-glass windows and medieval splendor. Finally, he’d meander through the narrow Rue Saint-André des Arts, its twisting path leading to the broad avenue where the family apartment occupied the second floor of a grand Haussmann building.

  The splatter of rain continued as they marched past ancient buildings and pleasant parks. When they got to Pont au Change, the wind picked up, an icy gale coming off the river. The Seine rolled along, dark and murky. Dusk descended slowly, the stark black streetlights flickering on one by one, lighting the tiny island in the middle of the city with a burnished glow.

  “Oh.” Her voice came from behind him. “That’s pretty.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. She had stopped to stare at the impressive lines of his favorite church, looming out of the gathering darkness. La Sainte-Chapelle’s stunning stained glass and soaring stone walls had inspired his love for the art he now practiced. He supposed he could tell her about the history of King Louis and the elements of medieval Gothic architecture, but Ms. Feuer wanted none of what he offered.

  He started walking once more.

  “What’s its name?” she called.

  Stopping, he turned back to gaze at her and said nothing.

  A long minute went by.

  She made a face. “Come on.”

  He kept staring.

  “Tell me,” she demanded.

  Alex turned around and paced off. There was a strange brew inside him—a childish need to hurt, a masculine drive to punish. He knew he should be gracious, his maman would be appalled at his actions, yet he was in no mood to cater to anyone.

  Especially not to Sophia.

  He arrived at the squat, sturdy Pont Saint-Michel, crouching above the Seine, just as she caught up with him.

  “You're being an asshole.” Her breath came fast, still, there was no heat in her voice. Rather, he detected an odd element of affection.

  Affection?

  He swiveled to stare at her again.

  “Okay.” She made another face. “I told you not to be a guide.”

  He said nothing. He was too busy trying to decide if he were crazy about what he heard lacing through her words.

  Affection?

  “That doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole, though.”

  That was definitely affection edging around the acid putdown. The realization astonished him and also caused something in the brew inside him to dissipate. Enough to give her a boon. “La Sainte-Chapelle.”

  A quirky grin slipped across her mouth. “That’s the name of that pretty church?”

  “Oui.”

  The wind whistled past and she shuddered in her coat. A sudden desire to shield her, protect her, take her into his arms, tingled up his spine, but he resisted. He didn’t need another slap. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

  By the time they’d crossed the bridge, even he felt the cold straight through his coat. The wine bottle clunked on the side of his hip, making him think of what lay before him.

  Sophia. In his family’s apartment.

  He’d never taken any woman to this place. The Paris h
ome was for family. Only family. That thought had crossed his mind when he’d been organizing this trip, yet he hadn’t found any overt reason for stuffing her in a hotel while he stayed elsewhere.

  Sophia. In the family home.

  The narrow lane of Rue Saint-André des Arts crowded out the remaining light, casting dark shadows on the sidewalk. The usual crowds were gone, driven into the warmly lit restaurants and galleries lining the street.

  He heard her breathing behind him, the sound mixing and mingling with the gentle slosh of drizzle on the pavement.

  They turned onto the boulevard; its wide lane lined with naked bony trees and splashes of color and laughter as people came in and out of the shops and restaurants. The flash of headlights, spearing into the dark, came and went as the cars drove past.

  “This is it?” she said as they stopped under the bright red awning.

  “Oui.” He opened the glass-and-mahogany door to the lobby.

  Her brown eyes widened. “Oh.”

  The lobby was impressive. Since the building housed some of the finest and most expensive apartments in Paris, this was no surprise. The black-and-white checkered floor complimented the icy-clean lines of the concierge desk and the antique glass chandelier.

  “Monsieur Stravoudas.” Marcel, the attendant who had manned this desk since Alex had been a kid, smiled a welcome. “It is good to have you return.”

  “Is this a hotel?” she whispered at his side.

  “It’s good to return to Paris.” Ignoring her, he strode over and shook the older man’s hand.

  Marcel’s gray, shaggy eyebrows rose as he examined Sophia’s wet hair and disheveled appearance. His mouth tightened. “Shall I make dinner reservations for you?”

  Alex found himself unaccountably irritated at the man—a man who’d always been unfailingly polite. Before. Before Sophia stepped into the lobby. Unwanted, still undeniable, the powerful feeling of shielding her ran through him once more. Now, not from the wind, but from any kind of judgment at all.

  She huffed.

  He glanced back and immediately, amusement rose inside to twine around his need to protect. She glared at Marcel as if he were a mere toad before her.

  “Sophia.” He gestured at the other man. “Meet Marcel.”