Changing Constantinou's Game

by Jennifer Hayward

  Kill me now. Except he’d asked for this. Some strange, demented part of him needed to see that she had the self-confidence to be with him.

  Her hands slid to the zipper of her skirt. She undid it and pushed it down over her hips. Her curves in the almost-there underwear were pure perfection, the dark shadow of her feminine curls drawing his eye. He ached to bury himself in her. Now.

  Any semblance of self-control vanished. “You can let me know when I’m allowed to put my hands on you,” he rasped, his body so hard it was painful. “I’m thoroughly convinced.”

  She arched a brow at him. “That quick?”

  “That quick,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  She stepped back, giving him a considering look. “I’m not sure I’m done.”

  He took two steps forward, sank his hands into her waist and slung her over his shoulder. “I am.”

  The bedroom had been his destination, but his aching body had him diverting to the flat surface of the pool table. He set her down on the edge, stepped between her legs and took her mouth in a kiss that told her this would be no slow seduction. Tonight he needed to take her hard and fast. To exorcise the demons raging in his head.

  She moved against him, her low whimper as she wrapped her legs around him and ground the hard ridge of his arousal against her setting his blood on fire. “I can’t make this slow tonight,” he groaned, burying his face in her throat.

  “I don’t want it slow,” she gasped, clutching his hair. He pressed his mouth to the racing pulse at the base of her throat. Spread her silky thighs with his hand and sought out her slick, wet heat. Her low moan as he sank his middle finger into her almost undid him. When he was sure she was ready, he stepped back, tore at his clothes with his hands. His belt, the button on his pants, his zipper; he didn’t stop until he’d freed his rock-hard erection and ripped off the barely there wisps of lace covering her hips. The sight of her wet, glistening flesh as she parted her legs to him was the biggest turn-on he’d ever experienced.

  He moved forward, brushed the pulsing, aching length of him against her. She dug her fingers into his forearms. “Please, I need—”

  “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes, her gaze locking onto his. He reached down and took her hips in his hands, filling her with a thrust that made her gasp and clamp her eyes shut. He paused while her tight body adjusted to him. And when she relaxed, pleaded for more in a desperate, husky voice that made him crazy, he began to move in deep, cathartic strokes that drove everything from his mind but how right it always was with this woman. How easily she made him forget everything but being with her.

  The sound of their lovemaking filled the air—the slick push and pull of him sliding into her, the soft little moans she made at the back of her throat when she took him deep, the sound of his raspy breath rapidly losing control...

  But still he held back, afraid to unleash that last part of him that took him into the darkness. Afraid of what might happen if he totally lost control.

  “Alex,” Izzie murmured, watching him. Reading him. “It’s okay...please—I want you so much.”

  His low curse rang out on the night air as he drove into her harder, faster, rougher than he’d ever taken a woman, a primitive part of him reveling in the pain of her fingernails as they dug into the hard flesh of his shoulders. He felt her body tighten around him, clench at him. He slid his fingers under her hips and took more of her weight, arched her higher against him, taking their lovemaking even deeper until he lost himself somewhere along the way. Izzie cried out and convulsed around him, the intense spasms of her body sending him over the edge along with her.

  The red-hot pleasure that flashed through him as he came almost brought him to his knees. He held her there, wrapped around him, until his legs felt steady enough to carry her to bed. Then he turned out the lights and they slept.

  For the first time in a week he did not dream. There were no sweat-drenched nightmares of the night everything had ended. Sweet, sweet Izzie wrapped around him was like an angel sent to rescue him from a place he could no longer go.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  COULD YOUR LIFE actually be this perfect?

  Izzie balanced her latte on her knee while James made mincemeat of the entertainment reporter in their morning editorial meeting. And contemplated the question. She was a front-runner for an anchor job currently being hashed out by the execs, she was starting to deal with her insecurities on a fundamental level and she had the man of her dreams at her side to help her do it.

  A tiny smile curved her lips. Perhaps it was possible. Maybe Alex was right. Maybe all you had to do was believe it could be different.

  She picked up her pen and started doodling as James droned on. It helped to know why Alex was who he was. The demons that haunted him... She knew where she had to bend. When she had to be strong. It was never going to be easy to be with a man like Alex whom everyone wanted a piece of. But she was getting there.

  James lit into another reporter, working his way through the room like a raging bull. Izzie put her head down and focused on her doodles. Even her relationship with her mother was showing signs of life. They’d had dinner and coffee a couple of times without actually wanting to tear each other’s hair out. And somehow, deep down, it felt as if this time her mother was actually trying. That she wanted to be a part of her life.

  She sketched a big question mark on her pad. Opening herself up so completely was life affirming, but it was also terrifying. Because she knew realistically, her mother and Alex could walk away tomorrow and there was nothing she could do about it.

  It was a risk she had to take.

  “Can someone please give me some uplifting news?” James’s sarcastically drawled entreaty brought her head up.

  “I’ll have a rough cut of the Constantinou story ready for you this afternoon,” Bart Forsyth piped up. “Right on time.”

  “A half a day late,” her boss ripped back. “How’s it going?”

