CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

Gavriil

T HE E IFFEL T OWER juts up into the summer sky, proud and dark against a light blue. Some might call it cliché or boring. But for me, the Eiffel Tower is a symbol of longevity, of history and pride.

Yet despite my appreciation for the historic landmark, I’ve barely glanced at it more than half a dozen times in the three days I’ve been in Paris. Juliette and I spent our wedding night in the King Suite at The Royal. The bellhop had scarcely closed the door before Juliette cleaved off and walked into the guest room, firmly closing the door behind her. I hadn’t bothered to follow. Not after her threat on the dance floor. One that still makes my blood boil thinking about how casually she turned and smiled at the crowd as we walked off the dance floor.

I told myself I could simply shut my desire off. Anger simmered on our wedding night and kept the lust away. Business gave me something to focus on for the first leg of our flight from California to New York. We had just passed over the Rocky Mountains when I got the call I have been waiting for. Louis Paul was contemplating my offer for an entire block of New York City real estate just outside of the Financial District.

Juliette dozed off on the leather couch in my private jet shortly after we took off across the Atlantic. I looked up from a finance report to see her hair slipping loose from her bun and framing her serene face. Need had jolted through me, along with that word that had reared its head during the ceremony.

Mine.

If it had been a simple case of the attraction not being reciprocated, the decision would have been easy. But as I’ve revisited her threat over the past few days, I realized there was something lingering behind her words. Something buried beneath her bravado.

Fear.

She intrigues me. Entices me. The dichotomies of her character, from feisty reporter and bold mercenary to kindhearted daughter and sentimental dreamer. Learning she had worn her mother’s dress, that she had asked her father’s former girlfriend to walk her down the aisle, had taken everything I had been thinking about her during our short engagement and turned it on its head. It had also opened the door for the attraction I’d been fighting to surge through.

An attraction she refuses to acknowledge. We’re bound together for a year. Why is she dedicated to celibacy when we clearly have something between us worth exploring and enjoying?

But I also know the value of biding my time. Of watching and waiting. The image of impulsivity and brashness I portray is an illusion, one that has served me well time and again while helping me keep my distance. Without that detachment, I wouldn’t be nearly as successful.

So we passed most of the flight in silence. A limo whisked us from the airport to the Shangri-La Paris. There was a brief flicker of excitement on Juliette’s face when she saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time. But before I could ask her about it, she lapsed back into silence, her gaze distant and focused on anything but me. I let it go.

For now.

I set up my office on the terrace of our penthouse suite, which included views of the Eiffel Tower, the River Seine and the buildings that made up Paris’s 16th arrondissement. The first day, I took her to brunch at a glass-roofed restaurant. Yesterday we went on a private tour of the Louvre after closing. Photos of us entering the museum through the contest pyramid in the main courtyard had already made the rounds on various media circuits, my arm around Juliette’s waist as she appeared to glance demurely at the ground.

My jaw hardened. Fortunately, I seemed to be the only one who knew she was doing her best to avoid me, even when we were side by side, being shown some of the rarest and most expensive art in the world.

Other than those two outings, we’d kept our own agendas. Juliette flitted in and out of the suite, sometimes with her camera, sometimes with a shopping bag. She never joined me for meals on the terrace. In fact, she rarely came out at all, except at night right before she went to bed. She’d walk out on the far end of the terrace, arms crossed over her chest as if she were keeping something out, and watch the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower at night. Then she’d glance my way, nod, and go back to her room.

I’ve given her more than enough space and kept our excursions to a minimum. It’s time for us to be seen together in a more romantic frame, to refocus the spotlight once more on Gavriil Drakos and his enemy-turned-bride.

And to remind her of what could be between us.

A soft creak sounds behind me. Surprised, I turn in time to see Juliette emerge from her room. Theós , she’s beautiful. Wet hair, slicked back from her forehead, makes her look younger, more vulnerable. She’s wearing a short, white robe and moves through the room with an ease that tells me she thinks it’s empty. I did leave earlier to meet with a business associate eyeing a housing project next year in the Hamptons. But when I came back, I thought she was out and would stay out the rest of the day.

I watch her for another moment, the casual confidence of her movements, the relaxed ease of her shoulders as she drifts over to the radio and turns it to a jazz station. You’d think that a fluffy bathrobe would deter sexual fantasies. But the sight of her long legs bare beneath the far too short hemline creates visions of those legs wrapped around my waist. I harden faster than I can suck in a breath.

