The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife. Sandra Marton

back at you from magazine covers, you expected it. It was part of the price you paid for success in the world of modeling.

      Men noticed you. They looked at you.

      But not like this.

      The expression on Damian Aristedes’s face spoke of contempt, not desire. How dare he be disdainful of her? She’d made a devil’s bargain—she knew that, had known it almost from the beginning—but she’d been prepared to stand by that bargain even if it tore out her heart.

      Not him.

      He was the man who’d started this. Now, he was pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about.

      That was fine. It was perfect. It meant she’d kept her promise and now she was free to put the past behind her and concentrate on the future. On the child she’d soon have.

      Her child, not his.

      It was just infuriating to have him look at her as if she were a liar and a cheat.

      Except, there’d been a moment, more than one, when she’d caught him watching her in a different way, his eyes glinting not with disdain but with hunger.

      Hunger only she could ease.

      And when that had happened, she’d felt—she’d felt—

      “You’re as transparent as glass, Miss Madison.”

      Years of letting the camera steal her face but never her thoughts kept Ivy from showing any reaction.

      “How interesting. Do you read minds when you’re not busy evading responsibility, Your Highness?”

      “You’re trying to come up with a way to capitalize on that moment of shock I showed when you told me I was your baby’s father.” He smiled thinly. “Trust me. You can’t.”

      He was partly right. She was trying to come up with a way to capitalize on something, but not that.

      Ivy took a steadying breath.

      “I’ll be happy to leave, happier still never to see you again, Prince Damian. But first—”

      “Ah. But first, you want a check for…How much? A hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand? A million? Don’t shake your head, Miss Madison. We both know you have a price in mind.”

      Another steadying breath. “Not a check.”

      “Cash, then. It doesn’t matter.”

      The icy little smile slipped from his lips and she repressed a shudder. The prince would be a formidable enemy.

      “I don’t want money. I want a letter. A document that makes it clear you’re giving up all rights to the child in my womb.”

      He laughed. Laughed, damn him!

      “Thee mou, lady. Don’t you know when to quit?”

      “Sign it, date it and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

      His laughter stopped with the speed of a faucet turning off. “Enough,” he said through his teeth. “Get out of my home before I do something we’ll both regret.”

      “Just a letter,” she said. “A few lines—”

      He said something in what she assumed was Greek. She didn’t understand the words but she didn’t have to as he gripped her by the shoulders, spun her around, put a hand in the small of her back and shoved her forward.

      “And if you’re foolish enough to tell your ridiculous story to anyone—”

      The thing to do was hire a lawyer. Except, he’d hire a dozen for every one she could afford. He had power. Money. Status. Still, there had to be a way. There had to be!

      “And if you really are knocked up, if some man was stupid enough to let your face blind him to the scheming bitch you really are—”

      Ivy spun around, swung her fist and caught him in the jaw. He was big and strong and hard as nails but she caught him off guard. He blinked and staggered back. It took him all of a second to recover but it was enough to send a warm rush of pleasure through her blood.

      “You—you pompous ass,” she hissed. She marched forward, index finger aimed at his chest, and jabbed it right into the center of his starched white shirt, her fear gone, everything forgotten but his impossible arrogance. “This isn’t about you and who you are and how much money you have. It isn’t about you at all! I don’t want anything from you, Prince Damian. I never—”

      She gasped as he caught her by the elbows and lifted her to her toes.

      “You don’t want anything from me, huh?” Damian’s lips drew back from his teeth as he bent his head toward hers. “That’s why you came here? Because you don’t want anything from me?”

      “I came because I thought I owed it to you but I was wrong. I don’t. And I warn you, letter or no letter, if you should change your mind a month from now, a decade from now, and try and claim my baby—”

      “Damn you,” he roared, “there is no baby!”

      “Whatever you say.”

      “The truth at last!”

      “Truth?” Ivy laughed in his face. “You wouldn’t know it if it bit you in the tail!”

      “I know that I never took you to bed.”

      “Let go!”

      “How come you didn’t factor that into your little scheme?” Damian yanked her wrist, dragged it behind her back. She flinched but she’d sooner have eaten nails than let him know he was hurting her. “You made several mistakes, Miss Madison. One, I don’t drink to excess. Two, I never forget a woman I’ve been with.” His gaze swept over her with slow deliberation before returning to her face. “Believe me, lady, if I’d had you, I’d remember.”

      “I’m done talking about that.”

      “But I’m not.” He drew her closer, until they were a breath apart. “Why should I be? You said we were intimate. I said we weren’t. Why not settle the question?”

      “It isn’t worth settling. And I never said we’d been intimate.”

      His lips drew back from his teeth. “Ah, Ivy, Ivy, you disappoint me. Backing down already?” His smile vanished; his eyes turned cold. “Come on, glyka mou. Here’s your chance. Convince me we slept together. Remind me of what it was like.”

      “Stop it. Stop it! I’m warning you, let me—”

      She gasped as Damian slipped one hand lightly around her throat.

      “A woman can only taunt a man for so long before he retaliates. Surely someone with your skills should have learned that by now.”

      “You’re wrong! You know the truth, that we never—”

      Damian kissed her.

      Her mouth was cool and soft, and she made a little sound of terrified protest.

      That was how she made it sound, anyway.

      It was all part of the act. Part of a performance. Part of who she was and why she was here and…

      And she tasted sweet, sweeter than the first time he’d kissed her, maybe because he knew the shape of her mouth now. The fullness of it.

      The sexy silkiness.

      She cried out again, jammed her hand against his chest and Damian told himself it was time to let go of her.

      He’d accomplished what he wanted, met her challenge, showed her that she had no power over him…

      His arousal was swift. He put one hand at the base of her spine and pressed hard enough so she had no choice but to tilt her hips against his and feel it.

      God, he was on fire.

      Another