  Bart shrugged. “Pretty much ready to go. Messer’s refused to do a follow-up interview now that he knows we’re positioning Isaacs as the guy behind Behemoth. So I’m just polishing it off.” He flicked a glance at Izzie. “Did you forget to give me some of your notes?”

  She froze, her heart skipping a beat.

  “I can’t find anything on his Boston College days,” Bart continued, frowning. “I thought you said you had that stuff.”

  Her breath came out in a long whoosh. “Let me check. Maybe I missed something.”

  James wrapped the meeting up. She was halfway out of her chair when he waved her to a halt. “Give me a minute.”

  Damn. She hugged her notebook to her chest while the others fled the room. Her heart started to pound. She hadn’t done anything to earn a one-on-one berating, had she? Except bury crucial information.

  Her boss hitched his thigh onto the end of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I need you to anchor the news tonight. Gillian’s sick.”

  Her stomach dropped. Anchoring on the weekend was one thing. Anchoring the nightly news, home to multimillions of viewers, was entirely another. “Of course,” she made herself respond calmly. “I’d love to.”

  “It’s good timing,” he nodded. “The execs are going to make their decision any day. One more chance for you to make an impression.”

  She forced a bright smile to her lips. “Absolutely.”

  He went off to unleash his fury on the rest of the staff. Izzie ran clammy palms over her skirt and took a deep breath. She could do this. A bigger audience didn’t change anything. And that tricky political panel Gillian hosted every Wednesday night? Maybe they’d have Chris, Gillian’s coanchor, do it.

  She went back to her desk, dug the notes out for Bart and handed the folder over. Tried to work. But the words blurred on her computer screen and her brain kept bouncing forward to tonight. Focus. Channel it.

  Another ten minutes went by and she hadn’t read a word. She called Alex. He picked up o
n the third ring, his voice distracted. “What’s up?”

  She pushed her pencil against her cheek. “You sound busy.”

  “I’m about to go into a meeting. You okay?”

  “Yes, I just—” She stopped as she heard voices in the background. Someone call Alex’s name. “It’s no biggie. You go. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay. Look, Iz...” His voice softened. “Jess is having a really rough day and she’s asked me for some advice. I’m going to have a drink with her after work, make sure she’s okay, then I’ll meet you back at the penthouse.”

  Jealousy clawed at her insides. Weighted down the phone line. “Fine,” she said slowly, keeping her voice neutral. “I’m going to be late anyway.”

  He signed off. She put the phone down and pushed her hands through her hair. Focus on the things you can control, Iz. Like tonight.

  * * *

  When Izzie stepped onto the set that night, her mind was not in the right place. She was jittery, edgy and not on her game. By the time she hosted the political panel on the mayoral race, she was thoroughly shaken by her performance. So was the producer. He started prepping her with cues in her earpiece, but the panel tore her apart, her distraction too great to keep on top of the verbal zings ripping back and forth. They went to break and the producer tried to talk her through it. But it was as if her brain were frozen with fear. As if she were navigating a dark tunnel and couldn’t find her way out.

  When the red recording light on the camera flicked off, so did what was left of her composure. She unclipped her mic, murmured a robotic thanks to her cohost and walked off the set.

  Somehow she found her way to her desk, grabbed her purse and stumbled outside before anyone could approach her. Sucked in the cool night air. She hadn’t just been bad. She’d been a complete disaster.

  She rode the subway home to her apartment. It felt too small, too claustrophobic after Alex’s penthouse, so she yanked on sweats and sneakers and went outside for a run. Her footsteps hit the pavement with a rhythmical thump, thump that normally calmed her immediately. Not tonight. She ran down the side streets toward the park as if the devil were on her heels. And thought how amazing it was that life went on as usual when it felt as though yours was falling apart.

  Through the park she ran, until her knees threatened to buckle. When she got back to her street, her steps slowed to a walk to cool off. She saw a male figure sitting on the front steps of her brownstone. Alex.

  “Your boss is worried about you,” he said grimly when she stopped in front of him.

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket. Three missed calls. “I’ll text him. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  He lifted a brow. Banked anger glimmered in his eyes. “I was waiting for you at home.”

  The hot tears she’d been fighting her entire run slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  He muttered an oath, stood and gathered her in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured into her hair. “One bad performance isn’t going to kill you.”

  “This one will.”

  He shook his head. “No one judges you on one performance. You’ll do it again. Kill it next time.”

  “I am not you,” she yelled at him, pulling out of his arms with a panicked rage. “I do not thrive on game day. I choke, Alex. I choked. There is no way they’re giving me another chance.”

  He frowned. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.” She swiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s done.”

  His expression softened. “Go get your stuff. We’ll talk at my place.”

  She stood there staring at him, wanting desperately to run into his arms and have him make everything right. But she was afraid to want him that much. To need him that much.

  She lifted her chin. “I think I should stay here tonight.”

  “Why?” His response was low and shot through with challenge.

  She looked away. “I just think it’s a good idea given everything that’s happened tonight.”

  Antagonism flared in his eyes. “You think something happened between Jess and me?”

  “No...” She shook her head, but his penetrating gaze read her uncertainty.

