To Catch A Bride

Pressing a hand on Charles’s shoulder, Niko squeezed. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to eat the woman alive.” He smiled, but it felt more like a baring of teeth. “I’m merely going to indulge my little ex with some—undivided attention.”

Charles winced, alerting Niko to the fact that his reassuring squeeze had became painful. He removed his hand. “Don’t you think she deserves a little discomfort?”

Charles’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t respond.

Niko would have appreciated a glimmer of empathy from his hired right arm, but he didn’t require it. He scanned the man shielding himself with a batch of files and scowled. “Maybe your attitude would be different if it was your face splashed all over the San Francisco press instead of mine,” he gritted out, “and you were the laughingstock.”

CHAPTER TWO

KALLI stepped off the plane in San Francisco, a week later, with no idea what to expect. That morning she’d called Mr. Varos’s office to let him know her schedule, but couldn’t get past some female receptionist, who assured huskily that the message would be passed to the proper department. So Kalli had no choice but to leave the flight information with a stranger on the phone.

She still had niggling doubts about accepting this job, doubts she could not squelch. Would she be left stranded in the airport as some kind of sadistic joke? She still couldn’t imagine Mr. Varos, or anyone else for that matter, really being as magnanimous as he’d seemed when he’d offered her the assignment.

She emerged from the long gangway, sidestepping fellow passengers who had come to abrupt halts to embrace friends and loved ones. Other plane-mates charged by her, cellular phones pasted to an ear as they dashed hell-bent down the cavernous corridor toward baggage claim, taxi cabs and business meetings.

The place was awash with humanity, whirring with activity and clamoring chatter. How was she supposed to find the right “someone” who’d been ordered to meet her? That is, if someone was meeting her, and this job offer wasn’t a mean-spirited hoax.

She found a place to pause beside a pillar where she’d be safely out of the way of frenzied travelers and beeping conveyance vehicles. Anxiety roiled in her belly as she scanned the ordered chaos, wondering how her escort would find her? Had he—or she—been shown the picture she’d sent to Mr. Varos before the wedding was arranged? Would he—or she—even show? The thought of coming all this way just to be left standing at the airport like a potted palm made her shudder.

“How did I get here—and why am I here, at all?” she muttered. Slipping the strap of her carry-on bag off her shoulder, she lay the case on the tile. For the thousandth time she went over the whole bizarre situation in her mind. First she’d rejected Mr. Varos. Then he’d called and offered her the opportunity to refurbish the mansion. When he’d hung up, she still hadn’t actually said she’d come. She remained torn most of the week, first thinking she couldn’t possibly agree, then deciding she couldn’t possibly refuse.

She’d even looked up old photographs of the Varos mansion, when it had been The Gladingstone House in its turn-of-the-century heyday. The estate had been gorgeous. She knew standing before the real thing would take her breath away. If she decided to return to San Francisco.

If? Getting this chance was like getting tapped for the Olympics. Not an offer easily rejected—since such an opportunity was the absolute epitome of everything she’d ever hoped to do in her life.

Aside from that, she owed Mr. Varos. She knew she could do a good job. She could do an excellent job. And she would, because of all she had at stake. She had a huge broken promise to make up for. And that was above and beyond everything this job would do for her career.

She experienced another surge of nervous anticipation and smoothed her navy linen jacket. Her high heels pinched a little, but that was a small price to pay. She’d dressed for success, wanting to make a top-notch impression. Though she wouldn’t see Mr. Varos, himself, he would hear about the project. She didn’t want a single, solitary negative word getting back to him, about her work or herself. She would be a professional from the tip of her head to the ends of her aching toes. No mealymouthed behavior this time. Nothing would go wrong. She would prove to Mr. Varos that his faith in her was not misplaced.

She shifted her weight in her all-business shoes, trying to make the ache in her toes go away. Eagerly she scanned everyone who passed by, her smile hopeful and expectant. Almost pleading, “Please be from Mr. Varos’s staff!”

After forty-five gut-wrenching minutes, her feet were killing her and her face muscles hurt from all the futile smiling. She was near the extreme end of the terminal wing. Everyone had left the area who’d been on her flight. Even stragglers whose loved ones arrived late were gone.

