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“It’ll take me one second to phone for the police and tell them there’s an intruder in my home. Is that what you want?”
“You’re the one who won’t want the police involved in this, Your Highness.”
His gray eyes focused on hers. “Because?”
Now, Ivy thought, and took a steadying breath.
“My name is Ivy.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.
“Ivy Madison,” she added, as if that would make the difference.
He didn’t even blink. He was either a damned good actor or—A tingle of alarm danced over her skin.
“You are—you are Damian Aristedes?”
He smiled thinly. “A little late to ask but yes, that’s who I am.”
“Then—then surely, you recognize my name…”
“I do not.”
“I’m Kay’s sister. Her stepsister.”
That got a reaction. His eyes turned cold. He let go of her wrist, or maybe it made more sense to say he dropped it. She half expected him to wipe his hand on his trousers. Instead he stepped back.
“Here to pay a condolence call three months late?”
“I’d have thought you’d have been the one to call me.”
He laughed, although the sound he made had no mirth to it.
“Now, why in hell would I do that? For starters, I never knew Kay had a sister.” He paused. “That is, if you really are her sister.”
“What are you talking about? Certainly I’m her sister. And, of course you know about me.”
The woman who claimed to be Kay’s sister spoke with authority. Not that Damian believed she really was who she claimed to be.
At the very least she was up to no good. Why approach him this way instead of phoning or e-mailing? What the hell was going on here?
Only one way to find out, Damian thought, and reached for his cell phone, lying on the marble-topped table beside the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling your bluff. You won’t answer my questions? Fine. You can tell your story to the cops.”
“You’d better think twice before you pick up that phone, Mr. Aristedes.”
His intruder had started out full of conviction, like a poker player sure of a winning hand, but that had changed. Her voice had gone from strong to shaken; those green eyes—so green he wondered if she were wearing contact lenses—had gone wide.
A scam, he thought coldly. She was trying to set him up for something. The only question was, what?
“Prince,” he said, surprising himself with the use of his title. Generally he asked people to call him by his first or last name, not by his honorific, but if it took royal arrogance to shake his intruder’s self-control, he’d use it. “It’s Prince Damian. And I’ll give you one second to start talking. How did you get up here?”
“You mean, how did I bypass the lobby stormtroopers?”
She was trying to regain control. Damned if he’d let it happen. Damian put down the phone, angled toward her and invaded her space again so that she not only stepped back, she stepped into the corner.
