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“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-expected her 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.
Even her relationship with his father didn’t seem to impact the desire he personally felt for her, which was a troubling development. Not ever, in his entire life, had he imagined he’d be lusting after the same woman his father had bedded.
The sooner he got this squared away, the better.
She crossed the street as though it were a stage and she a prima ballerina, so his eyes were glued to her against his will. As she drew near, he stepped out of the car, willing himself to ignore the fierce explosion of need that was already turning him hard.
“Phoebe.” He greeted with a cool dip of his head. “I’m glad you came.”
“I wasn’t aware I had much of a choice.”
“Nonetheless, this is better than the alternative.”
“Which is?” She challenged, her dark hair caught up in a bun high on her head, with pretty little tendrils escaping down either side of her neck.
“Carrying you kicking and screaming over my shoulder like a recalcitrant child.”
Her lips parted, so delectably, pillowy soft and sweet. He couldn’t help but stare at them. “You wouldn’t dare.” Her tongue darted out, licking the outline of her mouth. Did she have any idea what that small gesture was doing to him?
“Want to bet?”