A smattering of strangers ambled by on their way to the final couple of gates, and a handful of early arrivals for the next flight out of Kalli’s gate drifted up and milled around, waiting for a departure still an hour and a half away. Even so, in view of Kalli’s state of mind, she felt very alone as she loitered by a pillar she was beginning to hate. She wished she’d opted to vegetate sitting down. It would have been just as easy to be ignored and forgotten in a seated position as it had been standing around in those cruel new shoes.

She didn’t want to believe the offer was a joke, that Mr. Varos had never intended to give her the assignment. She wanted to believe there was a good explanation, and if she was patient someone would arrive. Possibly the traffic was bad.

She could always call his office. She had the number. The only question was, how long did she wait before she sought out a telephone? Why hadn’t she bought a cellular? Everybody else in the universe had one. That was the very next thing she promised herself she’d do. After this job—or this—prank.

She sighed, worried and tired. What if somebody had been there but didn’t recognize her from the picture. Her hair had been shorter then. At a loss, she mumbled, “Maybe I should have made a big sign that said I’m Kalli Angelis.”

“That’s not necessary,” came a masculine voice from so nearby she jumped and clasped a hand over her heart. Spinning she saw him. Tall, straight and powerfully built. A shaft of sunlight gave a luminous radiance to earth-colored hair, and it gleamed like a dark halo. She stared wordlessly.

His face was angular, his features pleasantly strong. Sunglasses veiled his eyes, which was too bad, since a shadowy half smile rode a surprisingly sensuous mouth. She wished she could know what his eyes said, since his lips seemed to find her vaguely amusing—in an annoying way. Maybe having to pick her up had unhinged his schedule. “Miss Angelis, I’m your ride,” he said, in that same, low drawl. A rough-sexy edge to his voice made his innocent statement sound downright naughty, but she sensed the erotic delivery was completely uncontrived.

Dressed as he was, in jeans, rust colored Henley shirt and work boots, he didn’t look like a man who contrived anything. His attitude and attire fairly shouted, “I am what I am, so deal with it!” She experienced an appreciative shiver along her spine. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been anything like this hunk.

He cleared his throat. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she could see his lips, which indicated the irritation was winning out over amusement. His rankled perusal, even masked by dark glasses, made it clear he expected some kind of response. Preferably this year.

Belatedly she nodded. “Oh—my ride? Great. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” As he scooped up her carry-on bag, his lips kicked downward at the corners divulging the unvarnished truth. It was really no pleasure at all.

She experienced a twinge. “I—I thought I’d been abandoned—you’re so late.”

“Am I?” He pursed his lips. “Perhaps I got the arrival time wrong.” He indicated the direction and began to walk off with her bag. “This way.”

After an instant’s surprised hesitation by his abrupt departure, she scurried up beside him. “Uh—well, at least you’re here, now. That’s what counts. I gather you’re giving me a ride to Mr. Varos’s estate?”

He canted his head in her direction. “Good guess.”

She made a disgruntled face at his surly attitude, but he didn’t see it, since he’d turned away. His strides were long and she had to run to keep up, which was torture on her pinched feet. “Is there some kind of huge hurry?”

“Not huge.”

He didn’t look at her or slow his pace. She eyed his hawkish profile with growing aggravation. “Really?” she shot back. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to be surly. “Then how fast would we be running if it was huge?”

This time when he glanced her way, he slowed. “Am I walking too fast?”

“Not if we’re entered in a marathon. But if you don’t want to lose me in the airport, you might be. These are not exactly jogging shoes.” She indicated her high heels, her expression admonishing.

She couldn’t tell if he even bothered to glance at her feet, but she could detect bunching in his jaw muscles. “Sorry.” He resumed his trek, only infinitesimally slower than before. A telling indication of how little he cared about her feelings.

“Gee whiz.” She sprinted along beside him. “This is so much better. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

She scowled. He had a way of saying “My pleasure” that sounded suspiciously like “Go to hell.”

“We’ll need to—go to baggage claim,” she said, sorry to hear herself panting like a thirsty basset hound. “Do you know—the way to baggage claim?”

