The Millionaires' Cinderellas. Sharon Kendrick
it wasn’t happening how. And didn’t that justify what he was doing by bringing her here to New York? If she could put out like this for her lover’s brother—then wasn’t Nat better off without her?
‘I’ll be waiting downstairs in the restaurant,’ he gritted out. ‘Be there in fifteen minutes.’
Emma sat up as he walked straight past the bed without another look in her direction but she could feel the sudden disapproval radiating from his powerful body. What was his problem? Was he angry because he’d just been looking at her as if he’d like to eat her?
And wasn’t her problem that she’d wanted him to?
Getting off a bed which now felt contaminated, Emma scrambled to find some underwear, guilt washing over her as she clipped on a lacy black bra—acknowledging the heavy aching in her tender breasts. Because wasn’t the pitiful truth of it that she had wanted Zak Constantinides in a way she’d never wanted anyone else? She bit her lip in horrified remorse. Not even her own husband!
He must have felt the powerful vibes which had shimmered between them—because you’d need to be made of stone to ignore them. He already thought that she was a sexually voracious gold-digger—so wouldn’t her behaviour only reinforce his poor opinion of her?
She needed to pull herself together and she needed to grow a little backbone. She wasn’t just some puppet which he could manipulate at will. Hadn’t she worked hard at the Granchester—hard enough to establish herself as an interior designer who was respected by others in the business? She’d done all that with determination, hard work and very little in the way of formal training. So was she prepared to let all that crumble away, simply because her body was reacting in a way she didn’t want towards a man she didn’t like?
No, she was not.
And she would start by sending out the subliminal but very clear message that she was not out to entice him.
She had the kind of looks which she could dress up or down—and tonight was definitely a night for fading into the background. She picked out a pair of black velvet trousers and teamed them with a floaty white shirt. Her hair had acquired a slight kink from where she’d slept on it while it was still damp—so she brushed it and then wove it into a loose bun, which sat on the back of her neck. Make-up she deliberately resisted and a dangly pair of shell earrings was her only adornment. After all—wasn’t ‘casual’ the new black?
But the moment she walked into the restaurant she realised that she was woefully underdressed. Or rather, overdressed. She’d never seen so much flesh on show and every other woman in the room was all buffed and honed and highlighted with the sparkle of jewels.
Emma kept her head high as she gave Zak’s name to a rather bemused-looking waiter and as he led her towards the Greek’s table she was acutely aware of being watched. She’d forgotten what it was like to be judged by your companion. To have people look you up and down and form an opinion about you when they didn’t even know you.
Her stomach was in knots as Zak rose to greet her and she saw that his gaze was hooded. She thought she sensed disapproval as he looked at her—and, although she’d chosen her outfit with just that result in mind, there was a very feminine part of her which cringed beneath his critical scrutiny.
‘You look like you’re just off to a rock festival,’ he commented acidly.
She surveyed the pristine elegance of his dark suit. ‘And you look like you’re about to perform some hostile boardroom bid.’
For a moment his lips almost curved into a smile, until he reminded himself that he was not here to be amused by her. Maybe it was a good thing that she looked as if she was about to start lighting incense, or sit cross-legged on the floor before starting to meditate. He sat back as the waiter handed her a glossy menu. ‘How about I order to save time? The steak here is very good.’
Emma gave a polite smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but I don’t eat meat.’
‘You don’t eat meat?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which part of my original statement needed clarification, Mr Constantinides?’
He stared at her critically. ‘No wonder you’re so damned pale.’
‘You should try it some time—less meat in the diet is supposed to mean less aggression.’
At this he did laugh. ‘A real man eats meat, Emma.’
There was something about his primitive boast which made her feel quite peculiar and Emma quickly looked down at the very limited vegetarian section of the menu. Did he really think he could come out with all that macho ‘real men eat meat’ stuff and get away with it? Yes, he did—and the horrifying reality was that he could. She suspected he could do pretty well anything he put his mind to, especially where women were concerned. She remembered the way she’d found him looking at her when he’d shaken her awake. That compelling hunger she’d surprised in his eyes. And hadn’t that look made her feel a corresponding rush of desire, which had made her feel as if she were melting beneath his gaze?
Suddenly, Emma felt a trickle of fear sliding down her spine because she suspected that Zak Constantinides knew perfectly well the extent of his power over women. And the very last thing she needed was for him to discover that he had awoken a strange and nebulous need in her.
‘And you’re really going to have to lose the “Mr Constantinides” tag,’ he mused.
‘I would have thought that my constant reinforcement of your superior status would have bolstered your ego.’
‘I don’t need anything to bolster my ego,’ he said softly. ‘So do you think you could try saying “Zak”?’
She snapped the menu shut and looked up. ‘I’ll have the aubergine lasagne and side salad, please…. Zak.’
‘And I’ll have the rib-eye.’ He handed the menus to the waiter, thinking that her soft English accent managed to do erotic things with the single syllable of his name. He fixed her with a questioning look. ‘Wine?’
She thought she probably shouldn’t. In fact, she definitely shouldn’t. Wine might make the meal seem like a pleasure, rather than the necessity it clearly was. But Emma was strung out—and the idea of having to endure an evening facing Zak Constantinides without something to help relax her was more than she was prepared to tolerate.
‘A glass would be lovely.’
He nodded and the sommelier was dispatched, returning with two glasses of red wine so rich that Emma could smell it from five paces away. She took an eager sip and put the glass down with a little sigh, looking up to meet the curiosity lancing through his grey eyes. ‘The wine’s very good,’ she said politely.
‘Of course it’s good—do you really think I’d drink anything but the best?’
‘Silly of me not to realise that everything you do is a testimony to how wonderful you are.’
‘Very silly. But I haven’t brought you here to talk about the wine, Emma. Or about me.’
‘I didn’t think you had,’ she said, her heart suddenly beginning to race, because suddenly she suspected what was coming next.
‘I want to know what it’s like being back in New York,’ he questioned—and now his voice took on a harsh tone. ‘You lived here when you were married, didn’t you?’
So he hadn’t forgotten that she’d lived here—and he hadn’t cared that she might be upset by that fact. Of course he hadn’t—for he had made his hostility towards her very clear, right from the start. He didn’t care how much she hurt—because he saw her simply as an obstacle to be removed from his brother’s life.
She wanted to tell him that her past was none of his business and yet a feeling of resignation made the words die in her throat. Because in a way, hadn’t this conversation been inevitable from the moment she’d