Bride by Day

Sam bristled. “Since I’ m down to the last hundred dollars in my checking account, it hardly stands to reason that I would do anything to jeopardize my job at Manhattan Cleaners.

“Of course, that’s something you would never understand,” she complained to herself, but he heard her. Mocking laughter unexpectedly rumbled out of him, making her body tingle.

“You think I don’t remember what it was like for a destitute, barefooted boy on Serifos who was forced to scrounge for jobs no one else would do, only to be given a few pitiful drachma a day?”

There was such a wealth of emotion underlying his revelation, it took her a moment to realize he’d just given her a glimpse of the man behind his wealthy, sophisticated veneer. Unless of course he was trying to arouse her compassion. He was doing a wonderful job of it, but she wasn’t about to let him get to her any more.

“I recall reading the very same thing about Aristotle Onassis,” she taunted.

“Our beginnings are not so dissimilar,” was all he deigned to say.

Like most foolish people, Sam had made assumptions that Mr. Kostopoulos had been born to wealth, and had learned how to play with his inheritance, aggrandizing his unearned fortune in astronomical ways.

The fact that a dirt-poor young Greek boy had risen to Olympian heights on sheer grit and determination made him a much more devastating adversary, one she couldn’t help but admire despite his autocratic manner.

Sam found herself wanting to know more about him, but was in no position to be asking him questions. What little she’d heard about him had been gleaned from gossip in newspapers and magazines, and the people who worked in the building.

After meeting him in person, he was even more enigmatic than the journalists made him out to be. He was also more attractive, and he drove too fast for her peace of mind.

She had the strongest suspicion that his business headquarters in Athens—where the traffic was purported to be the worst—had everything to do with the fact that they’d arrived at the university in half the time it would have taken her, if she’d had a car.

He turned into a section reserved for faculty parking and pulled to a stop in the first available space.

“They tow away cars without permits,” she warned him.

“George can always come for us in the limo. Right now the only thing of importance is that note. Let’s go.”

Sam almost had to run to keep up with him. The second they entered the building, she breathed a sigh of relief to discover that Dr. Giddings’s secretary hadn’t gone home yet.

“Lois?”

The older woman lifted her head. “Hi, Sam. What are you doing back here?”

Lois was trying hard, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to the imposing dark figure dominating the cubbyhole which served as the art department’s office. Who could blame her?

Under other less precarious circumstances, Sam would have introduced them. Finding out he was the Kostopoulos of Kostopoulos Shipping would have made Lois’s year. But because Sam hated the limelight, and sensed instinctively that her abductor hated it, too, she decided against divulging his identity.

“I need to get my collage back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! There must be over a hundred of them propped around the gallery. I’ve already locked it and am ready to go home. This has been a killer day.”

“You can say that again. Lois,” Sam whispered, “this is an emergency. I don’t have time to explain the details right now, but I can’t leave here without it.”

“Dr. Giddings won’t accept late work, Sam.”

“It wasn’t late. You logged it in yourself! It’s just that I’m in terrible trouble and have to fix something on it. I’ll bring it back first thing Monday morning. He’ll never know. If you’ll do this favor for me, I’ll give you that tablecloth I made last semester.”

Lois’s eyes rounded. “You told me you’d never part with it.”

Sam darted Mr. Kostopoulos a covert glance. “I—I I changed my mind.”

Lois followed Sam’s gaze. Lowering her voice she said, “Holy moly. You’ve been holding out on me. He’s incredible. I mean downright, knock-me-dead fantastic. Where on this overcrowded planet did you find him?”

“At my night job. Lois, please help me.”

“You really want your collage back that badly?”

“Yes. It’s a matter of life and death.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. In fact, Sam had the distinct feeling her life wouldn’t be worth the sum total of the scraps of paper stuck to her canvas if she couldn’t produce the desired note.

The bemused secretary sighed aloud and pulled a key out of the drawer. “All right. Go on in and get it.”

“Thank you!” Sam leaned over the counter and gave her a hug. “He’s going to help me look for it, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

With key in hand, Sam hurried down the hall, beckoning Mr. Kostopoulos to follow.

“What exactly are we looking for?” His deep voice reverberated in the darkness. She felt for the light switch on the wall, her heart thudding painfully. His nearness was starting to affect her that way, and the fear that she wouldn’t be able to pry the note loose without tearing it and the phone number to shreds.

“I-if I’ve done a halfway decent job, you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting it.”

“Is this a riddle of some kind?”

“Not exactly. It’s just that I’m hoping it will leap out at you.”

On that note, she found the switch which illuminated the gallery. Collages of every design and color, from white to psychedelic, filled the room, leaving little space to maneuver. Each one had to be three feet by four feet, therefore the unity of shape didn’t make their task any easier.

While she took in the enormity of the project facing them, a pair of unfathomable black eyes impaled her.

