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“That’s not the way I see it.”
“Yeah, well, you must be looking at something completely different to me then.” She paused, gathering her senses. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—,”
He reached out, curling his fingers around her wrist, so a thousand arrows of need shattered her equilibrium.
“Someone’s been speaking to the tabloids about you and my father. The story’s going to run.”
She stared at him in a state of total disorientation. Nothing about what he’d just said made any kind of sense. “There isnostory,” she denied hotly. “I’ve told you a thousand times, we were just friends.”
Anger sparked in the depths of his eyes but he didn’t argue with her. “I’ve managed to get them to hold off on running it—for now. But they’re going to contact you for a quote. It won’t be long.”
She stared at him, all the colour and warmth draining from her face. “I can’t believe it. How—why—it’s not true.”
His skepticism was clear. “How? Someone called a paparazzi photographer. Why? Money, Phoebe. As you well know, it’s a powerful motivator. In fact, I hear you might even be interested in supplementing the story, for the right price.”
It was all too much. She saw red, a haze of mist in front of her eyes, and then, she felt nausea rising inside of her like a tidal wave, so she gripped the empty seat across from him until her fingers hurt. “I—,” Indignant anger fired her but so too did grief and confusion and hurt. “This is unbelievable. It’s not true.”
“Even if that were so, it wouldn’t matter. Tabloids make their bread and butter from speculation. You and my father met regularly for at least the last eighteen months of his life. There is even talk of a lovechild.”
She gasped, lifting a hand to her mouth. “That’s not possible. I’m—,” but she clammed up, before revealing the truth of her sexual experience—or lack thereof—to this man. “You’ve seen where I live,” she amended. “Where could I possibly hide a baby?”
“That did occur to me. However, true or not, the paper will run the story unless you do exactly what I say.”
She groaned, pressing a palm to her forehead then looking around, as if only just remembering where she was. “I have to work,” she whispered, trying to resume an ordinary stance, pulling at her arm as if only just realizing his hand was still clamped around her wrist. He let her go and she felt immediately cold, right to the center of her being.
“I cannot allow the story to run.”
“Then stop it,” she pleaded. “Not for me, but for your father. He loved your mother very much, Anastasios. He would hate this. It’s not fair.”
His eyes narrowed. “Very little in life is fair, Phoebe.”
As if anyone needed to tell her that. She tilted her chin at a defiant angle. “You have to stop it.”
“I intend to, but my plan hinges on you doing exactly as I say.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Meet me this evening to discuss it.”
She wanted to decline. To tell him to go to hell. But love for Konstantinos had her hesitating.
“I wasn’t in a romantic relationship with your father,” she said firmly, unwilling to say or do anything that might seem like a concession on that score. “But I agree, any hint of gossip has to be managed.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
She stared at him. “I can meet you somewhere.”
His look was mocking. “As I said, the only way to avert this is if you do everything I say. Understood?”
* * *
He’d half-expectedher not to show, so was relieved when, just before eight, Phoebe emerged onto the landing of the little townhouse she was renting modest rooms in. A shadow appeared at the window behind her and Phoebe turned, offered a small wave, then looked up and down the street.
He watched her for a moment, trying to reconcile the cacophony of feelings that were exploding through him. Anger, for the role she’d played in his father’s infidelity, frustration for the fact a paper had gotten hold of the story and also, worst of all, desire. He’d been with enough women to recognize the sensation that gripped him tightly, and yet, this was different. Even in the throes of passion, Anastasios was always in control. Seduction was a game to him, a game that he played within defined rules, and always, always played to win.
Phoebe changed the rules.
She changed everything.
