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He had shown her his true self and yet, it felt as if he was the one who had been burned.
* * *
“Good night, Stefan,” Clio whispered, her throat aching, her gut churning in panic.
What had she done? Oh, God, what had she done? How could she have not seen what her enraged, impulsive declaration would turn him into?
Without casting another glance at him, she walked away, her head held high.
* * *
For the first time in a decade, Stefan felt the landscape of his life slip from his fingers and all because of a woman. Again.
The only way he knew to protect Clio and himself from this was to set rules, to remove her from his mind, to wipe and forget the taste of her from his thoughts and definitely decouple her from his lust.
To set expectations that neither of them could falter over. Crushing the overwhelming urge to kiss the hurt away from her mouth, he walked into his office and turned on the huge plasma screens mounted over the far wall.
Walking into the closet, he stripped and dressed in his workout shorts. Cranked up the rowing machine he’d had specially installed in his study and went to work on it.
He was not only seething against the course he had set tonight, but he had sexual frustration added to the mix.
Just the cranking of the machine and the burn of his thigh and arm muscles went a long way toward calming him down.
The news would already be spreading, he knew.
The fact that he—the quintessential third bachelor among the Columbia Four—was finally getting married, and in just a week, so soon after Rocco’s and Christian’s fairy-tale weddings, would unleash a storm he couldn’t contain.
A picture of him and Clio entering the Chatsfield tonight, immediately followed by a shot of them from a decade ago, lounging on the steps of University Hall at Columbia with wide smiles on their faces, flashed on the screen.
Not everyone trusts a corporation with a predatory playboy at its helm, he had heard his board bemoan more than once when he had questioned why they hadn’t made a particular deal.
An evening of being an affianced man—and to Clio—had already changed the business world’s perception of him. And stealing Clio from Jackson, as the media was calling it, meant that the focus stayed on his business and him.
It worked for his business and his brand to have a wife, and Clio at that, who was sophisticated and levelheaded and, more important, had no expectations of him. Even if she had, he had made sure he had destroyed them tonight.
It worked every which way he looked at it except for his heart.
Hearing the phrase “Reunited College Sweethearts” stuck in his craw. He was the last man who should have a fairy-tale love story come true line attached to his name. He was the last man Clio should have come to for help, he acknowledged now with bitter resignation.
Because, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t change himself now. The poison Serena had brought into his life had infused his very blood.
All he cared about now was destroying Jackson and keeping himself and Clio intact until the end of this marriage.
* * *
“If you want to leave all this behind, leave Stefan behind,” Zayed whispered in her ear even as he amiably tucked her bare arm along his under the watchful, hawk-like gaze of Stefan at the end of the vast hall on the other side, “then all you have to do is say so, Clio. I shall signal Rocco and a limousine will appear outside the hotel in a matter of seconds. In a few hours, you can be in Milan, or Hong Kong, or even Gazbiyaa if you don’t mind the stark and beautiful desert land of a country on the brink of war.”
Blinking, Clio tore her gaze away from Stefan’s olive green one. The Chatsfield glittered, and the hungry hush of designer-clad guests, a power list of New York’s Who’s Who, reached her in stifling waves.
They were all here to witness her union with one of the most sought-after bachelors in the world. Reminding herself to smile like a woman madly in love, she pasted a smile and turned toward Zayed.
And caught the scowl on her fiancé’s face in the infinitesimal moment before she turned.
They were standing at the entrance to the Terrace Room, as it was called, just beyond the French doors of the courtyard of the Chatsfield, a room steeped in history and charm.
The room boasted some of the most impressive historical detailing, created in the spirit of the Italian Renaissance. Exquisite crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the vast room in a golden glow.
Swallowing at the hard knot in her throat, she clutched Zayed’s fingers tightly and he returned the pressure. “I thought your loyalty would be to Stefan, Your Highness.”
