by Caro LaFever
Everything had been perfect a couple of months ago.
Everything had been exactly as it should be.
Now, everything was blowing up around him. And inside him.
His love for his work. His sense of himself. His ideas for his future.
His taste in women.
“Hey.” She ran beside him, her short legs pumping to keep pace. “Okay. I believe you.”
He stopped. His thoughts and emotions were all twisted around this woman. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want her. He glanced to his side and met her gaze. The cocoa eyes looked back, filled with warm sincerity.
“I mean it.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I should have known from the box it came in.”
The silver, satin-lined box. He remembered his grand-mère’s expression as she’d given the box to him on his eighteenth birthday. He remembered his maman’s tears, tears that for once were happy ones after a year of grieving for his father.
Pour l’amour de l’amour.
For love’s sake.
He’d never understood what the term meant. Of course, being a man, even a young man, he’d never said that, never confessed his confusion. What eighteen-year-old boy even wanted to say the word love much less contemplate what it actually meant?
“Pour l’amour de l’amour,” Sophie said in a hushed voice.
Jerking away from her gaze and her voice, he turned to stride away.
“It’s a beautiful saying.”
He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her steady look with an instinctive sneer. “It’s pure nonsense.”
She made that unladylike noise in her throat and her eyes darkened with disgust.
Glad, he stomped off. What did it matter what she thought of him? He didn’t care. Alex stuck his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.
Hell. He did care.
Why?
Why did he care what Sophia Feuer thought of him?
Pushing the turmoil and questions aside, he walked faster. He couldn’t return to the hotel where Henry and the team were staying. Working in this frame of mind was not doable. He didn’t want to go to the apartment with Sophia and have to spend more time lusting over a woman he liked, much to his disgust. So he’d walk. He’d walk the streets of Paris and hopefully everything inside him would calm down eventually.
“What does krotída mou mean?” Her annoying voice came from right beside him.
He clamped his mouth closed as the muscles along his jaw tightened. Out of habit, he tried to hold this awful hash of conflict inside. His childhood training demanded he act like a gentleman. But then he remembered who he was talking to. Who asked the question.
Sophia Feuer.
The woman who’d blasted his life into tatters. The woman who kept setting fires inside him. The woman who’d made everything wrong.
So he let her have it. All of it.
Snapping to a stop, he bent down and put his glaring, sneering face right in front of hers. “It means firecracker. As in, everything you touch, everything you say, blows up everybody’s plans. Everybody’s dreams.”
Her smooth, creamy skin whitened, highlighting the sprinkle of freckles.
He came closer, catching the light fragrance of sugar and vanilla that was such a contrast to her actions. “Do you ever think, Sophia, you might be wrong about a situation?”
A flush rose from her neck. “I—”
“Do you ever stop for a moment before you blow someone’s life up and think you might not have all the facts?”
“I try and—”
“Do you ever once keep your busybody nose out of everyone else’s business?” His last question ended in a shout.
Her cupid bow lips opened and then closed.
“No.” He straightened, his muscles suddenly tired, trembling. “No. You never do.”
Turning to walk away, he almost stumbled. He felt as if a huge caldron of fear, confusion, and rage had exploded inside him, pouring out of him like a river of fiery emotions, leaving him shaken and cold.
“Alex.”
The first time. The very first time she actually used his nickname instead of punching him with a slur or stomping him with the elongated version of his full name. He turned around, the anger building inside of him once more. This must be one more sneaky way of getting inside him, burrowing into him until he didn’t know what was his anymore. “Shut the f—”
“I’m sorry.” Her tiny hands trembled before she clutched them into a ball. “I’m sorry I hurt you when I made Melanie see you weren’t good together.”
“We were good together.” A steam of hate rose inside, filling his throat so his words sounded hoarse.
“No, you weren’t.” Cocoa eyes stared at him. Determined. And also filled with…
Affection.
The steam dissipated, sliding away into a fog of bewilderment. He no longer knew what he wanted to do or what he wanted to say. “I’m walking.”
“All right.” She scrunched her button nose as she eyed him. “Can I come with?”
The fragile hope in her tone made something, something he didn’t want inside him, perk to attention. He fought it, fought the need to comfort her and forgive her.
“Please?” The plea quavered at the end.
“Fine.” Swinging around, he stalked past her. “Come if you want.”
The sound of her shuffling sneakers came from behind him, adding to the turbulence still rolling inside. Within a few blocks, they turned off onto the avenue running by the Grand Palais. The art nouveau building, with its vaulted glass ceiling and ornate decoration, had been another one of his childhood inspirations.
Why did he have this compulsion to stroll past all his inspirations with Sophia?
Why?
“Are you going to tell me about that building?” She strode to his side to walk next to him, the white cotton shirt and black slacks she’d worn for the show highlighting the creamy rose of her skin and the roundness of her hips.
