‘You’ve got to be joking, Nic!’
‘Keep your voice down! Just because you’ve been blinded by good sex and emotion—ah, sorry—I mean to say just because you’ve found everlasting bliss,’ he muttered, with no small amount of sarcasm, ‘it doesn’t mean I want to sign my own death warrant. A business marriage is perfect for me.’
‘You’re as jaded as I was. Heaven help you if you meet a woman strong enough to smash your kneecaps and drop you at her feet.’
‘If that ever happens, my friend, I’ll buy you a gold pig.’
Narciso shook his head. ‘Eloisa Goldsmith. You’re insane.’
‘What I am is late for a rendezvous.’ He downed the last of his drink as he bolted upright, the lock of his knees thrusting his chair backwards with an emphatic scrape.
‘Why would you even consider it? She’s a country mouse—you’ll be bored within a week.’
Exactly. He could never fall in love with her and he’d have a sweet, gentle, caring woman to be the mother of his children. As to the why—there was only one reason Nic would walk down the aisle at twenty-nine years old. The final goal in his grand slam.
Santos Diamonds.
The business phenomenon that had taken generations to build: his great-grandfather’s love affair, his avô’s pride and joy, the legacy Goldsmith would only gift to Nic along with his daughter’s hand.
He wasn’t enamoured of the idea, but he’d promised himself he’d consider it while he whisked up a vengeful hurricane for Zeus to flounder within. So consider it he would. If only for Avô to see Santos Diamonds back where it belonged. It was the least he could do for the old man.
‘I will be content. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with pleasure.’
The pleasure of the ultimate revenge.
* * *
PRIVATE. NO ENTRY.
Blood humming with a lethal combination of exhilaration and eagerness, Nic swiped his nifty keypad over the high-access security panel. While he’d loathed those early days in New York when he’d been lured to the streets of Brooklyn, he’d met some interesting if a smidgeon degenerate characters walking on the more dangerous side of life, who had always been willing to teach him a trick or two.
Still, his heart slammed about in his chest like a pinball machine until the fingerprint recognition flashed green and he was standing in Zeus’s inner sanctum.
Moroccan-style ironwork lanterns cast eerie shadows down the long corridor and painted the white stucco walls with a brassy wash. The floor was a continuation of the small intricate mosaic that ran through the hotel but here, in Zeus’s lair, the colours were richer—deep amber, bronze and heavy gold, as if gilded by Midas’s touch. And that touch had embellished every scrolled door handle, fingerplate and urn.
Arched double doors, elaborately carved, encompassed the entire wall at one end of the floor, and as he drew closer faint murmurs slithered beneath the gap like wisps of smoke unfurling to reach his ears. Someone having unpleasant dreams, if he guessed right. Definitely female.
Mistress? Wife? The man was reclusive and malevolent enough to hoard a harem as far as he knew.
Gingerly Nic curled his hand around the gold handle and smirked when the lever gave way under the pressure of his palm. This was just too easy.
Door closed behind him, he stifled a whistle at the vast expanse of opulence.
Ochre walls were punctuated with arched lattice screens, allowing the shimmering light of the ornate candelabra to spin from one room to another and dance over every gilt-edged surface almost provocatively. But it was the heady scent of incense that gave the atmosphere a distinctly sultry feel, heating his blood another few degrees and coaxing his eyes towards the bed.
Mosaic steps led up to a raised dais, at least eight feet square. The entire structure was shrouded by a tented canopy made with the finest gold silk—the weighty drapes closed on all four sides, with only a small gap at the bottom edge. Clearly an invitation to take a peek as far as he was concerned.
Nic slipped off his shoes by the door and stepped closer on sock-clad feet, his pulse thrumming with the devilry of being somewhere he shouldn’t and half hoping, half anxious that he’d be caught.
The sudden bolt of lightning that flashed through the room, followed by a sonorous crack of thunder didn’t help. His heart leapt to his throat.
Sumptuous cushions and layers upon layers of super-fine silk in white and gold embraced the still mound of a woman veiled by the caliginous shadows.
He watched, waiting to ensure she slept on, frowning at the odd sizzle of electricity that ran beneath his skin. If he were the suspicious sort who believed in Brazilian claptrap he’d think his ancestors were trying to tell him to get the hell out of here. As if.
Nic shook himself from the bizarre trance and skulked round the rest of the palatial suite, prowling between overstuffed sofas in a rich shade of cocoa, towering fern trees that plumed from barrel-wide bronze urns and the ritzy copper-toned spa tub raised on another dais in the bathing room.
The entire effect was stunning, but it had a homely feel—as if the guest was in fact the owner and he’d decided to give the sheikhs of the Middle East a run for their money.
Finally, in the farthest room, was the answer to his prayers. A wide leather-topped desk strewn with business files and paperwork.
Hope unfurled and he sniffed at the air tentatively, while anxiety curled its wicked tail around his ribcage. Not fear of being caught—more fear of never finding the truth. Never finding what he was looking for. Never coming eye to eye with Zeus himself. Or should he say Antonio Merisi.
Ah, yes, Antonio Merisi—aka Zeus. A name that had evaded him for years—as if trying to connect the god-like sacrosanct prominence of Zeus with a flesh and blood human capable of being destroyed was impossible. But Nic had friends in places both high and low, and anything was procurable for a price.
It had been a torturous exercise in patience to discover any other Merisi business interests apart from Q Virtus. Not an easy feat, considering they’d been buried in aliases, but he’d struck gold within weeks and found one or two to set the wheels in motion. Make dents in the man’s bank balance. Contaminate his reputation. See how he liked his empire destroyed. As long as Nic got to watch it crumble. To see the very man responsible for his parents’ death languish in hell.