He flicked a harsh look her way. At least she thought he did, but he didn’t say anything. When he turned a corner, she skidded around it, too.

“So—what do you do when you’re not fetching people at airports?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“I mind my own business.”

She stumbled, but regained her balance in time to keep from falling on her backside. Breaking into a sprint, she caught up with him. “Well, that—that was rude!” She grabbed his wrist, sturdy and warm and masculine. She didn’t know what she expected, but touching his flesh had a startling effect on her.

She swallowed. “I presume you work for Mr. Varos?” She said it in a tone meant to threaten that she would tattle about his boorishness, and quite possibly get him fired. She would never actually do such a thing, but this bad-mannered lout didn’t need to know. “Because, he should be informed about how you treat people!”

Her escort came to a stop so abruptly she was a step beyond him before she realized it. She whirled back as his head tilted down, making it plain he was focusing on her hand clutching his arm. With a slight twist of his wrist, he separated them. Sweeping the recently freed appendage outward, he indicated the nearest baggage carousel. “Pick a bag, Miss Angelis.”

“That won’t be hard,” she said, sweeping her own arm out. “There’s just the one left!”

“Why don’t I get that for you, ma’am.” He gave a slight, mocking salute and turned away.

She crossed her arms and scowled at the back of his head, deciding she could be as closemouthed as he. A few minutes later she was strapped into a sleek, two-seater sports car. Her belongings had barely fit into the trunk. Another indication that he hadn’t put a great deal of thought or care into this assignment.

As they sped northward, she found herself wondering about this delivery guy who’d been delegated to drive her to the remote Varos estate. She hoped it wasn’t too remote, since sitting beside a glowering grouch was not the most fun she’d ever had.

There were positives about the ride, though. The sun felt good on her face, mild and friendly—not a thing like the short-tempered sphinx at the wheel. She lay her head back to enjoy the cool breeze and the benevolent sunshine. After a time, she realized they were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, a symphony in steel, recognizable around the world. She sat up to take in the spectacular view of ocean and the cliffs off to the west. On the eastern side, green hills spread out all around. Far below, lay San Francisco Bay, with its teeming marinas. Sailboats glided among verdant islands that dotted blue water. The tangy scent of the sea rose up to greet her and she inhaled, enjoying the extraordinary experience.

She looked at her unfriendly companion and her smile evaporated. His neatly trimmed hair ruffled in the breeze. Glossy brown tendrils skidded and cavorted across his forehead. Bathed in early-afternoon sunlight the way he was, Kalli had to admit he was deliciously handsome—except for the cantankerous set of his jaw. There was a coiled strength about him, a rugged vitality, that both attracted and troubled her. Clearly this was a man who didn’t give a tinker’s damn about what she or anyone else thought about him.

Unfortunately, even as moody and grouchy as he was, there was something in him that sent tremors of feminine attraction zinging through her veins. She hated conceding such a thing even for one fleeting instant. Why did she have to find him tempting? He was a rude, tight-lipped jerk. The sooner he dropped her off and drove out of her life, the better she’d like it.

Sitting more erect, she decided she might as well attempt conversation one more time. It was better than admiring the gleam of his hair or the appealing ridge of his cheekbones.

“Nice convertible,” she said. “Is it yours?”

“It’s one of the Varos cars.”

She nodded. That made sense. Not many people would be able to afford a snazzy vehicle like this. “So you’re the chauffeur?”

“Sometimes.”

“When you’re not teaching the sensitivity training seminars?” she asked, trying to get a rise out of him. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he could so easily get one out of her.

She didn’t succeed. He merely stared at the highway. No, that wasn’t totally accurate. He flexed one hand. She wondered if that meant he was clutching the steering wheel so tightly his hands were cramping. Ha! Good! If he had to exasperate her then she might as well return the favor.

“Do you have a name?” she asked, “Or are you an android with a glitch in your disposition software?”

His square jaw tensed, and she canted her head in his direction, fascinated by the play of light and shadow on his sharply defined features. As soon as she realized she was admiring him, she shifted to glare at the highway. When he didn’t respond, she had no choice but to reroute her glare in his direction. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “I said, do you have a name, or—”

“I heard you, Miss Angelis.”