The inevitable lust, a lust he fought to ignore, thrummed through him. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
The simple words launched him into a long recital about the building’s history much to his astonishment. Why did this woman continue to pull so many things out of him he had no intention of sharing? Somewhere along the way, he found himself telling her about his childhood ambitions, his falling in love with buildings, and his father’s constant encouragement.
She glanced over at him. In her cocoa eyes, he saw warmth and kindness, even a touch of tenderness. “Your dad sounds wonderful.”
“Yeah.” A sudden clutch of echoed grief caught in his throat. “Yeah.”
“Tell me about him—”
“Here’s the bridge named after me,” he said, forcing a jaunty tone into his voice. He never talked about his dad. Not really. When his maman or a sister mentioned Phillippos Stravoudas, Alex would nod his head, murmur a vague response, and get out of the conversation. The pain of even thinking about his dad was always too brutal.
Her attention, just as he’d wanted, left the unwanted topic completely. “What?”
Waving at the lavishly decorated construction, with its gaudy golden trim, its four soaring pillars, its exuberant mix of cherubs and nymphs, he managed a bored look. “Merely something I designed in my spare time. In my honor, Paris decided to name the bridge after me.”
She shot him a surprised glance.
With one blink, she adjusted to his new mood.
Quick, keen Sophia.
The firecracker laughed. She’d rarely laughed in his presence and never with a complete abandonment. This time she did. Her head went back at the first chortle, her eyes closed tight at the second, and by the third, she had her hand pressed on her round stomach. But his focus zeroed in on her little bow mouth, wide open to show her pink tongue and white teeth.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
“Stop kidding,” she finally managed through another fi
t of chuckles.
“I wouldn’t kid about one of my designs.”
She eyed him. “Ha.”
Alex chuckled. Nothing much slipped past her, and unlike most others, she had an uncanny ability to spike right through his BS. Why did that make him sizzle with excitement?
Why?
“Come on.” Her arms crossed in front of her and one finger tapped in impatience on a plump arm. “Stop playing around.”
All of sudden, it hit him. Every one of the why answers tumbled inside him. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to show her everything about him. Every time he was around Sophia life sparkled into…life.
He stepped back.
The tapping stopped. A wary look crossed her face.
“The bridge’s real name is Pont Alexandre. But not because of me.”
Turning away from him and his frown, because yes, he realized he was frowning, she walked up to an ornate lamp, one of dozens lining the wide pathway running across the bridge. A copper lizard stared back at her.
“Cute.” The word was short and crisp. The taut line of her shoulders told him his frown had dampened her mood.
“My dad loved this bridge.” Why the hell had he raised a subject he never went near? The idiotic impulse couldn’t be to soften her voice, soften her attitude towards him.
“Really?” She glanced over her shoulder, her dark gaze alert, but still on guard.
“Oui.” Pretending everything was fine, when everything was not, he strolled to the railing and leaned over. The river rolled along, a muddy current swirling with secrets.
“Tell me about your dad.”
He kept staring at the water. “He died when I was seventeen.”
Four tourists passed, chatting happily away, a smattering of Italian and English. A horn blasted from the avenue behind them and someone yelled a curse word at the driver.
“That’s not telling me about him, Alex.” Her words were tough. And kind.
He twisted around to look at her. Once more she’d said his name and he realized no one had ever said his name quite like she did. A cool roll of a vowel at the beginning, almost a tease. Then a quick flick at the end, as if in dismissal. There was something in how she said his name that challenged him, made his blood zing. He wanted her to moan his name. He wanted her to whisper his name in the dark, in the sultry way he imagined only she could do. The lust rose inside, clawing through his anger and affection, making him feel as if he had suddenly come to a boil—
“Tell me about him.” One of her hands smoothed across the lizard. How could her hand be simultaneously so delicate yet strong?
A shudder went through him. He turned back to the water. And back to a subject he didn’t want to talk about, but felt compelled to lay out in front of her. “He was an immigrant. Very poor when he landed in America.”
“He didn’t stay poor, though.”
“No.” He forced a smile, stinging memories crowding in his brain. “That was important to him. To get ahead. To make his mark.”
“A need you inherited.”
“Yeah.” Throwing his head back, he stared into the blue sky. Something ugly churned inside. “I guess.”
“You loved him.”
A clutch of tears clogged his throat. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” She came closer, with a hesitant step. “Now tell me how he died.”
I killed him.
Alex swiveled around and took off across the bridge.
Chapter 13
If a man could be any more pompous and presumptuous than Sheikh Adel Bin Abbas Al Zhani, Sophie would like to know him.
Well, no, actually not.
“Mademoiselle Sophie.” The slick boy-man inclined toward her, invading her personal space. His dark hair gleamed with oil and the wisp of a beard on his chin made him look fifteen years old. Even though he’d been eager to inform her he’d turned all of twenty-one. “You are not eating the food correctly.”
Across the table, his father, Sheikh Abbas Bin Saeed Al Zhani, nodded slowly, his checkered headdress wafting across his hunched shoulders. The gray in his beard did nothing to lessen the sharpness of his gaze.
