A Perfect Wife: International Billionaires V: The Greeks (3 page)

T
he bed was
soft and warm.

She should have left as soon as she handed the phone back to Mrs. Marvos yesterday morning. A phone she’d found impossible to refuse when she’d seen the tears in the housekeeper’s eyes. The old lady on the other end of the connection spoke no English and yet, one word came through clearly: Natalie.

Natalie, Natalie, Natalie,
she’d crooned in her elderly voice.

Natalie Zenos, that was.

Natalie Globenko hadn’t been able to say no to the housekeeper, nor the lovely old lady in Greece. She also hadn’t been able to force herself to leave this gorgeous house even though she’d had more than enough time.

Yesterday, after lunch. Or later in the afternoon. Or surely last evening.

The downy coverlet cuddled around her body, the faint scent of cedar and lime encircling her.

A hiding place, a safe place.

Her only place.

A place she was going to have to leave as soon as the sun rose.

She’d been holding her breath since the moment she’d said good-bye to his grandmother. The conversation had been mostly Greek chatter, none of which she understood. Several times, she’d tried to hand the phone back to a beaming Mrs. Marvos with no success. As she’d listened to the arrogant jerk’s grandmother, her brain told her one thing, her heart another.

Your time in safety is over,
her brain whispered.

Your revenge on an arrogant jerk is going to hurt innocent people
, her heart accused.

As soon as she’d been able to hand the phone over, she’d been filled with a strange numbness. Maybe holding one’s breath for an entire day did that to a person. Deep down, though, she’d known what the numbness covered.

Guilt. Tons and tons of guilt. Hours and hours of guilt.

There’d been the long time sitting in the library waiting for someone, anyone to come in and condemn her as a fraud. Then there’d been the excruciating dinner with Mrs. Marvos fluttering around her, clucking because she didn’t eat. Finally, she’d admitted defeat while she stared blankly at the movie screen in the state-of-the-art home theatre located in the brownstone’s basement.

She was going to have to leave immediately.

Zenos was going to hear about the call from someone.

Far more importantly, however, she couldn’t live with herself for what she’d done to a welcoming housekeeper here in New York City and a family in Greece who was rejoicing about a pretender.

Restless, Natalie rolled over and stared grimly at the ticking antique clock on the wall. Her time had run out. She’d endured yesterday, but every one of the baubles in Tuckermarket wasn’t enough for her to suffer another everlasting day of guilt nor the endless night of sleepless worry she’d experienced.

The night that was almost over.

She stared at the clock. The one she’d been looking at every other minute. All night long.

5:16

5:17

5:18

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A few more moments, a few more minutes of safety. Soon she would pack her bags and leave. Into danger. Into nowhere to go. Into pure panic. A slice of fear, brilliant and bold, sucked her breath from her lungs.

No money. No place. No hope.

Don’t think about it right now
.

For now, she would relish this last taste of safety, of luxury. Nat snuggled deeper into the bed, trying to lull herself to sleep. It was going to be nearly impossible to leave this beautiful place. Not only because of what she faced outside the brownstone’s doors, but because she’d quickly fallen in love with the home itself. The extensive library. The fully-equipped gym. The sunken tub filled with hot bubbly water.

How the other half lived.

She’d never had a taste for the luxury lifestyle. Her father’s antics had been enough to put her off of any need or desire to run the rat race for fame and fortune. But these last nine days had been wonderful.

Certainly compared to the hell she’d confronted as the other option.

The whole bluff had been remarkably easy. Fantastical, honestly. Figuring she had nothing left to lose, she’d gathered her luggage at Grand Central, put on her best dress, brushed out her hair, applied some lipstick, and hailed a cab. A hysterical gaiety had filled her as she drove up to the imposing brownstone. She’d been sure this wouldn’t fly. Sure she’d spent the last of her money on certain rejection.

She’d been wrong.

Mrs. Marvos had answered the door and instantly enveloped her in a hug. A long hug intermixed with a flurry of Greek. After much exclamation and waving of hands, Natalie had been ushered into her home.