She continued to glower at him, but refused to say another word. If he chose to be a boor, it was his business. She didn’t care if he had a name or not.

After another ponderous accumulation of minutes, he startled her with, “Some people call me Pal.”

When she stopped reeling from shock that he’d actually spoken to her, she stared at him. “No kidding?” She made a disbelieving face. “No doubt due to your laugh-a-minute personality?”

He said nothing more, just drove.

Pal? It didn’t fit with the obnoxious image she had of the man. She decided to delve into the possible spin-offs of Pal. Out loud. If nothing else, her droning on might annoy him, and that was dandy with her. “One thing we can cross off the list is ‘Pal’ as in buddy or friend. The reasons for ruling them out are so laughably obvious I won’t even go there.”

She wanted to peek at him to see if his jaw muscles reacted to that dig, but she resisted. “Let’s see. Pal…” She scrunched up her forehead. “This is a hard one.” She peered at him. “Care to give me a hint?”

His only reaction was to check the rearview mirror and slide into the passing lane. What was this? Speeding up in order to get rid of her that much quicker? Her antagonism kicked into high gear along with the sports car. “I’ve got it!” She snapped her fingers and beamed at his profile. “You’re nicknamed after the palm crab! The reasons for that would be self-explanatory. And—no, wait, Paltry! That’s it!” She clapped her hands together with glee. “Paltry—meaning wretched, pettifogging and contemptible!”

She presented him with a victorious grin. Proud of herself and her wit, she was positive she’d showed ol’ “Pal” here, a thing or two about exactly who he was dealing with. “Am I right, or am I right?” she asked, a jubilant lilt in her tone.

“Pettifogging?” He stared at her for an instant as he downshifted at an exit.

“It’s a word,” she shot back, her triumphant smile intact. “It means trashy, shoddy—”

“Pal is short for Palikaraki. A nickname from my grandfather. “

“Palikaraki?” Kalli’s smile mutated into a confused frown. “But—but that’s Greek for ‘little hero.”’

The sports car sped along a hilly country road winding through a forest of pines and California live oak. As her companion drove, he slowly and deliberately lowered his head, then raised it. Kalli had to assume the move was a nod.

“Little hero?” She gave him another once-over. “Well, without getting into the delusions of your grandfather—does that mean you’re, by some freaky chance—Greek?”

Again he did that slow up and down thing with his head, another positive, if mute, response.

“I’m Greek, too.” She eyed him with curiosity, concluding it wouldn’t be strange for Mr. Varos to have other Greeks in his employ. There were probably lots of Greeks in California. As a matter of fact, it would make perfect sense. On two levels.

If Mr. Varos would go to the extreme of marrying a woman he didn’t know just because she was Greek, he would surely hire Greeks. And that solved the other burning question. How anybody as bad-tempered as Pal, here, could even get a job—certainly only by playing the Greek card.

“And I thought ‘little hero’ was just a good guess.” He glanced her way. “I’m disappointed.”

Her annoyance flared at his taunt. “You’re disappointed?” she said. “You’re disappointed! Well, Pal, let me tell you about disappointment!”

They came to a stop before a towering wrought-iron gate. Beautiful and ornate, it depicted scrolls, gilded flowers and acanthus leaves. The iron barrier was set in massive stone posts, topped with elaborate wrought-iron lanterns.

Kalli noticed Pal turn and glance up to his left. She followed his gaze, but didn’t see anything at first. After a minute of puzzled scrutinizing, she spotted a small camera mounted unobtrusively in a niche on the pillar, nearly hidden by branches of a towering cedar.

After a short pause, the gate began to open to the accompaniment of a low mechanical hum.

Kalli was surprised Pal didn’t have to say anything. “Do they have eyeball prints of every employee, or something?”

He drove through the open gate without responding to her wisecrack.

She shifted to look back, and watched as the magnificent iron blockade made its ponderous return trek to block access to the Varos property.

“You were telling me something about disappointment, Miss Angelis?”