This was Alex’s potential client, not the boy-man sitting beside her.
However, it was clear by the look in the old man’s eyes, she needed to impress them both.
“You must let me show you how to eat our food in the right way.”
She felt stifled by the younger sheikh, surrounded. How and why this guy had picked her out for special attention, she had no idea. And yet he had.
Which was a problem.
Henry had been sweet and polite on the way to this dinner. He’d also been pointed. This was a traditional client. There were unspoken rules. Everything needed to go flawlessly.
Alex hadn’t said a word. Instead, he’d stared broodingly out the limo window.
Still, she got it. The third promise. Be the loving fiancée in front of the emir and his wife. Impress them with how strong of a union she had with Alex. Be the compliant, sweet, traditional woman she was so…not.
She’d girded herself before walking into the extravagant mansion. Managing not to show how appalled she was at the over-the-top decorations, she’d smiled and nodded at the wife of the emir and the other two wives of his associates. She’d allowed herself to be paraded around the parlor with Alex, greeting the dozens of attendants to the sheikh. She thought she had this in the bag until the son had swooped into the situation.
She hadn’t counted on a smarmy son.
“Now look at the food first.” His cloying command drifted very close to her ear.
Focusing on the stew, a blend of lamb, lentils, and cucumbers, she tried to ignore him without causing offense. She’d picked out a spoon as soon as the main course had been served because if her mouth was full, she wouldn’t have to keep responding to the boy-man. The guy who’d lunged to the chair next to her before anyone else could save her.
He’d given her a smug smirk as he’d sat.
The same smug smirk was on his face now.
“Okay. I looked.” Her temper bubbled, but she hid it behind another insipid smile.
He took a piece of flatbread out of the warmer in the middle of the long, mahogany dining table. An inlaid herringbone design ran along the edge of the table drawing a person’s attention to the fancy swags on the sides. The table shrieked wealth in a banshee sort of way. The table matched the rest of this monstrous house perched on the riverbank of the Seine. It also matched the flamboyance of the owner’s son.
Sophie kept a smile pinned to her face.
“In my homeland.” He edged his chair closer to hers and the overpowering smell of his cologne—heavy and pungent—filled her nose until she thought she might sneeze in his face. “We use bread to eat this particular stew.”
“Right.” She snatched the bread out of his skinny fingers and kept smiling. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“My pleasure.” He purred the last word and his eyes told her he meant something entirely different.
What a revolting boy.
Concentrating hard on the food, she stuffed a piece of meat into her mouth. She chewed while keeping her gaze pinned on the table.
Not getting enough attention, after a minute or two, he moved across to the other side of his chair and began a conversation with one of the many family sycophants. His father continued to stare at her from across the table as if he were analyzing a new species of worm. His wife, apparently satisfied with Sophie’s table manners, avoided any interaction.
She didn’t like this. Any of this. The situation felt wrong. All wrong. Her Irish radar buzzed like a chainsaw, telling her this was the biggest circle of jerkhood ever assembled. How could Alex contemplate doing business with these people? How could he want to spend time with a man whose son felt it was fine to come on to a potential partner’s fiancée?
Okay. Not quite a come on. But close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable.
She didn’t
like this mansion.
She didn’t like the emir and his entourage.
And she absolutely didn’t like the boy-king.
He’d arrived a full hour after the festivities had begun. In that hour, she had taken in the gilded gold statues, the green satin wallpaper, the garish antique furniture and realized it resembled a weird kind of ode to Western over-consumption. The place almost looked like a movie set. How oddly splendid a stage it was for the boy-sheikh. He’d acted like a ridiculous actor in a B-grade movie as he’d strutted into the room.
He literally wore a black cape. Like some sort of superhero.
A squeak of humor, one she’d managed to hold in during the last two hours of endless conversation, erupted from her mouth.
An answering cough came from the end of the long table.
Sophie glanced down, down, down the table to meet Alex’s blue eyes. They were blank. His face wore the same bland smile he’d had on since they climbed into the limo to Henry’s terse greeting. She couldn’t read anything on his face or in his gaze and yet, she knew. She knew exactly.
He was royally pissed off.
Maybe it was the tense way he held his shoulders inside the midnight blue of his tuxedo. Or was it the tight edge of his jaw? Perhaps it was the complete nothingness in his eyes that gave her the clue.
He was really, really angry.
At her?
She’d tried her best to cover for his silence amid the last few hours. Somehow and somewhere, the charming man who made everyone feel like a bright shining star in his orbit had disappeared. In his place stood a man who, while not quite sullen, was certainly no picnic to be with.
The emir had not been pleased.
So she’d bounced into action, laughing and smiling and generally being the life of this wretched party. Along with Henry, she’d managed to smooth over any awkwardness and by the time they’d sat down for this late dinner, things seemed to be going swimmingly.
Except for the boy-man. But she had that under control, for the most part.