Bride by Day

by Rebecca Winters

  She started to tell him he couldn’t park in the zone marked for trucks making deliveries, then realized it was pointless. A man like Mr. Kostopoulos wrote his own rules.

  By the time she was freed from the confines of the car, he’d removed her collage from the trunk and had preceded her to the front doors of the building.

  Once inside the outer lobby, she punched in the code which gave access to the elevator entrance. Already she was feeling claustrophobic.

  Taking a deep breath she said, “It won’t be necessary for you to come all the way up. If you’ll give me a number where you can be reached, I’ll call you the second I’ve finished.”

  The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside. His dark eyes swept over her once more. “I’m already in the neighborhood. There’s no point in my leaving until I get what I came for.”

  At that remark, they rode the rest of the way to the seventh floor in silence. He followed at her heel until they came to her apartment three doors down the hall.

  Before she could bring herself to unlock it, she turned to him, slightly out of breath. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited in your car.”

  His brows furrowed. “If you’re worried what your lover will think, I’ll be happy to explain why your privacy is being invaded.”

  Heat swarmed her cheeks. “There isn’t enough room for me, let alone anyone else.”

  He gave a negligent shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Then I don’t see the problem. My childhood was spent in a room not much larger than a closet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She clenched her teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not ready for company?”

  “I’m not company,” he retorted with maddening non chalance. “Come. Give me the key.”

  In the next instance he’d removed it from her rigid fingers and had opened the door, signaling that she should precede him.

  That brief contact of skin against skin sent a quickening through her body she’d never experienced before. The sensation electrified her, confusing her on too many levels.

  “Where shall I put this so you can get started?”

  The bland question indicated that he hadn’t been fazed by the brush of their fingers. She berated herself for reacting so foolishly, and marched over to the card table where she whisked away some orange peels, the visible remains of a breakfast hastily swallowed earlier that day.

  Without apology she muttered, “You can put it down here.”

  Of necessity, he had to follow in her footsteps, stepping over not only her hair dryer, but the spray-stained newspaper still spread on the floor.

  Last night she’d given her project a final protective coating, but because of the inclement weather, her apartment had felt more humid than usual. She was so afraid the collage wouldn’t dry out, she’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to speed the process by using her hair dryer.

  “I’ll look for my hammer and chisel.”

  Along with most of her other art supplies, she’d put the tools from her sculpture class in the tiny linen cupboard next to the bathroom. But since her sophomore year, she’d stored a lot of dyes and acrylics there, as well. It took some doing to find what she needed, and she ended up putting everything on the floor to be cleaned up later.

  When she returned to the living room-cum-kitchen with her tools and put them on the card table, she found Mr. Kostopoulos perched on the arm of the couch studying the latest tablecloth she’d created. It was one to which she’d applied a hot wax design, then dyed, before draping across her secondhand couch to dry out.

  With nowhere to pace in her postage stamp dwelling, he’d had little alternative but to plant himself there, unless he’d wanted to remain standing.

  Suddenly she saw something clasped in his left hand. To her horror it turned out to be her rolling pin which she used for everything under the sun except cooking.

  For the first time since meeting him, she thought she detected a tiny flicker of mirth in the black recesses of his eyes. He held up the well-worn kitchen utensil whose roller contained so many dents it resembled the surface of the moon. “I presume you keep this handy in case of intruders.”

  She blinked. Until he’d mentioned it, she hadn’t thought of using her rolling pin as a weapon. “What a wonderful idea!”

  Her spontaneity must have amused him because his lips twitched ever so slightly, a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

  “Actually, I used it to create my collage.”

  In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”

  “You want me to explain?”

  “Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”

  His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.

  In another aside he added, “I’m fascinated to discover how this instrument contributed to the final product.”

  Did he even like the final product? He still hadn’t said a word about it.

  “If you really want to know, I’ll demonstrate.”

  Without meeting his penetrating gaze, she took the rolling pin from his hand, then tore off a corner of the newspaper lying on the floor.

  She could sense his body next to hers as she wadded the paper in her palm, then cleared a glass and some cutlery from her minuscule counter so she’d have room to work. Placing the little wad in the center, she began pressing it down with the roller. She ran over it this way, then that.

  “You have to do this about ten times until you achieve the desired crinkled effect. I did this to every piece of paper in the collage so that each one resembled an old man’s weathered face. Then I opened the paper and applied a hair spray meant to add lighter streaks to dull blond hair. Every tiny crease captured the glaze, gilding it, producing an all-over effect not unlike faience, a kind of fine porcelain with thousands of weblike lines.

  “After the piece dried, I cupped it in my palm, shaping it to resemble people or the Greek motif on the outside of your building. Then I curled the ends under, and dipped them in wallpaper paste before working the treated paper into the collage.

  “As you can see—” Her eyes darted to the canvas propped on the card table. “The spray enhanced every color, but more importantly, the overall impression should convince the viewer that he’s looking at a collage made of the most translucent bone china.” After a slight pause, “At least, it’s supposed to create that effect.”

