Demetrios had nodded, but he hadn’t been impressed. First Amanda had a sister who couldn’t find her own man; now, she had one with a degree—a post-graduate degree, Nick had emphasized—in an amazing number of languages. It seemed too much to swallow but Nick was his friend so he’d said, well, wasn’t that interesting? And when Nick asked if he’d like to meet her, what could he have said but yes?
What he’d meant was that he’d meet with her as a courtesy. And if, by some miracle, she seemed competent, he’d made it clear that he was promising nothing except to have her credentials vetted. There was no rush. He had translators back home that he’d used before. It was only that he suspected they were too academic, too literal for situations in which inference might be just as important as accuracy.
Demetrios put his palms against the cool window glass and stared down at the city lights twinkling far below him.
All those intentions had vanished when he’d discovered that Nick’s supposedly brilliant sister-in-law was the very woman he’d almost made love to that night in Brazil, discovered, as well, that she was as beautiful in the flesh as she’d been in his memory all these weeks.
One look at Samantha and all his plans and logic had flown out the window. He’d ended up offering her much more money than he’d intended—much more than she’d expected, judging by the look on her face. And if that weren’t enough, just to be sure she took the bait, he’d framed his job offer as a challenge, the kind he knew, instinctively, she would not be able to turn down.
Demetrios shook his head.
So much for the conventions by which he lived. He’d grown up in a household in which the regulations were legion; he had not made the mistake of repeating that pattern of rigidity but he did have a few immutable rules by which he lived.
He never did anything carelessly. He didn’t behave precipitously. And he never mixed business with pleasure.
So, what had he done this afternoon? Broken every one of those rules, that was what. He was flying to Greece with a woman who might not speak French or Italian any more fluently than he did, a woman he’d almost taken to bed, a woman who could still stir his passion even now, after she’d walked out on him, made a fool of him, treated him as if he were dirt.
Had he lost his mind? His own stupidity enraged him…but there was a solution. You had to know when to cut your losses.
This, most assuredly, was the time.
Demetrios grabbed his suit jacket, dug through the pockets. Nick had given him Samantha’s address and phone number. He’d pulled out the slip of paper when he put her into the taxi. What had he done with it after that?
There it was, in his breast pocket. He glanced at it, crossed the room, started to pick up the phone…and saw the time. Midnight. Was he really going to phone at this hour and tell her he’d changed his mind about employing her? No, he was not. She might read something into it, might assume there was some urgency in his need to call off their deal.
Besides, it would be far more pleasurable to give her the news in person.
He would go to Samantha’s apartment in the morning, as planned. He’d wait in the lobby and when she appeared, he’d be polite, soften the blow with a check that was the equivalent of a month’s pay and say that he’d thought things over and changed his mind. If she insisted on a reason, he’d tell her that he really wasn’t sure she had the skills necessary for the job.
Yes, he thought, with a little smile of contentment. His smile broadened as he undressed. It was good to feel back in command again. That was where a man should always be, where a woman was concerned.
Still smiling, definitely satisfied, he got ready for bed, punched his pillow into submission, and fell soundly asleep.
* * *
He awoke at six, well before the buzz of his alarm.
He shaved, showered, dressed. The penthouse lay draped in early morning darkness when Demetrios tossed his carryon bag into the back seat of the black Ferrari he kept in the garage beneath the building. He drove through quiet city streets. It was a Sunday, when New Yorkers slept in.
Samantha’s apartment building was shabby, its saving grace the tiny pocket park behind it. He frowned as he parked his car. No wonder his job offer had brought such a shocked expression to her face. Clearly, she needed the money, but her finances were not his problem.
He trotted up the steps to the front door. At least it was locked, he thought grimly…No. It wasn’t. The knob turned easily and he stepped into a small lobby. A woman should not live alone in such insecure circumstances—but that was not his concern, either.
Demetrios glanced at his watch. He was a few minutes early. He shifted from foot to foot. It was almost as cold inside the lobby as it was in the street…if you were foolish enough to call this miniscule space a lobby.
He looked at his watch again, then at the mailboxes lining the wall to his left. S. Brewster, Apartment 401. At least she had the presence of mind not to list her entire name and let the world know that she was a woman who lived alone.
She did live alone, didn’t she?
Not that that was his affair, either.
Dammit, a man could get claustrophobia trapped in a space hardly larger than a telephone booth, breathing in air that was redolent of cabbage. He glanced at the staircase ahead and sighed. Four flights to climb, he thought, and started up. Was that how she kept that beautiful body trim?
His frown deepened.
He hadn’t come here to think about Samantha’s body or how she lived her life. He’d come to tell her, in person, that their deal was off, and to give her the check he’d tucked into his pocket.
Her apartment was at the top of the stairs. He took a breath, cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair…
“Hell,” he muttered, and stabbed the doorbell with his finger.
Nothing happened. He scowled, glanced at his watch. She was supposed to meet him downstairs in a few minutes. Wasn’t she up? Wasn’t she dressed? What kind of competency did such behavior suggest?
Not much, he thought coldly. It was a good thing he’d decided not to hire her.
He rang the bell. Rang it again. And again. And…
The door opened a crack, stopped by the length of a security chain. He could see half of her face as she peered out at him. An eye. A cheek. A tumble of wet, curling, autumn-dark hair.
“You,” she said tightly.
“Me,” Demetrios said, just as tightly. “Open the door, Miss Brewster.”
“Why? What are you doing here? You’re not due here for another twenty minutes.”
“Ten minutes. Will you please open this door?”
Sam hesitated. What did he want? She’d just come out of the shower. She wasn’t dressed for a confrontation with Demetrios. She knew how this would go. She’d tell him she’d decided against the job. He’d try to talk her out of the decision. It would be better to hold the discussion under more formal circumstances.
“Miss Brewster.” His voice was sharp and commanding. “I am not in the habit of discussing business in tenement hallways.”
Sam glo
wered at him. “This is not a tenement, Mr. Karas, but I suppose someone born with a 24-karat spoon in his mouth thinks any place without hot and cold running servants is a tenement.”
She shut the door, undid the chain, then flung the door open. What did it matter if she was wearing a terry-cloth robe she’d owned since college? If her feet were bare, her hair dripping onto the carpet, her face free of makeup? She didn’t have to look like something out of Vogue to tell Demetrios to take his job and shove it.
“Very well,” she said, her tone the equal of his, “come in.”
He stepped inside and wasted no time. “You’re fired,” he said curtly.
Sam folded her arms. “You can’t fire me.”
“I can do whatever I choose, and I choose to fire you.”
“Not if I’ve already quit.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean, you’ve already quit? You can’t do that!”
“But I have. I don’t want to work for you.”
He hadn’t expected that. Sam could tell because the scowl on his face turned to consternation. Lovely, she thought with delight. Had anyone ever walked out on the Greek God? She doubted it. Not an employee, if he paid them as well as he’d intended to pay her. Not a woman. What woman would turn away from him if he wanted her?
I would, she told herself, and lifted her chin.
“I see,” he said. “You live in a place like this, and you turn down a job that pays as well as the one I’ve offered you?”
“A place like what?” Sam glared at him. “This is how real people live, Mr. Karas, but I guess you wouldn’t know that.”
“This building has no lock on the outside door. That security chain you hide behind could be taken out by one determined push…”
What was he doing? How she lived, where she lived, was none of his business. Hadn’t he reminded himself of that just a little while ago?
“Unless,” he said softly, “you don’t live alone.”
Sam narrowed her eyes. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need it or your money. I repeat, Mr. Karas. I quit.”