“I can already see a dozen projects which are fairly blinding me at the moment,” he growled with heavy sarcasm.

An imp of mischief not unmingled with fear made her want to prolong the moment of truth until the last second, but she supposed her last second was up.

“I’ll give you a hint. Mine will probably be the only one which will speak to you personally. That is—” Her voice caught, “if—as I mentioned earlier—I’ve accomplished my objective.”

His expression darkened. “We’re running out of time, Ms. Telford.”

“All right. I decided to create a collage of your office building.”

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT do you mean, my office building?”

“Yours is the most beautiful one in the city, allgleaming cream with a royal blue motif. Since I work there every night, I decided to use it as the subject of my project. But I’ve filled it with people so it won’t look so lonely.”

One brow descended. “Lonely?”

“Yes.” By now she was busy looking for her design. “All buildings have an essence. Yours reminds me of a fabulous Greek temple, magnificent, but a little remote. I put people in all the windows to make it a happier place.”

Once again her tongue had run away with her.

But now that she’d met him, she understood why she’d felt those emotions. Like his building, he was aloof, yet magnificent. He was wonderful, in a scary, exciting kind of way.

When she discovered him staring at her with a strange look in his eyes, she hurriedly bent to her task, trying to pretend she was alone, but it was impossible to forget he was in the room with her.

Every so often she found herself casting him a furtive glance. He appeared to be studying each work of art with more than cursory interest. It shouldn’t have surprised her. A true art lover like himself could never remain indifferent, no matter the form. Many of the collages were bizarre, but she’d glimpsed a few which were true chefs d’oeuvres. Apparently he thought so, too.

Maybe she was a little nobody of no significance. But how she hoped he’d at least find her artwork outstanding. Then she chastised herself for speculating about foolish dreams when she knew his only interest was in getting the phone number off that yellow piece of paper.

What if it couldn’t be done? What if she couldn’t perform the required miracle?

Another five minutes passed as they continued to sift through the various canvases. Sam was beginning to wonder if her project was even in there when she heard Mr. Kostopoulos make a sound underneath his breath.

Her head jerked around in time to see him pluck one of the projects from a stack and hold it in front of him.

A smothered imprecation escaped his lips. “You made this with discarded pieces of paper?” His incredulity gave her no clue as to whether he liked her effort or not.

In a small voice she answered, “Yes.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then, “Where’s my note?”

Sam supposed the gruffness in his tone was to be expected. After all, she had taken it from his private office, even if she’d found it on the floor.

“It’s in the top right window.”

By this time she’d come to stand next to him, and pointed it out with a trembling finger. She could feel his gaze studying her with a thoroughness that left her shaken.

“That’s my office.”

“I—I had no idea,” she defended. “But I’ll admit it’s an odd coincidence.”

“Is it?” he challenged.

Thank heaven Lois chose that moment to poke her head inside the gallery. “Have you found your project yet? I’m closing up now.”

“Y-yes,” Sam stammered. “We’re coming. Thanks, Lois. I owe you.”

“Just remember to get it back here before eight Monday morning. I’ve seen Dr. Giddings hold up someone’s graduation for much less.”

“You’re graduating?” Mr. Kostopoulos demanded when they had left the building and were once more ensconced in his car with the collage safely deposited in the trunk.

Sam averted her eyes from his striking features. “A week from yesterday. But you heard Lois. If my professor finds out what I’ve done, I’ll have to take the class over again to graduate. In any event, the damage will cost me a drop in grade.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. If the worst happens, I’ll explain the circumstances to your professor.”

She shook her head. “Once he’s made up his mind, I doubt even you could sway Dr. Giddings.”

“We’ll see,” was all he condescended to say until they’d retraced their steps and had come in sight of his office building. That’s when she started to panic. He was expecting results she couldn’t promise to produce.

“Mr. Kostopoulos—I need special tools and am going to have to go to my apartment. If you’ll drop me off there, you can keep your appointment. I’ll phone you when I’ve finished.”

“What is your address?”

Pleased he was so amenable to the suggestion, she gave him directions, then sat back in relief because they’d be parting company shortly.

She would never be able to work with him standing over her shoulder. Not only was she nervous about the outcome, she was too aware of him on a physical level to pretend indifference to his presence.

“Turn left at the next light. My apartment is on the south, in the middle of the block. The traffic is so bad you’d better just let me out on the corner.”

As he slowed for the light, she reached for the door handle, but the catch didn’t give. Her head whipped around. “Will you please undo the lock?”

Her request fell on deaf ears because he had pulled a cellular phone from the inside of his suit jacket and was telling his secretary to reschedule his appointment for the following week.

Suddenly Sam’s heart began to race because she had this horrible premonition that he intended to come up to her apartment and watch her perform the required surgery.