Her pretend husband’s home.

The faint sound of a slamming door wafted under her bedroom door.

Nat frowned. Who could be awake at this time of the morning? The housekeeper never appeared from her living quarters in the back of the house before eight a.m. The only other staff were the two women who came in to clean every other day. They wouldn’t be here this early, though.

Wait. Mrs. Marvos had mentioned something yesterday; the butler was due back this morning from his vacation. He must have arrived much earlier than expected.

A butler. Truly, it was unbelievable how the other half lived.

You really should get going and leave. Now
.

She ignored the internal suggestion.

Instead, she nestled back into her downy shelter. A couple more hours. She’d be gone before the friendly housekeeper awoke. No way did she want to try and explain where she was going. Not when she hadn’t put a toe out of the door in the entire nine days she’d been here. Which had made Mrs. Marvos extremely happy because she had more time to pamper her.

Natalie had been astonished by the easy acceptance.

Until she’d been shown the elaborately framed portrait.

The photo her pretend husband kept on his desk for the staff to see. A picture of a woman with long blonde hair gazing at a lake, the setting sun behind her. The light cast the woman’s face in shadows; the hair drifted around her face, shielding any details.

The housekeeper had gasped and exclaimed over the photo. How Mr. Zenos loved to gaze at the picture. How he placed it in this place of prominence. How much he loved her.

Nat snorted. “Right,” she muttered into her pillow.

Okay, the guilt was there. Yet there was also pleasure. She’d snuck into the jerk’s house, pulled one on him, created some turmoil in his future. How provident she’d left her hair down when she’d arrived at his house. Hair she usually stuffed under a hat or braided into a ponytail. Hair her mother had loved and raved about, so she kept it in her honor. Still, it constantly caused her endless grief, endless hours of trying to curb the curls, the frizz, the length.

The hair had been a godsend this time, however.

How lucky could a girl get?

Another factor working on her behalf was the housekeeper’s blatant desire to finally meet the Mrs. of the man she served. Her commitment to the Zenos clan came out during countless conversations. Her ties to the family. Her love for the grand and glorious god who was Aetos Zenos. Her pleasure at the marriage. Her disappointment at never seeing his wife.

But now, now much to Mrs. Marvos’s delight, the legendary Mrs. was here.

A thud outside her door bolted her upright. The dark shadows blurred the swirled outlines of the Louis XVI vanity and armoire. The tall spikes of the mahogany bedposts rose in the darkness like sentinels intent on defending her.

Silence echoed. The air shimmered as if waiting for something. Anything.

Her heart battered in her chest like a drum.

The butler. Must be. Why was he thumping around this particular hall when there were endless other rooms and halls in the big brownstone? Would he march into the master bedroom, not knowing of her existence? Why would he be interested in this room at this time in the morning?

Would he be much harder to convince than poor Mrs. Marvos?

The door slammed open.

Broad shoulders. Tall. A male.

Menace cut across the shadows, hitting her with its force.

A short, sharp screech erupted from her. She’d seen those same shoulders outlined by the winter sun not even ten days ago.

“Don’t be afraid,
téleia gynaíka mou
.” His accent roughened his tone, adding to the threat of his physical presence. “It is merely your loving
sýzygos
.”

The last word slurred in his voice like a hiss.

So soon! She’d never imagined he’d find out this soon and return to New York this fast.

Too soon! Why hadn’t she left immediately? Why hadn’t she taken off yesterday?

Her brain went blank in a blink.

Her tongue cleaved to the top of her mouth and stuck.

“Nothing to say,
agápi̱ mou
?” The dark shape took a step into the room, the shadows circling him, cloaking him in compelling danger. “No fond greeting? No loving embrace?”

She scrambled back, her spine hitting the hard scrolled mahogany of the headboard.

His chuckle echoed in the room. Mocking. Filled with malice.

“Get out!”

The chuckle turned to laughter. Malevolent. Malignant with hostility.

“Get out right now!”

“I believe…” He took another step into the bedroom toward her. The gloom hid his eyes, but she sensed the heat, the hate of his gaze. “…those words should be mine.”