“Oh!” She jumped in surprise, something Pal seemed everlastingly good at making her do. She couldn’t recall reacting so powerful to any other man who merely initiated a conversation. What was it about Pal that could coax her to the brink of a conniption fit.

“Disappointment?” She shook her head, trying to refocus. The sight of the majestic gate had reminded her why she was here, and she experienced a surge of excitement about the project for the first time since—well, since the proposition of refurbishing the property had been made via Mr. Varos’s lawyers, when the marriage deal was being hammered out.

She swallowed, her throat dry. It was hard to believe she’d even considered such a daft idea as an arranged marriage. “Oh—right. Disappointment.”

She strained to see over the treetops, and thought she spied a spire here and a chimney there. She would see the house very soon. Her heartbeat sped up and she gave Pal a disgruntled peek. She would be rid of her disagreeable escort, too.

That knowledge made her bold.

“I’ll tell you about disappointment!” she said, allowing her resentment free access to her mouth. “Disappointment is being picked up at the airport by a big, grouchy bear. Disappointment is having to spend these past two, unending hours with a snarling sorehead. And real disappointment is discovering that same big, grouchy bear of a sorehead is Greek, a cruel, ugly blot on an otherwise wonderful people!”

Belligerent and full of vinegar, she leaned toward him, hopeful her aggressive slant would rattle him just a little. “That’s real disappointment, buster!” She flicked him hard on the arm. “That’s bottom-line disappointment—Pal!”

They headed around a bend and up an incline. Out of the corner of her eye, Kalli saw a flash of color that wasn’t part of the verdant landscape. She turned instinctively as the Varos mansion rose before her amid a paradise of blooming shrubs, flowers and the heavy perfume of wisteria.

She sucked in a breath, experiencing a warm, rosy feeling she could only describe as love-at-first-sight. The Victorian residence had a fairy-tale quality—a delicate castle, created from a romantic marriage of brick, stone and wood.

It was a three-storied cornucopia of Victorian elements, cleverly mingled from its gables, dormers and Palladian windows to the wraparound graystone veranda and lofty tower. The dwelling was unique and whimsical—a charming reflection of childhood fantasies and make-believe.

“Oh,” she cried, her passion for her work cresting and overflowing. “There’s so much—so much—” Her voice broke, so she waved a broad arch in the air, indicating its potential. The home was not merely plaster, board and stone to Kalli. It was a living, breathing entity—a being with a soul and character, who, over the years, had been wronged and degraded with regrettable paint choices and injurious additions.

To be given the chance to save such a treasure, to restore it to its original glory, would be a dream-come-true to anyone in her profession. Kalli gawked, overwhelmed that Mr. Varos would entrust such an undertaking into her care.

The mansion began to quiver before her eyes, then blurred. As the sports car pulled to a stop, she blinked, dislodging tears of gratitude.

“I gather the house is a real, bottom-line disappointment?”

Pal’s cynical remark coming so near her ear made her cry out. She jerked to glare at him. “You scared me!” She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand, not even slightly embarrassed that he’d seen her cry. Some things were simply worth crying over, and this superb mansion was one of them.

He shifted to lounge against the leather and draped an arm across the back of her seat. “I thought you knew I was here,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’m sorry.”

If she’d ever heard a you’re-a-pain-in-the-neck anti-apology, that was it. She bounced around, presenting her back to him and focusing on the house. Her hands trembling with anger, she busily straightened her suit jacket and finger-combed her hair.

“You really should be sorry, you know!” She spun back to glower at him. “And to answer your question, no. The house is not a disappointment. It’s wonderful. I’m deeply moved that Mr. Varos wants me to refurbish it. There’s such innate beauty, such graceful transcendency. With the right creative hand, the right artistic eye, Mr. Varos’s home could become a work of art.”

He lifted his chin, a clear indication his attention had moved in the direction of the house, somewhere behind and above her. She gave him a hard, offended look. Why was she bothering to explain? He wasn’t listening. Besides, this insensitive part-time-chauffeur-handyman-all-round-disagreeable-underling couldn’t possibly understand how aesthetics could stir the receptive spirit.

“Oh—never mind.” Shaking her head, she indicated the rear of the car. “If you’ll pop the trunk, I’ll get my bags. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”