“Good morning.”

Her head snaps to the side and her eyes widen momentarily before she smooths out her features and nods to me. Like a queen nodding to her subjects.

I fight to keep my mouth straight and not let her see that I find her confidence so damned sexy.

“Good morning.” She tightens the sash of her robe. “I thought you were still out.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Her eyes dart from me to the door. I take pity on her and gesture to the table.

“Would you like some coffee?”

She hesitates, then blinks and gives the tiniest nod of her head.

“That sounds nice. Thank you.”

I pour her a cup of coffee and watch as she doctors it with a dash of honey, a generous splash of milk, and a spoonful of sugar.

“I was out. Now I’m back.” I top off my own cup as I nod toward the cityscape laid out beyond our balcony. “Enjoying the view.”

Her head swings in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. The hint of a smile teases her lips as she gazes at the iron lattice, the blur of shapes behind the metal as the more adventurous climb the numerous steps on their way to the top.

“I’ve been up since sunrise,” she finally says softly.

Her words conjure an image of her waking with golden light filtering through the windows, hair mussed as she rises and eyes heavy with sleep. I raise my cup to my lips as I internally vow that before this honeymoon is over, I will be in her bed one morning to wake her up, to rouse her with deep kisses and slow strokes until she’s crying out for me.

“Working?” I ask, my voice only a touch gravelly.

She shakes her head. “Sort of. More of a personal hobby I once enjoyed.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’ll turn into something.”

“Oh?”

Her gaze refocuses on me, her eyes narrowed, as if she’s trying to determine if I’m genuinely interested or if I have an ulterior motive in mind. I maintain her gaze. Yes, I want her to agree to amend the damned contract. But I’m genuinely curious as to what she’ll do next if she truly plans to honor her commitment to not pursue any more stories about Drakos Development.

“Something new. Nothing to do with corporations,” she adds with an arched brow.

“I feel safer already.”

Her barest huff of a laugh fills me. I don’t want to have as strong of a reaction as I do, to be as aware as I am of the little nuances and subtleties of her body language. But I can’t help it. I’m not just enjoying the chase. I’m enjoying her company. And she seems to be enjoying mine. Perhaps convincing her to spend the afternoon out where we can be seen and play up the lovesick honeymooners won’t be so challenging.

“Can you talk more about it?”

She dips her head. Pink changes her cheeks. It takes me a moment to realize it’s not coyness but shyness. She’s nervous about whatever the special project is. That hint of vulnerability tugs at me.

“Not yet. It’s still in its infant phase.”

She looks at me then. Her unexpectedly sweet and self-conscious smile stabs straight into my chest. Her fire, her passion, even her determination, all of it intrigues me. Coupled with this unexpected softness, from the way I saw her check in on Dessie throughout the wedding to the shy excitement adding a sparkle to her eyes right now, is alluring in a way I’ve never experienced before. I’ve never been interested in looking past the surface.

Until the woman sitting across from me caught my attention with her daring in standing up to Lucifer. The first person outside my family I’d ever seen risk his wrath.

“Are you moving away from investigative reporting?”

Some of the light dims.

“I don’t know. My last job...” Her throat moves as she swallows hard. “It was more challenging than I expected.”

I watch her as she raises her coffee to her lips, her gaze distant. I start to ask more, but my phone rings. I glance down. Anticipation zings through me as I recognize the number for Paul Properties offices in New York City.

I glance up. She’s looking at me now. I’ve never hesitated in taking a work call. But after what she’s just alluded to, I pause.

“Go ahead.” She smiles. “I’m okay.”

I move into the living room and take the call from one of Paul’s numerous lawyers. The property I want to buy is in a neighborhood that most people have written off. But I had seen the early signs of rejuvenation. The investment in local businesses, the efforts of residents to organize neighborhood watches, community gardens, and other activities that bolstered the rate of people moving in while reducing crime. There are still problems, but there’s a lot of potential.

Unlike my early years in the slums of Santorini, I now had both the money and power to turn that potential into something concrete. Something that hasn’t become a focus until recently. My only objective when I first started with Drakos Development had been to make as much money as possible. But that goal has evolved, especially in the last year or so as the money hasn’t brought as much contentment, as the sensation of wielding power and influence has dulled. My goals now include bettering the communities surrounding my properties. Maybe it will do nothing.

But maybe it will make a difference for someone. Someone like my mother who had someone like me who loved them, despite their numerous faults. Someone who, with the right support, might be able to do what my mother failed to do and climb out of their pit.