He was right. She was in the wrong. Guilt swamped her.

“You have played a pretty game. And you will pay the price.”

His arrogance inundated her guilt in a split second. “You’re the one who’s been playing a game. For two years.”

He stilled. As if he hadn’t been expecting the sudden attack.

“You dare to judge me?” His voice finally came, low; quiet. But no amount of reserve could contain the animosity threading through his tone. “I am not meeting your expectations,
gynaíka
?”

She managed to gulp in a breath. The rasp of her inhalation reverberated in the air. “My point is, two played a game. You are as much at fault as I am.”

“Really?” His silhouette remained frozen, yet his energy filled the room. Filled it with a cold, cutting force that caused a shiver to run down her spine. “I have invaded another person’s home? I have trespassed, lied, stolen—”

“You’re the one who lied. I only used the lie. And I may have trespassed, but I haven’t stolen anything.” She shouldn’t be sitting here trying to defend herself. Instead, she should get up, get her stuff and take off. Her body seemed fused to the bed, though, frozen in continued disbelief that this was actually happening. That he was actually here.

“No?” Another step closer to the bed. “You have not eaten my food? You have not lived in the warm house I own?”

She couldn’t think of anything to rebut what he said.

“You have not lied to my housekeeper, used her as a dupe?” His accusations were relentless. Impossible to reject. “You have not lied to my grandmother?”

The last accusation held more fury than any of his other words. His righteous anger cut into her with a fine slice, leaving her justifications, her excuses, falling into the gaping hole of the truth. “I’m sorry.”

The simplicity of the phrase hovered between them, and for a moment, the atmosphere seemed to soften. Then the edges of his shoulders tightened, his hands fisting at his sides. With a swift stride, he walked to the wall and flipped on the light.

Spangled beams flooded down from the glass chandelier. Natalie pulled on the covers, clutching them in her shaking hands. His cashmere sweater was black, making his back appear impossibly broad and strong. The jeans he wore were also black, emphasizing the strength of his legs, the tautness of his muscles. His body spoke of pure masculine grace mixed with virile power and threat.

She didn’t take her eyes off of him as he slowly turned to confront her.

The tabloid pictures did not do him service. They did not tell the full tale of what stood before her. The photos could not capture the length of his body, the vitality of his form. The black clothes took nothing away from the blinding beauty of his body.

Nor the blinding beauty of his face.

No picture or video or written story would ever be able to condense the vibrant blaze of energy and power flowing from his maleness. His presence crushed her back and she felt the press of the wooden scroll pinch on her skin.

He stared at her. She stared back.

The light gilded his dusky blond hair, sliding over the thick, well-cut curls. His eyes were dark. His nose was a plane of sharp definition, a bold declaration of his ancestry. The arc of his chiseled cheekbones fed down into a rigid jaw and a square, clipped chin.

“I finally see why my housekeeper was fooled.” His mouth barely moved, his lips a cruel slash across his face.

She’d tied her hair back as she regularly did before going to bed. Nevertheless, as usual, the hair had slipped its bonds and now tumbled around her neck and shoulders. “She was fooled because you put a fake picture of a fake wife on your desk.”

For a moment, she thought he’d lunge toward the bed and grab her and shake. The strength of his rage slammed into her like a life force, filling the air around her with its pressure.

Instead, he calmly folded his arms in front of him, his face blank. “Why should you care if I chose some random picture to put on my desk to prevent endless questions? What I place on my desk or anywhere else in my house is somehow your concern? How is this your business?”

“I made it my business.”

“
Nai
, you did. And as a result of this unwise decision of yours, you have made yourself my business.”

The unspoken threat hovered between them, harsh and stark. Sweat broke out on her forehead, in her palms. Why was she staying here, sticking up for herself when she should just go? Get going. Get gone. Get back into another kind of danger she didn’t know how to avoid, but would rather deal with than this man. “I’ll leave. Still, you deserved this. Your family and staff deserve to know the truth, not your lies.”

“Leave?” His broad hand hit the door and slammed it shut.