  “Rest assured you achieved your goal. In fact, you achieved a great deal more than that,” came the cryptic comment. As he said the words, his dark gaze trapped her astonished one, sending a strange thrill of sensation chasing across her skin.

  Unused to the hairs standing on the back of her neck, she rushed over to the card table to begin her task.

  Out of the periphery, she watched him approach her only folding chair and examine the half dozen remnants of upholstery cloth she’d hand woven before he fingered various fishnet chains she’d designed. They were hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.

  While he was thus engrossed, she laid the canvas flat on the tabletop. Using her hip for leverage, she positioned it against the wall. Carefully she placed the edge of the chisel at the base of the window in the collage and started to tap the handle with the hammer.

  But she hadn’t counted on the card table jiggling under the pressure.

  It caused the canvas to slide, which in turn sent the sharp end of the chisel into the fleshy portion of her palm. Unknowingly she cried out as blood gushed all over her artwork.

  She had no idea anyone of Mr. Kostopoulos’s size could move as fast as he did. In a lightning gesture he’d pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and had grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding.

  Oblivious to the pain, her heart began to thud from the close proximity of their bodies. She heard him mutter another unrepeatable epithet. “The wound is too deep to close by itself. You’re going to need stitches and a tetanus shot.�
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  “I’ll be all right,” she murmured breathily. For some reason, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. She had to fight the urge to cling to him and draw from his strength. “I don’t have any insurance and can’t afford a visit to the doctor.”

  “You think I’d let you pay when I was the one who forced the issue?” His scathing tone left her in little doubt he was taking full responsibility. “We’re leaving for my doctor now.”

  “But my collage! I’ve got to get the blood off it.”

  No sooner had she spoken those words than he relinquished his hold of her hand and took her canvas to the sink to run cold water over the soiled portion. Within seconds it looked like new again. In a deft movement, he propped it on the card table, much the same way she’d done the night before.

  Immediately his concerned gaze flicked to her injured hand where she pressed the handkerchief to apply pressure.

  “It’s to your credit that you had the foresight to spray the collage with a protective sealer. Otherwise the water would have permeated the paper and ruined your unique masterpiece. Now that we’ve erased that worry, we can go.”

  His compliment, albeit grudgingly given, filled her with such warmth, she went along without protest.

  Unbelievably, she found herself back in his car where a new, strange silence prevailed. He seemed to be in a world all his own. For that matter, so was she. The events of the last few hours had left her bemused and shaken.

  As soon as they merged with the traffic, he managed to get her to a private clinic in record time.

  Of course the receptionist knew him on sight, and though there were still some patients in the waiting area, one word from him and Sam was rushed into the first available examining room.

  Apparently Dr. Strike was a compatriot of her abductor. The second the attractive, dark-haired man breezed inside, his face broke out in a broad smile. “Perseus!” he called to Mr. Kostopoulos, and they began conversing in Greek like longtime friends.

  Sam sat there in stunned surprise. The image of the god Hades faded from her mind as she remembered her favorite story from Greek mythology.

  The strong, handsome Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae, rejected by his mother’s abductor, the cunning King Polydectes, set out to prove he could do anything, even free his mother, and eventually brought home not only the head of Medusa to turn the king and his courtiers to stone, but acquired a wife in the form of the beautiful Andromeda whom he rescued from the sea monster.

  It may have been a coincidence, but to a large degree, Mr. Kostopoulos’s life appeared to have paralleled that of the mythical Perseus. As today’s world viewed him, Perseus Kostopoulos was a presence to reckon with. Even Sam had attributed him with godlike characteristics the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.

  Were there more similarities? Was he on a quest of some kind? Was there still a woman to be rescued whom he’d make his own?

  For an unknown reason, those fanciful thoughts were very disturbing to Sam who could wish she were that special woman he’d been roaming the world to find.

  Realizing what dangerous channels her thoughts were drifting into, she made a determined effort to concentrate on the doctor’s instructions as he put in three stitches, bound her hand with gauze and gave her a tetanus shot. All the while he spoke, she felt his speculative gaze.

  Naturally he was trying to work out why someone of Perseus Kostopoulos’s stature would be in the company of an insignificant college student like herself.

  Though too discreet to be obvious, Sam sensed the doctor’s curiosity which, oddly enough, her companion hadn’t satisfied. Apparently he wished to keep the particulars of their association to himself.

  As soon as she thanked Dr. Strike for fitting her in so fast, she felt Perseus’s hand at her elbow to usher her out of the clinic. Already he’d taken on the persona of the strong and brave Greek god in her mind, and she no longer thought of him as Mr. Kostopoulos.

  With a sense of déjà vu they returned to her apartment where he submitted her to more toe-curling scrutiny. “While you obey doctor’s orders and keep your hand elevated, I’ll fix you something to drink and get to work.”