  “Christós, Izzie.” He clenched his hands by his sides. “I was home worried sick about you, terrified something might have happened, when it finally occurred to me you might be here. I drive over here like a maniac, putting the lives of myself and others in danger, you’re not here, and I’m dying.” Fury shimmered in his eyes. “So don’t act like you don’t trust me when I’m obviously crazy about you.”

  Her heart slammed against her chest. Crazy about her? “I’m not doubting you,” she summoned haltingly. “I just—”

  “Exactly,” he muttered. “You just are.”

  “Can you not see what she’s doing?” she burst out. “She keeps asking for your help because she wants you back.”

  “And you need to trust me. That’s what relationships are all about, Iz. Trusting the person you’re with.”

  She locked her gaze with his. “Tell me she doesn’t want you back, Alex.”

  Ruddy color dusted his cheekbones. “I’ve told you she means nothing to me anymore.”

  “Then tell her to find another shoulder to cry on,” Izzie challenged.

  “Because you can’t handle it? I thought we’d been through this. You need to grow up.”

  She gave him a belligerent look. “Maybe you do, too, because that woman is only interested in one thing. You.”

  A thunderous cloud fell over his face. “You’re just about succeeding, you know that, Iz?”

  She arched a brow at him. “Succeeding in what?”

  “Pushing me away.” He took a step toward her, picked her up and stalked to his car.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded in a voice this side of shrill.

  “Watching over you so you don’t self-destruct,” he muttered, tossing her in the car and demanding her keys. “Call your boss,” he ordered. Then he marched up to her apartment, retrieved her purse and computer, slid back into the car, and drove her to his place.

  Brushing aside her usual request to walk the twenty flights up to his penthouse with a roll of his eyes, he hustled her into the elevator. She sat numbly on the sofa while he made her an omelet, forced her to eat it, then put her under a hot shower. When she’d taken up second residence there, he ordered her out and to bed. She went willingly because her head was pounding, her body spent, and all she wanted to do was pretend this day had never happened.

  Alex brought his laptop to bed and tucked her against his side while he worked. She burrowed into him, desperate for his warmth, for his ability to make everything better.

  “I backslid badly today,” she murmured. “I know it.”

  He brushed her hair away from her face, his expression softening. “I’ll cut you some slack tonight.”

  “You’re really crazy about me?”

  His mouth tilted. “Unfortunately since I don’t think you’re going to make this easy on me, yes.”

  She curved her hand around his thigh. He gave her a wary look. “You need sleep, Iz.”

  “I need you,” she corrected huskily, closing her fingers over the thick, hard length of him.

  “Iz...”

  She slid her hand inside his boxers and found his velvet heat. He ditched the laptop then. Flipped her over and started to explore her bare skin from the top down. “Does this feel like my interest is anywhere but right here?” he demanded, imprinting her with his considerable male assets.

  “No,” she gasped. But she let him prove it in a no-holds-barred exhibition of how he could make her forget her name. Down, down she went into the maelstrom that was Alex. Handed over that last piece of her heart she’d been holding back because if he wanted her like this, in her worst train-wreck moment of all time, she was already long, long gone. Had been, she feared, from that first night in London.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALEX LEFT AT 5:30 a.m. to fly
to Seattle after making her promise not to do anything rash. To think this through and talk to James before she drew any conclusions. She made the promise, slunk back into bed and slept for another couple of hours. Then she stumbled into Alex’s big, bright walk-in steam shower and thought about putting her life back together.

  She was obeying the eye-opening prompt of the eucalyptus body wash he favored when the bottle dropped from her fingers.

  The notes.

  Scenes from the night before flashed through her head. Her removing the Taylor Johnson transcript from Alex’s file before handing it to Bart Forsyth. The scan through she’d done to make sure all other evidence of the illegal painkillers was removed. Her stomach lurched. What she had forgotten was the original set of notes from her interview with Taylor tucked in the front pocket.

  She’d given Bart the evidence on the drugs.

  Oh my God.

  She fled the shower, threw on her pants from the night before and a spare shirt she kept in Alex’s closet, then cabbed it to the station. It was quiet at eight-thirty, with only a few reporters at their desks. A frantic, covert search of Bart’s desk for the folder was unsuccessful. She sat down at her own, rested her head in her shaking hands and drew in deep breaths. Bart either had the file at home with him, which meant he might have read it last night, or he’d locked it in his drawer.

  Either way, she was in trouble. Her guts churned in sickening recognition of how much trouble. Everything, her job, Alex’s reputation, was on the line if those interview notes were discovered. How could she have done it? Sure, she’d been stressed, but this was inconceivable.

  She sat there, frozen to the spot, pretending to work until Bart came in an hour later. He gave her his usual whack on the shoulder and went off whistling to the kitchen to get his coffee. She rose and flew to his desk. There on the top was the blue folder. Heart slamming in her chest, she flicked it open, grabbed the notes and committed the most unrecoverable sin of her career. She hurried back to her desk and buried them in her purse for destruction at a later date. And hoped, prayed fate was on her side. Bart hadn’t said anything about the notes, and surely he would have if he’d read such explosive testimony?