I’m not ready to share this new focus with the public. Not yet. Knowing it’s rooted in my own painful past is a vulnerability I’m not ready to share. Six minutes later, after answering numerous questions I know were more designed to test me than to divine any information, I hang up and return to the terrace.

Just in time to see my wife with her head tilted to one side as she reads the file I left open on the table.

I freeze, watching as she cranes her neck to read more. Betrayal rips through me so fast I barely contain my snarl. I stalk over, reach down, and snatch the file from under her nose.

“It didn’t take you long to break our bargain.”

She stares up at me with a wrinkle between her brows and an innocent expression on her beautiful face.

“What are you talking about?”

I dangle the folder from my fingertips.

“Tell me, did you decide to marry me because it might give you access to some of the corporate bigwigs you’ve been trying to take down? Or was that just a side benefit in addition to the two million dollars?”

Her face pales.

“Do you truly think so little of me? That I wouldn’t stand by our contract?”

“The story is the most important thing to you.”

She sets her coffee cup down with careful precision, stands and walks to the edge of the terrace. Her shoulders are tense, her chin lifted. But beneath the bravado is a painful sadness that pierces my anger and leaves me feeling like an ass. She looks away from me and out over the rooftops of Paris.

Damn it. I don’t know why she was reading the file. But it’s not like I walked in on her trying to break into a safe. She glanced at papers I left out on the breakfast table. Instead of asking like a sane person, I jumped to conclusions and lashed out.

I walk up next to her and stop a couple feet away. An apology doesn’t seem like enough.

I follow her gaze down to the road below us. A couple walks down the sidewalk, a blond man in a T-shirt and shorts with his arm wrapped about the waist of a red-haired woman. They stop on the corner. The man grabs her close and dips her back, kissing her laughing lips as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

My gaze moves back to her face. She’s still watching them, and in that moment I feel more like my father than I ever have before. I’m being cruel, pushing her away because for two minutes we had a conversation that stirred something more than lust or the casual apathy I’ve coasted on the past twenty-four years, and this made the sense of betrayal that much harsher.

“Perhaps the story is the most important thing.”

My gaze sharpens on her face. She continues to watch the couple below.

“But when I care about the story, I care about the people in it, too.” She whirls around suddenly, and jabs a finger toward my chest. “I don’t care about the payday or what I could buy. I care about justice, about giving a voice to those who have been silenced by people like your father.”

Frustration and anger wipe away most of my guilt. Does she think I’m blind? That I didn’t pay attention to the numerous bills crossing my desk, to what she’s been doing while she’s here in Paris?

“You don’t care about the payday, but you ask for two million, spend nearly double that on the wedding, and came back yesterday with a bag from Louboutin?”

Instead of dissolving into tears or slapping me across the face, she merely leans back and cocks an eyebrow in my direction, all traces of shyness gone. And damn it if that casual confidence doesn’t shoot straight down into my groin and make my blood pulse.

“Coming from the man worth billions and wearing a three-hundred-dollar Hermès tie to drink coffee on a terrace, that insult doesn’t carry the sting you want it to.”

Frustrated, I rake my fingers through my hair.

“I don’t want to insult you, Juliette. I told you before, you confuse me and I reacted—”

“Like a jerk?”

“I was going to say gáidaros , but close enough.”

She doesn’t back down. No, she tosses those shoulders back, the robe partially falling aside and giving me a glimpse of the swells of her breasts. Unlike that tantalizing neckline of her wedding dress, though, there are no layers of lace, no buttons. Nothing but air between me and the woman I’m longing to possess.

The woman I need to touch, now, even if I’m damned for it.

I close the distance between us. She watches me, her body poised to flee. But she doesn’t. I reach out. She freezes but doesn’t pull away as I glide the back of my hand down the curve of her face.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her chest rising and falling as a blush twines up her neck.

“Touching you.”

She inhales, her eyes burning into mine. “Why?”

“Because you make me hunger.” I wrap my arms around her waist and slowly pull her against my chest, savoring the anticipation. “Because no matter how much you confuse me, I can’t stop thinking of your lips beneath mine. Of how you felt in my arms.” I stop, hovering my lips just above hers. “Tell me to stop, Juliette.”

I wait for her to push me away, to remind me of her threat from our wedding day or call me a name and storm off.

But it’s Juliette, so she does the last thing I expect. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me.