At the time, Holly had convinced herself it was proof of his faith in her that he’d relied on her to handle such important matters.
But now...
She looked at Oliver and Nicole, who’d gone back to sit at the head table. There was still a smudge of white frosting on her sister’s cheek. Earlier, when they’d cut the wedding cake, Nicole had delicately fed her new husband his slice, holding the pose beautifully for pictures. Immediately afterward, Oliver had smashed the piece into his bride’s face to make the crowd laugh.
Now, sitting on the dais, they were arguing fiercely over champagne. She was trying to pull the bottle away from him. Yanking it back, Oliver tilted back his head and vengefully drank it straight from the bottle.
And this was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives.
Holly’s body flashed hot, then cold, from her scalp to her toes. With an intake of breath, she looked up at Stavros as they danced. “My sister—”
“She’s made her bed. Now she’ll have to lie in it.” His hands tightened as he said, “But you don’t have to.”
Holly desperately tried to remember the feelings she’d once had for Oliver, all the lonely nights she’d spent in her tiny apartment, with only her romantic fantasies about her boss to keep her warm. But those memories had disappeared like mist against the cold reality of this wedding, and the hot feel of Stavros’s hand over hers. The dream was gone.
“Why are you forcing me to see the truth?” she said helplessly. “Why do you care?”
Stavros abruptly stopped dancing. He looked down at her, his black eyes searing through her soul.
“Because I want you, Holly,” he said huskily. “On my arm. In my bed.” His hand trailed through her hair and down her back as he whispered, “I want you for my own.”
* * *
He was going to hell for this.
Or at the very least, his conscience warned, he shouldn’t hire her as his secretary. Because as hard as he’d tried to ignore her beauty—he couldn’t.
Stavros looked down at her. Her emerald eyes widened. Her curly red hair looked like fire tumbling over her shoulders. Her petite body felt so soft and sensual in his arms.
But he wanted to keep her as his secretary. He wanted to keep her for everything. He wanted Holly more than he’d ever wanted anyone.
Why her? He didn’t know. It couldn’t just be her luscious beauty. He’d bedded beautiful women before.
Holly Marlowe was different. The supermodels and actresses seemed as glittery as tinsel, cold as snowflakes. Holly was real. She was warm and alive. Her heart shone from her beautiful green eyes. She didn’t even try to guard her heart. He could read her feelings on her face.
And her body...
As they’d danced, he’d watched the tight red fabric slide against her ripe, curvaceous body, and his mouth had gone dry as he’d imagined feeling her naked skin against his own. With his hand against her lower back, he’d felt her hips move, felt the sway of her tiny waist. He’d watched her blush and shiver at his touch, and wondered how innocent she might be. Could she even be a virgin?
No. In this day and age? Surely not.
And yet he’d known then he had to make Holly his, if it was the last thing he did. Which it well could be.
His gaze fell to her pink lips, tracing down to her low-cut neckline, where with each sharp rise and fall of her breath he half expected the red fabric to tear, setting her deliciously full breasts free. He repeated huskily, “I want you.”
Holly gave a sudden jagged intake of breath. “How can you be so cruel?”
Frowning, Stavros pulled back. “Cruel?”
“All right, so I’m just a secretary. I’m plain and boring and nothing special. That gives you no right to—no right to—”
“To what?” he said, mystified.
“Make fun of me!” Her voice ended with a sob, and she turned and fled, leaving him standing alone on the dance floor.
A low curse twisted his lips. Make fun of her? He’d never been more serious about anything in his life. Make fun of her? Was she insane?
Grimly, he turned through the crowd, trying to pursue her. But other people suddenly blocked his path on the dance floor, business acquaintances desperate to ingratiate themselves, women hoping for a shot at dancing in his arms.