There were several reasons why she couldn’t allow him over her threshold. For one thing, her one-bedroom apartment was in complete chaos. For another, there simply wasn’t enough room inside for both of them. The kitchen and living area were combined. The only place he’d be able to sit down was the couch, and it would take her five minutes just to clear a space for him.

She started to tell him he couldn’t park in the zone marked for trucks making deliveries, then realized it was pointless. A man like Mr. Kostopoulos wrote his own rules.

By the time she was freed from the confines of the car, he’d removed her collage from the trunk and had preceded her to the front doors of the building.

Once inside the outer lobby, she punched in the code which gave access to the elevator entrance. Already she was feeling claustrophobic.

Taking a deep breath she said, “It won’t be necessary for you to come all the way up. If you’ll give me a number where you can be reached, I’ll call you the second I’ve finished.”

The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside. His dark eyes swept over her once more. “I’m already in the neighborhood. There’s no point in my leaving until I get what I came for.”

At that remark, they rode the rest of the way to the seventh floor in silence. He followed at her heel until they came to her apartment three doors down the hall.

Before she could bring herself to unlock it, she turned to him, slightly out of breath. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited in your car.”

His brows furrowed. “If you’re worried what your lover will think, I’ll be happy to explain why your privacy is being invaded.”

Heat swarmed her cheeks. “There isn’t enough room for me, let alone anyone else.”

He gave a negligent shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Then I don’t see the problem. My childhood was spent in a room not much larger than a closet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She clenched her teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not ready for company?”

“I’m not company,” he retorted with maddening non chalance. “Come. Give me the key.”

In the next instance he’d removed it from her rigid fingers and had opened the door, signaling that she should precede him.

That brief contact of skin against skin sent a quickening through her body she’d never experienced before. The sensation electrified her, confusing her on too many levels.

“Where shall I put this so you can get started?”

The bland question indicated that he hadn’t been fazed by the brush of their fingers. She berated herself for reacting so foolishly, and marched over to the card table where she whisked away some orange peels, the visible remains of a breakfast hastily swallowed earlier that day.

Without apology she muttered, “You can put it down here.”

Of necessity, he had to follow in her footsteps, stepping over not only her hair dryer, but the spray-stained newspaper still spread on the floor.

Last night she’d given her project a final protective coating, but because of the inclement weather, her apartment had felt more humid than usual. She was so afraid the collage wouldn’t dry out, she’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to speed the process by using her hair dryer.

“I’ll look for my hammer and chisel.”

Along with most of her other art supplies, she’d put the tools from her sculpture class in the tiny linen cupboard next to the bathroom. But since her sophomore year, she’d stored a lot of dyes and acrylics there, as well. It took some doing to find what she needed, and she ended up putting everything on the floor to be cleaned up later.

When she returned to the living room-cum-kitchen with her tools and put them on the card table, she found Mr. Kostopoulos perched on the arm of the couch studying the latest tablecloth she’d created. It was one to which she’d applied a hot wax design, then dyed, before draping across her secondhand couch to dry out.

With nowhere to pace in her postage stamp dwelling, he’d had little alternative but to plant himself there, unless he’d wanted to remain standing.

Suddenly she saw something clasped in his left hand. To her horror it turned out to be her rolling pin which she used for everything under the sun except cooking.

For the first time since meeting him, she thought she detected a tiny flicker of mirth in the black recesses of his eyes. He held up the well-worn kitchen utensil whose roller contained so many dents it resembled the surface of the moon. “I presume you keep this handy in case of intruders.”

She blinked. Until he’d mentioned it, she hadn’t thought of using her rolling pin as a weapon. “What a wonderful idea!”

Her spontaneity must have amused him because his lips twitched ever so slightly, a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

“Actually, I used it to create my collage.”

In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”

“You want me to explain?”

“Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”

His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.

In another aside he added, “I’m fascinated to discover how this instrument contributed to the final product.”

Did he even like the final product? He still hadn’t said a word about it.

“If you really want to know, I’ll demonstrate.”

Without meeting his penetrating gaze, she took the rolling pin from his hand, then tore off a corner of the newspaper lying on the floor.

She could sense his body next to hers as she wadded the paper in her palm, then cleared a glass and some cutlery from her minuscule counter so she’d have room to work. Placing the little wad in the center, she began pressing it down with the roller. She ran over it this way, then that.

“You have to do this about ten times until you achieve the desired crinkled effect. I did this to every piece of paper in the collage so that each one resembled an old man’s weathered face. Then I opened the paper and applied a hair spray meant to add lighter streaks to dull blond hair. Every tiny crease captured the glaze, gilding it, producing an all-over effect not unlike faience, a kind of fine porcelain with thousands of weblike lines.

“After the piece dried, I cupped it in my palm, shaping it to resemble people or the Greek motif on the outside of your building. Then I curled the ends under, and dipped them in wallpaper paste before working the treated paper into the collage.

