A rueful smile curved his mouth. “I have a feeling you are trouble, Isabel Peters. Having you stay with me is not.”
But Izzie wasn’t at all sure that was the truth. Seated in the low, sleek sports car Alex had parked in the underground lot, her pulse raced as fast as the high-performance engine rippling beneath her. It might have been the way she couldn’t look at his muscular thighs on the low bucket seat beside her without remembering how that hard, male muscle had felt under her hands. Or the fact that despite his abrupt dismissal in the lobby earlier, there had been a spark between them in that elevator. Unless she was totally deluded...which had been known to happen when it came to her and men.
Tired of watching Izzie sit on the sidelines in Italy, her girlfriend Jo had finally staged an intervention. “You have to engage with men to catch them,” she’d advised caustically. “We aren’t participating in immaculate conception here.”
Izzie was clear on that. She just happened to be very, very bad at engaging.
She darted a sideways glance at the hard profile of the drop-dead-gorgeous man beside her. Could he actually be attracted to her? Or was she just kidding herself about that chemistry in the elevator? A man like that could have any woman he wanted. Why would he want vanilla when he could undoubtedly savor crème br?lée any day of the week?
The left and right sides of her brain warred with each other. Suddenly she was very, very tired of being Izzie the responsible. The girl who never took a risk. And it occurred to her that until she did, she might never know who she really was.
A flock of butterflies swooped through her stomach on a wild roller-coaster ride. Did she have the courage to find out tonight whether vanilla cut it? And if so, would it go down as the single most stupid thing she’d ever done? Or the best?
CHAPTER THREE
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.