Changing Constantinou's Game

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_aaae667e-3b26-5c48-9199-49a8e2ba4928)

LEANDROS ALEXIOS CONSTANTINOU, Alex to all who knew him, stood on the terrace of his Canary Wharf penthouse at sunset, drinking in the spectacular light that blazed a golden path across the Thames. It never failed to take his breath away, this 270-degree panoramic vista of the city skyline and the river. Especially on a night like this, one of those warm, sultry summer evenings in London that made you think you’d be nuts to live anywhere else.

Worth every penny of the £2.5 million he’d paid for it, the peace and relaxation it brought him at the end of a fourteen-hour workday was usually foolproof. But not tonight. Not when all hell was breaking loose with his company back in New York, he was 3,500 miles away and his partner was an engineering genius, not a business brain. Not when a woman he was undoubtedly attracted to was showering in his guest room. The type of woman he’d vowed he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole after Jess had walked out on him.

He stared at the sky as its deep burnt-gold hue darkened into an exotic orange, then pink, streaks of color floating across the darkening horizon. He was more thrown by that free fall that could have plunged him and Izzie into oblivion than he’d care to admit. He supposed he wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t. But he didn’t like where it was sending his mind. The uncharacteristic, impulsive things it was making him do. Like bringing a chaotic bundle of nerves named Isabel Peters home with him.

Truthfully, though, he hadn’t had much choice. It was his fault she’d hit her head. He couldn’t let her stay alone in a hotel room—not after losing his former teammate Cash as he had. And without a nurse to look after her, responsibility fell squarely in his lap.

Speaking of which... He turned and cocked his head toward the open windows. Izzie had been in that shower forever. All he needed was for her to collapse and drown. She’d certainly been pale enough.

Hell. He strode inside, stopped outside the bedroom he’d put her in and opened the door. “Are you okay in there?” he yelled.

“I’m good,” she called back over the sound of running water. “Getting out now.”

He shut the door, firmly, as his head went directly to an image of her naked and slippery under his hands, foam highlighting those curves.

He went back outside and switched on the lights. A whisper-soft breeze picked up as he walked to the edge of the terrace and rested his forearms on the top of the concrete wall. At least she was keeping his mind off Taylor Bayne, who’d taken his European expansion plans and dismantled them with a flick of his Rolex-clad wrist this morning.

Christós. His gut twisted in a discomforting reminder of that disaster of a boardroom this morning at Blue Light Interactive. He’d known something was up the minute he’d shaken the normally gregarious CEO’s hand and the other man had studiously avoided his gaze. Waved him to the massive dark-stained table, where the fractures in the deal had started to appear, one by one. All of a sudden things that hadn’t been issues before became major sticking points and Bayne was backpedaling faster than a quarterback who’d run out of room.

He let out a string of curses. What had made Bayne do a complete 180 like that? And how had he misread him so badly? For a man whose life had been a series of carefully orchestrated steps to take him where he was going, it was disconcerting to say the least. For Alex, there were no missteps. No deviations. No distractions. Only the master plan.

When he was six, growing up in sports-obsessed New York City, he’d decided he was going to be a famous football player. Never mind his father’s plans for him to take over C-Star Shipping as the family’s only male heir. For Alex it had only ever been about football. From the first time he’d held that piece of rawhide in his hands playing in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, he’d known it was the only thing he ever wanted to do.

A successful high school career and a brilliant Hail Mary pass to win his college team a national championship made his dream of playing professional football a reality. He got an offer from a New York team. Had been touted as the next big thing. That was when his father had hit the roof...this “hobby” of Alex’s had to stop. It was time for him to be a man and join the ranks of tough, brilliant Constantinou businessmen.

His hands tightened around the railing, the dusky, early-evening sky transforming into the dark Boston bar where his father had sat him down with a bottle of whiskey and hell in his eyes. Tonight they were going to hash this out, he’d told Alex. Didn’t he realize the shame he was bringing on the Constantinou name by abandoning his birthright for a frivolous career like American football?

Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of the bottle hitting the worn wooden table was indelibly imprinted in his head. The bitter taste of the whiskey he’d never liked lingered in his mouth even now. His father’s harsh, nicotine-stained voice as he brushed aside Alex’s quietly issued plea. You’ve achieved your dream. Let me go after mine. Hristo’s reply, sharp as a knife. Sign that contract, Alexios, and you are no longer a part of this family.

