The Billionaire's Trophy (A Bride for a Billionaire 3)

‘You shouldn’t have kissed me,’ Emmie said abruptly into the heavy silence.

‘And how do you expect to put on a convincing act of being my girlfriend in my home if you can’t cope with one little kiss?’ Bastian derided.

‘There was no need for you to touch me. There were no witnesses at the airport who needed to be convinced of anything,’ Emmie pointed out. ‘We’ll get along better if you respect the ground rules—’

‘What ground rules?’ Bastian demanded grimly.

‘Please don’t touch me unless you absolutely have to.’ Emmie studied him with clear blue eyes and lifted her chin. ‘You may have bought my time but don’t make the mistake of believing you’ve bought anything else.’

‘Are you saying that you have never slept with a client?’ Bastian pressed with so much incredulity in his voice that she wanted to slap him hard.

‘Never,’ Emmie told him vehemently.

‘Next you’ll be telling me you’re a virgin and pure as driven snow!’ Bastian exclaimed, throwing his long powerful body down into a seat and flipping open his laptop with an air of purpose.

As that was exactly what she was and little opportunity had recently arisen for her to redress the condition, Emmie compressed her lips and returned her attention to the magazine she had abandoned. She had said what she had to say because she needed him to know upfront that sex was not an option. For an instant, she wished she could simply tell Bastian Christou the truth, but the prospect of explaining that her mother ran an escort agency and had virtually blackmailed her into accepting his booking stuck in her throat. It would be too degrading to admit that her mother would do virtually anything for money. After all, mud always stuck. He wouldn’t believe that she had never worked as an escort before either, and that he was, in fact, her first and last client. Anyway, why was she worrying about what he thought of her? Why should that matter to her? Bastian Christou was simply a filthy-rich, domineering and very spoilt male and she wasn’t one bit surprised that he had had to hire an escort rather than approach an obliging female friend for assistance. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised to discover that he didn’t have any female friends.

In a state of festering irritation, Bastian watched Emmie sleep, a long slender hand topped with delicate pale pink nails tucked below her cheek, luscious lips parting infinitesimally on every breath, superbly long elegant legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle—very dainty ankles too—golden hair tumbling like a waterfall of glorious silk across her sweater. For an escort, she wasn’t very good on the entertainment front, he mused, his full sensual mouth compressing. Of course to be fair if she had chitter-chattered all the way from London, he would have been ready to strangle her by now, but the complete unconcern and indifference to his opinion that had allowed her to fall asleep in his company was almost an insult. If he was honest, he had expected her to flirt like mad and make a move on him, using the opportunity he had given her to get close to him. As a young, extremely rich and presentable man he was accustomed to receiving that attitude from her sex. Women tried to impress him, charm him, seduce him... They didn’t just fall asleep as if he were a piece of furniture! Bastian ground his perfect teeth together again, struggling to suppress the suspicion that he was disappointed that she wasn’t all over him like a rash.

Emmie slept right up until the jet landed in Athens and stumbled drowsily onto the helicopter that was to convey them the final leg of their journey to the island of Treikos. ‘Your own island...I should’ve expected that, shouldn’t I?’ she mumbled abstractedly, speaking her thoughts out loud. ‘Owning your own island is almost textbook Greek billionaire.’

‘Treikos belongs to my grandfather, Theron,’ Bastian said flatly.

‘I take it...your mood hasn’t improved?’ Emmie remarked gingerly.

‘There is nothing wrong with my mood!’ Bastian ground out, what little patience he possessed challenged beyond tolerance level.

Eyes flaming gold below sinfully long black lashes, he was moving his hands in a violent arc, suddenly for the first time striking Emmie as thoroughly foreign and exotic. He said more as well but she couldn’t hear him because of the noisy ignition of the helicopter. Getting airborne again was a relief while she deliberated on the way she had been reacting to him. Her cheeks reddened on the awareness that she had taken her resentment of her position out on him when it would have been more just to take it out on her mother. She had needled Bastian, criticised him, even scorned him. Right there and then, she was shaken to have to accept that she could behave like that. She swallowed hard. He had paid a small fortune for a pleasant companion and had instead received a venomous and truculent one.

As it would have been quite impossible to communicate with him while they were airborne due to the noise level inside the helicopter, Emmie dug a pen out of her bag and wrote on the back of her hand and then extended it to him so that he could see what she had written.