  Actually, she felt too weak to argue with him. Deep inside she knew her injury played only a minor part in what was really ailing her, but she’d rather die than allow him to discern the truth—that his presence was wreaking havoc with her emotions.

  As an unfamiliar lethargy depleted her energy, she removed the tablecloth from the couch and sank down in one corner, content to watch him for a change. In a few hours she’d have to report to her night job and didn’t know how she was going to make it to the front door, let alone walk the eight blocks in the warm May drizzle.

  “There’s some tea in the cupboard over the stove.”

  As if he were used to this, he shed his suit jacket and tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and boiled some water. Through half-closed eyes she watched him maneuver in the tiny space, obviously no stranger to mundane tasks when necessity dictated.

  Though he dwarfed her apartment, she had to admit she liked his solid male presence, and didn’t mind the invasion as much as she’d supposed.

  Despite their cajolings, no other man had ever made it past her front door. Perseus, on the other hand, had simply removed the key from her trembling fingers and taken over her apartment and her life. And you let him Sam, because you couldn’t help yourself. You still can’t...

  Her head fell back against the couch. She had to admit that for a little while it felt good to be waited on. So good, in fact, she almost forgot the reason for his unexpected entry into her life. That is until he handed her a cup of hot tea before going to work on her collage.

  He seemed to know exactly what he was about. When he bent over to dislodge the note with her tools, she noticed the play of muscle across his shoulders, the strength of his rugged physique. If she were into drawing human figures, he’d make a perfect model in all his raw, male splendor.

  Once more upset at the direction of her uncontrollable thoughts, she drank her tea thirstily. He’d made it strong, and had added more sugar than she generally used. Her mouth curved upward. Greeks had a noted penchant for sweets. She guessed he was no exception.

  “I’ve worked it loose,” his deep voice announced with satisfaction. “What’s the next step?”

  Totally engrossed in thoughts of his likes and dislikes, she didn’t realize until too late that he’d caught her staring at him. This time prickly heat washed over her entire body, even to the roots of her abundant gold hair.

  Quickly averting her eyes she murmured, “I intended to use a solvent to loosen the paste and soften the paper enough to open it. Just a moment and I’ll get it.”

  “Tell me where it is and I’ll find it.”

  The authority in his tone warned her that if she tried to get up, he’d use his daunting physical strength to prevent her from leaving the couch.

  Faced with the knowledge that he’d have to get into her bedroom closet to locate the solvent, she didn’t know which alternative was the most unpalatable. Especially considering that her more intimate apparel and nightware hung from hooks on the door.

  Of course a woman’s underclothing would hold no mystery for a man like Perseus Kostopoulos, but it wouldn’t be just any woman’s undergarments practically hitting him in the face. They would be hers.

  Perhaps most women didn’t care, but she’d never grown up with a father or brothers. Since her morals prevented her from having an intimate relationship with a man outside of marriage, she’d been very selective about the men she had allowed in her life.

  To date she’d only had one semiserious boyfriend. When he found out she expected marriage before going to bed with him, he accused her of being an outdated prude, and he moved on to someone else. That was just fine with her. She preferred her solitary existence, and hadn’t counted on an unknown entity like Perseus knocking the foundations out from under her.

  “Why the hesitation?” he
mocked, seemingly as amused by her reticence as he was irritated.

  She closed her eyes in defeat and lay back against the cushion with her hand propped upright. “I-it’s in a box on the closet floor in the bedroom.”

  He’d disappeared before she had the courage to open them again. Several minutes passed by with no sign of him. When he didn’t come back out, she started to grow nervous and got off the couch to investigate.

  Revived by the tea, she didn’t feel as unsteady as before and hurriedly made her way to the bedroom.

  “The box is in plain—” But the rest of the words never came out of her mouth. He had virtually emptied the contents of her closet. Not the stuff on the shelves or floor, but everything on hangers, mainly samples of fabrics she’d been designing since her early teens.

  In .actuality, the contents bore more resemblance to the materials of an upholstery department in a furniture store than they did a woman’s wardrobe. The few ancient skirts and blouses she possessed had been shoved into one corner.

  He’d laid out the large samples across her unmade twin bed. Some were woven, others were hand-painted or stenciled. He didn’t even bother to lift his head to acknowledge her presence, let alone apologize for the liberty he’d taken.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked in that low, vibrant voice she’d be able to recognize out of a thousand others.

  “I made them.”

  His dark head reared back, and he sent her a piercing glance she couldn’t decipher. “If that’s true, then you have a touch of genius in you.”

  “You think?” Her words came out more like a squeak.

  “You mean you don’t know?” He actually sounded angry.

  Inordinately pleased by the compliment, she forgot to be mad and smiled at him. For Perseus Kostopoulos, a known art lover and head of one of the world’s most prestigious textile companies, to give her such an unsolicited accolade, gave her hope that she wasn’t wasting her time completely.