The Millionaires' Cinderellas: Playing the Greek's Game / The Forbidden Innocent / Too Proud to be Bought

They had reached the thirty-second floor and Emma stepped out, noting the general air of luxury which immediately surrounded her—the gleaming hardwood floors on which lay priceless silk rugs. The walls were hung with original art and most of it was very impressive and she found herself wondering what the Pembroke’s nightly rate was.

‘Is my room on this floor?’ she asked.

‘It is. It’s right here.’ He pushed open the door to her suite. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll come by and pick you up for dinner.’

Emma forced a smile. ‘I think I’d rather order from room service, if it’s all the same with you.’

‘I disagree—that’s the worst way of coping with jet lag. You’ll fall asleep and be wide awake in the middle of the night,’ he demurred with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘And besides, there are things we need to discuss.’

‘Things?’ She stared at him. ‘What kind of things?’

He met the startled greenness of her eyes and once again felt the unwanted punch of desire. ‘It’s no great mystery. You’re here to work, Emma—and so far I haven’t told you what you’ll be doing. We’ll eat downstairs in the restaurant and I’ll brief you. I’ll pick you up in an hour.’

‘An hour and a half,’ she amended stubbornly.

‘Done.’

He turned and walked away, leaving Emma resisting the desire to watch him. Instead, she went into her room and closed the door behind her, her attention immediately caught by the enormous glass windows.

The view was distracting—a jumble of light-spangled skyscrapers, which together formed the instantly recognisable skyline of New York. It was beautiful, she thought—even if it did bring back some uncomfortable memories and even if she was slightly too tired to appreciate it.

She forced herself to unpack, knowing that if she did it now, it would mean she wouldn’t awake to an even bigger chore of badly crumpled clothes. She put her shoes in the wardrobe and her underwear in the walnut drawers and went through to the bathroom to shower, feeling all the travel grime being washed away beneath the warm jets. Afterwards, she brushed her wet hair and pulled on an irresistibly fluffy white bathrobe, thinking that she’d just have a cup of coffee to wake herself up before getting dressed.

She clicked on the machine, turned down the air conditioning and then sat down on the huge bed where giant, squashy pillows were jostling for space. What was the collective term for pillows? she wondered dreamily. A pile of pillows, or a heap of pillows? Laying her head down on one of them, she heard the hypnotic gurgle of the coffee machine as her eyelashes drifted to an irresistible close.

Odd sounds began to penetrate her dream. She heard the rattle of a trolley, which made her think she was still on the aircraft, and then some sort of muffled thumping. And the next thing she knew was a hand on her arms, pushing against the fluffy towelling robe, and she fluttered open her eyes to see Zak standing over her, his face dark with an odd kind of tension.

For a moment neither of them spoke—their gazes locking and holding as if time and place had been suspended, leaving them shut in their own private universe. Her heart thundering, she stared up at him with a sudden longing—aware of his proximity and the mesmerising tang of sandalwood. Aware too that she was completely naked beneath the robe and that her breasts had started to tingle in response to his narrow-eyed scrutiny.

‘What is it?’ she mumbled from between dry lips.

Zak watched as a tiny pink tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Unbelievably beautiful. ‘I couldn’t wake you,’ he accused thickly.

It occurred to her that he could have phoned her—but she didn’t say so because his hand was still on her arm and, shamefully, she didn’t want him to remove it. Was that because she was still half asleep and therefore disorientated—or was the real reason that she liked him touching her? That she was enjoying the sensation of his fingers pressing through the robe and into her skin.

‘Well, you’ve woken me now,’ she said, stifling a yawn.

Reluctantly pulling his hand away, he walked over to the window. Staring hard at a view he usually took for granted, he tried to focus on the brilliant gleam of the skyscrapers’ lights instead of the soft accessibility of her body beneath the voluminous robe. But it was damned near impossible. All he could think of was the translucent quality of her skin and the vulnerability she’d exuded when she’d been asleep. And then she had woken and those pale green eyes had slitted open at him in lazy question, just like in his forbidden fantasy—and he cursed himself for forgetting two vital facts.

She was not his kind of woman!

More important still, she was his brother’s woman!

There was no way he could deny the powerful sexual chemistry which had sizzled between them right from the start—and Zak was far too experienced to pretend it hadn’t happened. That it wasn’t happening how. And didn’t that justify what he was doing by bringing her here to New York? If she could put out like this for her lover’s brother—then wasn’t Nat better off without her?

‘I’ll be waiting downstairs in the restaurant,’ he gritted out. ‘Be there in fifteen minutes.’