When it came to women, Bastian considered himself to be incapable of surprise at anything a woman did, but when Emmie printed ‘I’m sorry’ on the back of her hand and thrust her apology at him, he was strongly disconcerted by her approach. He blinked, looked again and then suddenly he wanted to laugh, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings when he genuinely admired the wholehearted honesty of her admission that she had been challenging company. In answer he caught her hand in his and kissed her fingertips in forgiveness.

Equally startled, Emmie tugged her hand back, fingers tingling from that brief salutation. He had style and he really didn’t sulk, she conceded guiltily. But it was partly his fault that she had been behaving badly. Good grief, that kiss had knocked her sideways and she hadn’t been able to cope with that! She had believed that she had made a total fool of herself when she responded to him. She stole a sidewise glance at his bold bronzed profile. But she was undoubtedly dealing with a guy who always got a response out of a woman. He was downright beautiful and she could have kissed him for an hour without getting bored, stunned by the bonfire of reaction one kiss could light in her body. Even so, what she was experiencing was only sexual attraction and perhaps she had never felt it so strongly before, she reasoned, wishing she didn’t want him to do it again, wishing she were back safe in his office where such temptation had been unknown and he had been a distant figure whom someone as insignificant as her rarely saw, never mind got close to.

‘You were right about the manners,’ Bastian admitted wryly as he helped her out of the helicopter again, his bodyguard bringing up the rear. ‘I have no excuse. I spent years at an exclusive English public school where I learned every courtesy. Then I went to visit my mother in Italy one summer when I was fourteen and...er, lost the habit—’

Surprised by that far from arrogant and generous concession, Emmie turned to look at him. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘My mother said that every time I opened a door for her it made her feel like an old lady and that all the thank-yous I used made me sound like a waiter.’

‘I know some women do believe that a man being courteous to a woman these days is sexist,’ Emmie allowed, resisting a strong urge to criticise his parent. ‘But I don’t think that way.’

‘Obviously not.’ Dark eyes dancing with raw amusement, Bastian shot her a glance, making her maddeningly conscious of his thick dark eyelashes. ‘I was trying so hard to impress my mother, and make her proud of me because I didn’t see her very often, but evidently I overdid it.’

Or his mother was an unfeeling shrew, Emmie reflected in pained silence, in much the same way as Emmie had been to judge Bastian on appearances and assume that his wealth and status explained his seeming lack of manners.

‘I suppose I was sort of prejudiced about you,’ Emmie admitted ruefully.

‘Ditto,’ Bastian added.

‘I’ll try very hard not to hold your money against you,’ Emmie muttered.

Ba

stian almost laughed out loud, for it was the very first time it had been suggested to him that his fortune could act as a source of prejudice. ‘And I will try equally hard not to cherish misconceptions about your...er, profession outside the office.’

Emmie winced. ‘Don’t use that word, “profession”,’ she advised. ‘It’s misleading when you think of that reference to “the oldest profession of all”.’

‘You’re right. That wasn’t tactful.’

Feeling almost in charity with him, Emmie was taken aback when he reached down and closed his hand round hers and her bright blue eyes dropped to their linked fingers in silent question.

‘We’re in view of the house. We now have those witnesses you said we needed before I could touch you,’ he extended in calm justification.

Emmie was tense, intent on the sheer novelty value of Bastian smiling at her, even if it was fake and for public show. Good grief, it was an incredible smile that utterly transformed his face, chasing the detachment she had so often glimpsed there. Reddening, she looked ahead of her and only just managed not to gasp like an overexcited child at the sight of the huge white rambling modern house sprawling along the edge of the beach. ‘That’s your home?’

‘I demolished my father’s old house and had this one built about six years back. Before that I stayed with my grandfather, who lives on the other side of the island...’

It was a massive house. Nervous butterflies leapt in her tummy at the thought of the family occasion she was about to crash in her false identity of girlfriend, not to mention the ex-fiancée, who she assumed would be present the night before the wedding in her role as bridesmaid.

‘You know we haven’t discussed any sort of cover story,’ she pointed out belatedly. ‘Where will I say we met?’

‘The office. Keep it simple but I doubt if you’ll be asked nosy questions. As a rule my relations are afraid of offending me and should be civil and reserved,’ Bastian reassured her.