His heart contracted, his knuckles shining white against the concrete barrier. He’d been so hurt, so angry, he’d signed the three-year contract the next day. And true to his word, his father had disowned him—had never come to another game.

He’d played incredibly well—become a superstar. He’d made an insane amount of money. But he’d never earned his father’s respect. And then, on one fateful evening, in the third year of his career, it had all been taken away from him. He’d had to learn what it was like to be a survivor. To hit rock bottom, claw his way out and start all over again.

Sophoros had been the result of that single-minded determination. Alongside his best buddy from college, brilliant software programmer Mark Isaacs, he’d built America’s most successful computer gaming company.

His mouth tightened, his fingers flexing around the concrete. It would be over his dead body that he’d watch Sophoros fail because of a greedy, lazy, half-talented former employee out for a free ride.

He stared up at the night sky, Venus making her first sparkling appearance. Calling to him like a signpost. No deviations. No distractions. He should be thinking about the mess that was waiting for him back in New York. Figuring out his game plan. Not worrying about what the hell Isabel Peters was still doing in the shower when she’d said ten minutes ago she was getting out.

“Alex—this is unbelievable!”

He turned around to find Isabel standing barefoot behind him, wearing the dress of his sister’s he’d found in the spare bedroom.

His first reaction was that his sister didn’t look like that in that dress. His second was that he was a dead man.

Still far too pale, her dark hair and eyes shone in the early evening light, set off by the cappuccino-colored dress. She’d put her hair up in a ponytail, her face bare of makeup except for a berry-colored gloss on her lips. Innocent. Harmless enough. The dress that hugged every inch of her curvy figure, emphasizing high breasts, a narrow waist and gently rounded hips, was not. She had the kind of body that made a man want to put his hands all over her, he thought distractedly. In no particular order.

Her blush as he raised his gaze to hers wasn’t something he’d seen on a woman in a long time. “I think I might be a size bigger than your sister.”

Deciding there was no appropriate response to that question he could verbalize, he cleared his throat and kept his eyes firmly focused on her face. “You’re white as a ghost.”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I feel much better after the shower.”

“You need a stiff drink.” Theos, he needed a stiff drink.

She followed him inside, perching herself on a stool at the solid mahogany bar while he searched for and found a bottle of brandy.

“Wow. This place is fabulous.”

He turned around and studied her. It was an observation. An appreciation of the luxury they were standing in rather than the typical “I want this place to be mine” expression he’d seen on the faces of the few women he’d brought up here.

“Thanks,” he nodded, uncorking the bottle and pouring an inch in one glass and double in the other. He handed her the smaller one. “It was a good investment given the London real estate market.”

She wrapped her fingers around the crystal tumbler, their slim grace and perfectly manicured nails drawing his eye. “Alex— I—” She stopped, looking hesitant. “I don’t know how to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me today.”

“Don’t.” He screwed the lid back on the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “It was nothing.”

“It was,” she insisted, those big brown eyes of hers sweeping hesitantly over him as he turned back to her. “I think I would have completely lost it if it wasn’t for you.”

He shrugged. “Phobias are powerful things.”

“Still,” she said, lifting her chin and holding his gaze. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He nodded toward her glass. “Drink up. The brandy will help.”

She took a sip. Made a face. “Must be an acquired taste.”

He shot her an amused look. “Are you calling me old, Isabel?”

Twin dots of pink stained her cheeks. “Hardly. You’re what...thirty?”

“Thirty-two. And you?”

“Twenty-five.” She lifted her shoulders in an attempt at a sophisticated shrug. “Seven years...that’s not so much of a difference.”

“You’d be surprised what you can pack into those seven years,” he said drily. He sat his drink on the bar and walked to the shelf of CDs in the living room. “I’ve ordered some dinner from the restaurant downstairs. I thought we could have it on the terrace.”

“I’d love that. The view’s amazing.”

“Then I’m putting you to bed.” Unfortunately not his.

“I’m so wired I’m not sure I can sleep.”

He turned to face her. She seemed incredibly vulnerable sitting there, a restless energy emanating from her he found mirrored in himself. It had been one hell of a day. “The brandy and a good meal will solve that. You’re probably running on adrenaline now.”

“I think I am.”