Emma sat up as he walked straight past the bed without another look in her direction but she could feel the sudden disapproval radiating from his powerful body. What was his problem? Was he angry because he’d just been looking at her as if he’d like to eat her?

And wasn’t her problem that she’d wanted him to?

Getting off a bed which now felt contaminated, Emma scrambled to find some underwear, guilt washing over her as she clipped on a lacy black bra—acknowledging the heavy aching in her tender breasts. Because wasn’t the pitiful truth of it that she had wanted Zak Constantinides in a way she’d never wanted anyone else? She bit her lip in horrified remorse. Not even her own husband!

He must have felt the powerful vibes which had shimmered between them—because you’d need to be made of stone to ignore them. He already thought that she was a sexually voracious gold-digger—so wouldn’t her behaviour only reinforce his poor opinion of her?

She needed to pull herself together and she needed to grow a little backbone. She wasn’t just some puppet which he could manipulate at will. Hadn’t she worked hard at the Granchester—hard enough to establish herself as an interior designer who was respected by others in the business? She’d done all that with determination, hard work and very little in the way of formal training. So was she prepared to let all that crumble away, simply because her body was reacting in a way she didn’t want towards a man she didn’t like?

No, she was not.

And she would start by sending out the subliminal but very clear message that she was not out to entice him.

She had the kind of looks which she could dress up or down—and tonight was definitely a night for fading into the background. She picked out a pair of black velvet trousers and teamed them with a floaty white shirt. Her hair had acquired a slight kink from where she’d slept on it while it was still damp—so she brushed it and then wove it into a loose bun, which sat on the back of her neck. Make-up she deliberately resisted and a dangly pair of shell earrings was her only adornment. After all—wasn’t ‘casual’ the new black?

But the moment she walked into the restaurant she realised that she was woefully underdressed. Or rather, overdressed. She’d never seen so much flesh on show and every other woman in the room was all buffed and honed and highlighted with the sparkle of jewels.

Emma kept her head high as she gave Zak’s name to a rather bemused-looking waiter and as he led her towards the Greek’s table she was acutely aware of being watched. She’d forgotten what it was like to be judged by your companion. To have people look you up and down and form an opinion about you when they didn’t even know you.

Her stomach was in knots as Zak rose to greet her and she saw that his gaze was hooded. She thought she sensed disapproval as he looked at her—and, although she’d chosen her outfit with just that result in mind, there was a very feminine part of her which cringed beneath his critical scrutiny.

‘You look like you’re just off to a rock festival,’ he commented acidly.

She surveyed the pristine elegance of his dark suit. ‘And you look like you’re about to perform some hostile boardroom bid.’

For a moment his lips almost curved into a smile, until he reminded himself that he was not here to be amused by her. Maybe it was a good thing that she looked as if she was about to start lighting incense, or sit cross-legged on the floor before starting to meditate. He sat back as the waiter handed her a glossy menu. ‘How about I order to save time? The steak here is very good.’

Emma gave a polite smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but I don’t eat meat.’

‘You don’t eat meat?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which part of my original statement needed clarification, Mr Constantinides?’

He stared at her critically. ‘No wonder you’re so damned pale.’

‘You should try it some time—less meat in the diet is supposed to mean less aggression.’

At this he did laugh. ‘A real man eats meat, Emma.’

There was something about his primitive boast which made her feel quite peculiar and Emma quickly looked down at the very limited vegetarian section of the menu. Did he really think he could come out with all that macho ‘real men eat meat’ stuff and get away with it? Yes, he did—and the horrifying reality was that he could. She suspected he could do pretty well anything he put his mind to, especially where women were concerned. She remembered the way she’d found him looking at her when he’d shaken her awake. That compelling hunger she’d surprised in his eyes. And hadn’t that look made her feel a corresponding rush of desire, which had made her feel as if she were melting beneath his gaze?

Suddenly, Emma felt a trickle of fear sliding down her spine because she suspected that Zak Constantinides knew perfectly well the extent of his power over women. And the very last thing she needed was for him to discover that he had awoken a strange and nebulous need in her.

‘And you’re really going to have to lose the “Mr Constantinides” tag,’ he mused.

‘I would have thought that my constant reinforcement of your superior status would have bolstered your ego.’

‘I don’t need anything to bolster my ego,’ he said softly. ‘So do you think you could try saying “Zak”?’

She snapped the menu shut and looked up. ‘I’ll have the aubergine lasagne and side salad, please…. Zak.’