“As you can see—” Her eyes darted to the canvas propped on the card table. “The spray enhanced every color, but more importantly, the overall impression should convince the viewer that he’s looking at a collage made of the most translucent bone china.” After a slight pause, “At least, it’s supposed to create that effect.”

“Rest assured you achieved your goal. In fact, you achieved a great deal more than that,” came the cryptic comment. As he said the words, his dark gaze trapped her astonished one, sending a strange thrill of sensation chasing across her skin.

Unused to the hairs standing on the back of her neck, she rushed over to the card table to begin her task.

Out of the periphery, she watched him approach her only folding chair and examine the half dozen remnants of upholstery cloth she’d hand woven before he fingered various fishnet chains she’d designed. They were hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.

While he was thus engrossed, she laid the canvas flat on the tabletop. Using her hip for leverage, she positioned it against the wall. Carefully she placed the edge of the chisel at the base of the window in the collage and started to tap the handle with the hammer.

But she hadn’t counted on the card table jiggling under the pressure.

It caused the canvas to slide, which in turn sent the sharp end of the chisel into the fleshy portion of her palm. Unknowingly she cried out as blood gushed all over her artwork.

She had no idea anyone of Mr. Kostopoulos’s size could move as fast as he did. In a lightning gesture he’d pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and had grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding.

Oblivious to the pain, her heart began to thud from the close proximity of their bodies. She heard him mutter another unrepeatable epithet. “The wound is too deep to close by itself. You’re going to need stitches and a tetanus shot.”

“I’ll be all right,” she murmured breathily. For some reason, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. She had to fight the urge to cling to him and draw from his strength. “I don’t have any insurance and can’t afford a visit to the doctor.”

“You think I’d let you pay when I was the one who forced the issue?” His scathing tone left her in little doubt he was taking full responsibility. “We’re leaving for my doctor now.”

“But my collage! I’ve got to get the blood off it.”

No sooner had she spoken those words than he relinquished his hold of her hand and took her canvas to the sink to run cold water over the soiled portion. Within seconds it looked like new again. In a deft movement, he propped it on the card table, much the same way she’d done the night before.

Immediately his concerned gaze flicked to her injured hand where she pressed the handkerchief to apply pressure.

“It’s to your credit that you had the foresight to spray the collage with a protective sealer. Otherwise the water would have permeated the paper and ruined your unique masterpiece. Now that we’ve erased that worry, we can go.”

His compliment, albeit grudgingly given, filled her with such warmth, she went along without protest.

Unbelievably, she found herself back in his car where a new, strange silence prevailed. He seemed to be in a world all his own. For that matter, so was she. The events of the last few hours had left her bemused and shaken.

As soon as they merged with the traffic, he managed to get her to a private clinic in record time.

Of course the receptionist knew him on sight, and though there were still some patients in the waiting area, one word from him and Sam was rushed into the first available examining room.

Apparently Dr. Strike was a compatriot of her abductor. The second the attractive, dark-haired man breezed inside, his face broke out in a broad smile. “Perseus!” he called to Mr. Kostopoulos, and they began conversing in Greek like longtime friends.

Sam sat there in stunned surprise. The image of the god Hades faded from her mind as she remembered her favorite story from Greek mythology.

The strong, handsome Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae, rejected by his mother’s abductor, the cunning King Polydectes, set out to prove he could do anything, even free his mother, and eventually brought home not only the head of Medusa to turn the king and his courtiers to stone, but acquired a wife in the form of the beautiful Andromeda whom he rescued from the sea monster.

It may have been a coincidence, but to a large degree, Mr. Kostopoulos’s life appeared to have paralleled that of the mythical Perseus. As today’s world viewed him, Perseus Kostopoulos was a presence to reckon with. Even Sam had attributed him with godlike characteristics the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.

Were there more similarities? Was he on a quest of some kind? Was there still a woman to be rescued whom he’d make his own?

For an unknown reason, those fanciful thoughts were very disturbing to Sam who could wish she were that special woman he’d been roaming the world to find.

Realizing what dangerous channels her thoughts were drifting into, she made a determined effort to concentrate on the doctor’s instructions as he put in three stitches, bound her hand with gauze and gave her a tetanus shot. All the while he spoke, she felt his speculative gaze.

Naturally he was trying to work out why someone of Perseus Kostopoulos’s stature would be in the company of an insignificant college student like herself.

Though too discreet to be obvious, Sam sensed the doctor’s curiosity which, oddly enough, her companion hadn’t satisfied. Apparently he wished to keep the particulars of their association to himself.

As soon as she thanked Dr. Strike for fitting her in so fast, she felt Perseus’s hand at her elbow to usher her out of the clinic. Already he’d taken on the persona of the strong and brave Greek god in her mind, and she no longer thought of him as Mr. Kostopoulos.