Changing Constantinou's Game

He turned back to the CDs and scanned the titles. “Any preference in music?”

“I listen to everything.”

“Classical?”

“Yes.” She smiled as he looked over at her. “My dad’s a music professor at Stanford. I was brought up listening to that stuff.”

“Did he make you play every instrument known to man?”

“Yes, until he discovered I had absolutely no artistic talent whatsoever.”

His lips curved. “He must have been crushed.”

“I hated it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to anything creative.”

Did that include the bedroom? he wondered. He wasn’t so caught up with creativity. But natural passion was a must.

Christós He forced his gaze back to the music in front of him. He really had to get his mind out of the gutter. Away from the fact that every time she swung those slim legs on that stool, he wondered what they would feel like wrapped around him. Whether she’d dig her heels into his back while he took her slow and deep and—

Whoa. He slapped the CD he was looking at back on the shelf and raked a hand through his hair. Had it been too long since he’d had a woman? Was that what this was all about? What had it been? Two, three months? He’d been so buried in the Blue Light Interactive deal he hadn’t had two seconds to even think about a woman, let alone bed one.

Or maybe it had just been three hours stuck in an elevator fighting an attraction that seemed to be growing by the minute?

He stared at the CDs. Spanish...he was going with Spanish. He grabbed a compilation of adagios and slid it into the player. The haunting strains of a lone guitar filled the room.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the classical guitar type,” she said as he walked back over to join her at the bar.

He aimed a reproving glance at her. “Stereotyping me, Isabel? You were questioning my reading taste earlier...”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re right. My mistake. You’re just a bit of a closed book, unlike me and my big mouth.”

He shrugged and picked up his drink. “You know the basics. I’m a native New Yorker, run my own company...”

“The details are overwhelming,” she said drily. “The accent is Greek?”

He nodded. “I was born in the US to Greek parents. But I spent my summers in the islands.”

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Boston College.”

“Why Boston when you had all those schools in New York?”

“Sports and their business program.” She didn’t need to know he’d gone on full scholarship. That as far as the university brass had been concerned, he’d been the closest thing to a savior their football program had ever seen.

“Ah, a typical male,” she teased. “The sports bug.”

“The natural order of things,” he agreed with a lazy smile, tilting his glass toward her. “Where did you go to school?”

“Columbia.”

“But you aren’t from New York.” He lifted a brow. “I can hear the faint traces of a Southern drawl.”

She shook her head. “California. Palo Alto. I moved to New York to go to school.”

“Are your family still out West?”

“Just my dad. My parents are separated. My mom lives in New York and my sister—” her lips curved “—well, she’s a nomad. She models all over the world. I never know what city I’m calling her in.”

He took a sip of his drink, feeling the smooth brandy burn its way down his throat. “How old were you when your parents separated?”

A rueful glint lit her eyes. “It’s kind of like the divorce that never happened.”

Sounded like hell to him. At least his mother had made up her mind and gotten out. He folded his arms and tucked his drink against his chest, resting his gaze on her face. “How so?”

She shrugged. “My mother’s an actress. Used to the bright lights and the big city. She was always leaving for shoots, for extended appearances in London in the theater...and eventually she just stopped coming home. I think she decided one day that we and Palo Alto just weren’t exciting enough for her.”

He frowned. “Would I know her?”

She hesitated, looked as if this was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Her name is Dayla St. James.”

A vague recollection of a dark-haired bombshell floated into his head. “Was she in a wartime movie? Played a woman whose husband never came back from the front?”

She nodded. “That’s her. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

“Kind of.” He studied her face. “You don’t look much like her.”

“So she likes to tell me.”

He drew his brows together. “I didn’t mean you aren’t beautiful, Isabel. Surely many men have told you that you are.”

Her gaze dropped to her brandy. She swirled it around the glass. “You don’t need to humor me. My mother is a gorgeous movie star...my sister is a glamorous international model. I get it. I’ve been living with it my whole life.”

He held his tongue and counted to five. Anything he said here could and would be used against him. He had three sisters. He knew how their minds worked. “You should have more confidence in yourself,” he said flatly. “You’re a beautiful girl.”

She pressed her lips shut. Stared at him.

His phone rang. Thank the Lord for small favors.

“Can you set the table while I take this?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Plates are in the cupboard beside the sink.”

His partner Mark’s cheerful voice boomed over the line. “Grace told me what happened. You okay, man? That must have been one hell of a ride.”

“This whole day’s been one hell of a ride.” Alex elbowed his way through the door to his study. “But yes, I’m fine.”

“Blue Light wasn’t good?”

He sank down on the corner of his desk. “Something happened between our last meeting and today. Bayne was backing off left, right and center.”