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The pilot, who’d walked several feet away, turned to them. “Sir?”
“We are ready to leave,” Damian said, and he took Ivy’s elbow and all but lifted her into the helicopter.
They flew to Athens.
Even in her anger, Ivy felt a little thrill of excitement as they swooped over a stand of soaring white columns. She’d been to Athens before but it had been on business, four rushed days and nights of being photographed with no time for anything else except a hurried visit to the Parthenon.
Was that the Acropolis below them now? She wanted to ask but not if it meant speaking to Damian.
She didn’t have to. He leaned in close, put his lips to her ear and told her what was beneath them.
The whisper of his breath made her tremble. Why? How could she hate him and yet react this way to him? To any man? She knew what they were, what they wanted…
“I should have thought to ask,” he said. “Is the flight making you ill?”
Ivy pulled away. “Not the flight,” she said coldly, but he didn’t hear her, couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engine, and that was just as well.
His show of concern was just that. A show, nothing more. She was his captive and that was how he treated her and why in God’s name did she respond to his touch?
He must have had the same effect on Kay. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have given in to his demands. The bastard! Forcing Kay to do what he wanted, then turning his back on the situation he’d created once Kay was gone, unless…
Unless he really hadn’t known about the baby. Unless the story Kay had told her was—unless it was—
“Ivy.”
She looked up. Damian was standing over her; the helicopter had touched down. He reached for her seat belt. She ignored him, did it herself and walked to the door. Joe was already on the ground. He held up his arms and she let him help her down.
“Careful of the rotor wash,” he yelled.
And then Damian’s arm was around her waist and he led her to a long, black limousine.
“One for each city,” Ivy said briskly. “How nice to be a potentate.”
Damian looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Perhaps she had, she thought, as the limo sped away.
That time in Athens, doing a spread for In Vogue, Ivy had spent hours, exhausting hours, in Kolonaki Square.
The photographer had shot her against the famous column that stood in the square. Against the well-dressed crowd. Against the charming cafés and shops. The stylist had dressed her in haute couture from Dolce & Gabbana and Armani and elegant boutiques in this upscale neighborhood.
Now, Damian took her into those same boutiques to buy her clothes.
“I don’t need anything,” she told him coldly.
“Of course you do. That’s why I brought you here.”
“I have my own things, thank you very much.”
“Is that why your trousers don’t close?”
She blushed, looked down and saw only the slightly rounded contours of her gauzy shirt. Damian laughed softly.
“A good guess, neh?”
A clerk glided toward them. Damian took Ivy’s hand and explained they needed garments that were loose-fitting. Ivy said nothing. This was his show; she’d be damned if she’d help. So he cleared his throat, let go of her hand and, instead, curved his arm around her and drew her close.
“My lady is pregnant.”
There was an unmistakable ring of masculine pride in his voice. Ivy flashed him a cool look and wondered what would happen to all that macho arrogance if she added that she was pregnant, courtesy of a syringe.