Standing behind the desk, he hauled himself up from his pit of rage and resentment and fingered the portfolio at the top of towering pile.
Merpia Inc.
Merpia? The largest commodities trading house in the world.
Eros International.
That one he’d guessed, from the abundance of Greek mythological connotations surrounding the club and a brief mention of the Merisi name in the company portfolio. Consequently he’d plagued the stockmarket with rumours two weeks earlier.
Score one Carvalho.
Ophion—Greek shipping.
Rockman Oil.
Dios...
Multi-billion-pound ventures. Every single one of them. This man wasn’t wealthy— he was likely one of the richest men in the world, with millions scattered across a vast financial plain.
The dents Nic had made would be a drop in the ocean.
He battled with an insurgence of disheartenment until another file snagged his eye.
Carvalho?
His hand shot out...then froze when a sharp voice splintered his rage.
‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Hands up, back away from the table, then do not move a muscle or I’ll blow your brains out.’
Busted. Just when things were getting interesting. Still, his lips twisted ruefully at the sound of a husky, sultry feminine voice.
Nic flicked his hands in the air with a high school level of flippancy to lighten the mood and twisted his torso to spin around.
‘Now, now, querida, let’s not fight—’
The practised snick of the safety catch on a revolver made him rethink. Fast. It was a sound that reson
ated through his brain and threw him back thirteen years. Even his back stiffened, as if he were waiting for the echo of a bullet to penetrate his spine. Rob him of the dreams of his youth. End life as he knew it.
‘Stay right where you are. I did not give you permission to move.’
A shiver glanced over his flesh at the cool, dominant tone, as if he’d been physically frisked not just verbally spanked.
‘As you wish,’ he said, taking his voice down an octave or three and coating it in sin. ‘Though I’d much rather conduct this meeting face to face. More so if you are as beautiful as your voice.’
Maybe it was her barely audible huff or maybe it was the impatient tap of a stiletto heel on wood but Nic would swear she’d just rolled her eyes.
‘Who are you and how did you get into my suite?’
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. Was he actually being controlled by a woman?
Shifting on his feet, he made to swivel. ‘I’m turning around so we can have this conversation like two adul—’
A sharp sound like a whip cracking rent the air and Nic’s jaw dropped as he married the sound of a silenced bullet with the precise hole in the oil painting of a wolf about three feet from his head.
How ironic. Lobisomem. Portuguese for werewolf. His Q Virtus moniker.
Omen? He damned well hoped not.
The smell of the gunpowder residue curled through his sinuses and the past seemed to collide with the present, making his stomach clench on a nauseating pang. Sweat trickled down his spine and he had to surreptitiously clear the thickness from his throat just to speak.
‘Crack shot, querida.’ Question was, why wouldn’t she let him turn, look at her?
‘The best, I assure you. Now, tell me I have your undivided attention and that you will behave.’
Nic had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to win this argument. And that voice... Dios, she could read him passages from the most profoundly boring literature in the world and he’d still get sweaty and hard at the sound of her licking those consonants and vowels past her lips.
‘I will be on my best behaviour. Scout’s honour.’
Not that he’d ever been one. At the suggestion his mother had arched one perfectly plucked, disgusted brow, told him the idea was simply not to be endured and that she’d rather take him to the country club to play poker.
How he’d loved that woman.
Ignoring the misery dragging at his heart, he strived for joviality. ‘Though if it’s co-operation you’re looking for, I’ll be far more amenable without a gun trained on my head by an expert marksman.’
‘Trouble must follow you if you’re familiar with the sounds of a loaded gun. Why does that not surprise me?’
‘Guess I’m just that kind of guy.’
‘A thief? A criminal? Insane?’
Dios! Why was everyone calling him insane today?
‘Misjudged was more the word I was thinking of. Or maybe I’m simply enigmatic, like your lover. Or is he your boss?’
‘My...boss?’ she replied, with a haughty edge that said no man would ever lord it over her.
He almost rolled his eyes then. ‘Okay, then, your lover.’
That earned him a disgruntled snicker.
‘Think again. And while you’re at it who are you talking about? Who is my boss supposed to be? Who are you looking for?’
‘Zeus, of course—who else?’
The room hushed into a cacophony of silence; the lack of sound so loud his ears rang. No doubt a pin dropping would have detonated in an explosion of sound.
Nic pounced on the lull—he’d always liked creating a big bang. ‘I have a meeting with him here. Tonight. So if you’d like to run along and get him I’d be greatly appreciative.’
A stunned pause gave way to a burst of incredulous laughter. The kind that was infectious. It was rusty—as if she didn’t get much practice—but it was out there, all smoky and sultry, and it filled him with a scorching hot kind of pleasure.
Who the devil was she?
‘A meeting, you say? I think not. And I believe you are toying with the wrong woman, stranger. So forgive me if I just run along and leave you with some friends of mine.’
From nowhere three hulks had three guns trained on various parts of his anatomy and he fought the violent urge to cup his crotch. Because 1) despite evidence to the contrary he was of high intellect, and 2) despite their tailored Savile Row attire their eyes were dull from a hard life and the inevitable slide into madness.
Splendid.
For pity’s sake, why guns? Why not knives? He hated guns!
‘Ah, come now, querida, this is hardly fair. Three against one?’
‘I wish you the best of luck. If you survive we will meet again.’
He’d always been a lover, not a fighter. Still, living on the streets had taught him more than how to break a lock—which was just as well because he was nowhere near done with this night or this woman.
Copyright © 2014 by Victoria Parker
ISBN: 978-1-472-04293-4
CHANGING CONSTANTINOU’S GAME
© 2014 Jennifer Hayward
Published in Great Britain 2014
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
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