She shrugged. Was she going to carry on pretending she hadn’t noticed he’d been avoiding her—or was she going to do the adult thing and try to clear the air? ‘Well, that’s up to you, surely? You can carry on playing the big boss-man who can’t bear to be in the same room as me—or you could try getting along with me.’
He stepped out onto the terrace to join her, where the breeze held in it the first faint chill of winter—despite the brightness of the sun. He looked down at her. She was sitting bundled up in jeans and a jacket, her hair piled high on her head—her face completely bare of make-up. He noticed that today her fingernails were painted pale lemon, which matched the filmy scarf she wore looped around her neck. He’d never seen a woman with yellow nails before.
Pulling out a chair, he sat down next to her. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘He said grudgingly.’ The glance she shot him was enough to establish that his shirt was fine—silk probably—and that she could see the faint outline of his torso through it. ‘You’ll get cold out here without a jacket.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘It might come as a surprise for you to learn that somehow, despite the lack of your intervention, I’ve managed to survive a whole thirty-six years without ever getting pneumonia.’
She rested her pen on her notepad. ‘Are you always this defensive?’
Zak turned his head to look at the park. Not always, no. But then, his relationships with women were usually clearly demarcated. There were women he did business with and women who worked for him. There were women he had relationships with—admittedly rare. And then there were the women he slept with—which had always happened whenever he had wanted it to happen.
There had never been a woman he’d wanted that he couldn’t have.
Until now.
Behind the indifference of his smile, his teeth clamped together in frustration. Because wasn’t the truth that he wanted Emma Geary with a hunger which was eating away at him? That thoughts of her kept him awake at night—awake and hard and bathed in a sweat which cold showers seemed only momentarily to subdue. It didn’t seem to matter that her background appalled the fiercely proud side of his Greek nature—or that she was involved with his brother. His betraying body still jerked into instant life whenever he thought of that waterfall of pale hair and those strange green eyes. When he imagined her painted fingernails tiptoeing over the heated arousal of his flesh.
‘You seem to bring out the worst in me, Emma.’
‘And why’s that, I wonder? Because I’m not docile enough to accept everything you say as law?’
He turned his head to look at her and gave a reluctant shrug. ‘There’s definitely an element of that. Your defiance is a little … unusual,’ he conceded.
‘You mean women don’t usually answer you back?’
‘They don’t usually feel a need to, no.’
‘Because you’re always “right”, I suppose?’
‘It’s a little more complex than that.’ His ey
es gleamed. ‘Don’t you know that, deep down, all women crave a masterful man?’
She shook her head, glad that the wind was chilly enough to cool the sudden heat in her cheeks. When he looked at her that way, it was difficult not to agree with him even when he was spouting out such ridiculously old-fashioned sentiments. ‘You must mix in some very strange circles to think that way, Zak.’
‘Possibly.’ Leaning back in the chair, he saw that the trees in the park were almost bare. Soon it would be winter, and holiday time. The big Christmas tree would go up at the Rockefeller Center and tourists and New Yorkers would ice-skate side by side in the dazzle of its lights. Emma would complete her assignment here and she would go back to London—and to Nat. Zak’s mouth hardened as he forced himself to confront a scenario he had managed to suppress until now. Because what if his plan failed? What if, despite his intervention, she went back and married his brother. What then?
He had always looked out for Nat. Been there for him when nobody else was and his love for his brother burned fiercely in his heart. But sometimes events had a habit of running away with themselves. Didn’t matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t always determine the outcome. He remembered his mother lying sobbing on the marble floor and the sound of the door slamming as his father walked out of their lives. He hadn’t been able to prevent that, had he?
Suddenly, and with disturbing clarity, he could picture Emma as Nat’s new bride—her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. The image intensified and he could even imagine her dress—one of those long, filmy things which foreign girls always wore when they went to Greece, her feet bare with the blue of the Mediterranean dancing behind her. Maybe she would give Nat hordes of children who would, along with her, become part of his family and therefore linked to him for life. And if that happened, he would have to kill his desire for her stone-dead—or risk severing his relationship with his only brother.
And wouldn’t the way to do that be by engaging with her, no matter how uncomfortable he might initially find it? Couldn’t they form an uneasy truce in case the worst did happen? At the moment she symbolised the tantalising and the forbidden—and that only increased her desirability. Shouldn’t he give her the opportunity to spend the evening chattering idly about nothing, as women so often did? Wouldn’t the subsequent tedium of such an encounter assure him that she was nothing special after all?
Unexpectedly, he found himself asking, ‘Have you seen much of the city?’
Surprised by his question, Emma nodded. ‘Actually, I have.’ She’d decided that she wasn’t going to sit around moping—but to explore a place she’d seen remarkably little of last time around. So she’d taken a tour-bus and giggled at the native New Yorker’s rumbustious commentary as they passed all the iconic buildings. She’d worked her way through all the art galleries and walked daily in Central Park. And she’d taken the ferry to Staten Island, where she’d eaten a hot dog nearly as long as her arm. ‘I’ve done all the must-see touristy things.’
He stopped looking at the park and gave in to the temptation of studying her face. ‘So I can’t persuade you to have dinner with me tonight?’
Emma’s fingers tightened around the pen she was still holding. ‘And why would I want to do that? More to the point, why would you?’
He smiled at her frankness. ‘Maybe I’ve decided I should get to know you a little better if my evil plan doesn’t work and you do end up becoming my sister-in-law.’
Emma shoved the pen deep into the pocket of her jacket, acknowledging that his careless smile was potent. Very potent. It humanised him and made him seem gloriously accessible—so that she stupidly found herself wanting to reach up and trace the sensual curve of his lips with her finger.
Eaten up with a terrible feeling of remorse, she knew this was the moment to come clean. To tell him that this was all a game—and that there was nothing romantic between her and his brother. But something stopped her and she wasn’t sure if it was fear of his reaction—or because she’d convinced herself that she needed to warn Nat first.