Bride by Day. Rebecca Winters

woven, others were hand-painted or stenciled. He didn’t even bother to lift his head to acknowledge her presence, let alone apologize for the liberty he’d taken.

      “Where did you get these?” he asked in that low, vibrant voice she’d be able to recognize out of a thousand others.

      “I made them.”

      His dark head reared back, and he sent her a piercing glance she couldn’t decipher. “If that’s true, then you have a touch of genius in you.”

      “You think?” Her words came out more like a squeak.

      “You mean you don’t know?” He actually sounded angry.

      Inordinately pleased by the compliment, she forgot to be mad and smiled at him. For Perseus Kostopoulos, a known art lover and head of one of the world’s most prestigious textile companies, to give her such an unsolicited accolade, gave her hope that she wasn’t wasting her time completely.

      Over the years Sam had received compliments on her work from her peers, but for some reason, she’d never elicited praise from her professors.

      There had been times when she’d been tempted to tell them she was Jules Gregory’s daughter, in order to evoke even a little recognition. But pride had always held her back. If she couldn’t succeed on her own, then she refused to trade on her father’s name.

      As far as Sam was concerned, he was a despicable man who couldn’t have cared less that her mother had passed away, or that his daughter had been left on her own.

      Swallowing her bitterness, Sam leaned over to get the solvent, then headed for the kitchen. Perseus followed her and took the can from her hand to open the lid. Again she felt the brush of his skin with a sense of wonder and trembling.

      Refusing to meet his eyes which had been studying her since her flight from the bedroom, she rummaged for a dish in the cupboard. “If your secretary wrote the number in pen, the solvent won’t destroy it. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it might wash out any notations made by pencil.”

      “She uses both,” he muttered, before pouring some liquid into the bowl she handed him. “That’s the chance we’ll have to take.” So saying, he put the crumpled piece of yellow paper in the liquid. “How long shall I leave it in?”

      Her injured hand had started to throb. Worse, she could feel a headache coming on, probably because this wasn’t going to work, and then he’d leave and she’d never see him again.

      The idea that he might be walking out of her life in a few minutes was enough to bring on a migraine, let alone the sense of loss to her heart.

      “Give it a minute, then take it out and test it to see how soft it’s getting.”

      He did as she suggested, then shook his head. “It needs more time.”

      “Leave it another two minutes.”

      Once again he submerged it.

      She watched from a little way off, consumed by curiosity, and the nagging fear that her time alone with him was numbered by precious minutes ticking away far too fast.

      Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer she blurted, “Why is this particular number so important to you?”

      His body tautened, making her wish she’d kept silent.

      “Twenty years ago my beloved fiancée plunged a knife into my jaw, then disappeared.”

      His fiancée?

      “I’ve been looking for her ever since.”

      Sam’s musings had been right. He was on a quest for the woman who’d undoubtedly marked him in ways that went much deeper than his scar. Sam already hated that woman with a ferocity she couldn’t even explain to herself.

      “Little by little the field of the search has narrowed,” he spoke on, unaware of her uncharitable thoughts toward the woman he loved. “She’s grown tired of running from me. Quite the reverse,” he muttered grimly. “In fact, my sources indicate she’s probably the one who phoned my office leaving her private phone number with Mrs. Athas.”

      The explanation was so shocking, so different from the picture Sam had in her mind of his being scarred in a street fight, she started to shiver and couldn’t stop.

      “But if she loved you enough to get engaged, and you loved her—”

      His features hardened. “More than life itself. We made our own vows on Delos, at the temple of Apollo.”

      His admission shouldn’t have devastated her. Perseus Kostopoulos couldn’t possibly mean anything to her.

      But he did...

      “Then why—”

      “I think this is soft enough now,” he broke in without answering her burning question. Something told her she’d heard all she was going to hear.

      Sam hadn’t been aware of holding her breath until he unfolded the edges of the yellow note. Her heart plummeted to her feet because the writing was no longer there.

      As if he’d suddenly been scalded, he let the paper fall to the counter.

      “I’m so sorry,” she whispered in anguish. “I—I wish to heaven I’d never cleaned your office.”

      “It’s too late for regrets, Ms. Telford.” The words dropped like rocks. “Where is the wallpaper paste? I’ll repair the damage to your collage.”

      “That won’t be necessary. I’ll do it.”

      “Not with an injured hand.”

      Like lightning he disappeared, then returned with the paste which he’d found on the floor in the hall.

      In very little time he’d put the missing piece back so that it looked as if it had never been removed. All she would have to do was spray that spot one more time to make it like new.

      “Thank you,” she murmured, but doubted he’d heard her because he’d retrieved his cellular phone from his suit jacket and was talking to someone in Greek. Undoubtedly he was calling one of his contacts to let them know he’d been unsuccessful in obtaining the phone number.

      Any second now he’d leave her apartment and be lost to her forever. She couldn’t bear it, but what could she do unless she held him prisoner at gunpoint. The only problem was, she didn’t own a gun because she didn’t believe in them.

      What an irony that this was the , first time she’d ever wished to own a firearm. A double irony because she would use it to keep Perseus inside, instead of out.

      When he’d finished his conversation, he eyed her intently.

      Here it comes. He’s about to tell me goodbye, and I’ll never be the same again.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “I’VE canceled my appointment and arranged for our dinner to be delivered.”

      Sam reeled and held on to the couch back for support. “What?”

      “After what I’ve put you through today, I need to make amends. Furthermore, I’m hungry and wager you are too.”

      “Well, yes...but—”

      “Then it’s settled,” he cut in without a qualm. “While you obey doctor’s orders and rest, I’ll clean things up.”

      “No, please. I can’t let you do that.”

      “You’re in no position to stop me. By the way, while we were at the doctor, I contacted Manhattan Cleaners and told them about your injury. The person in charge said you should take off as much time as you needed to heal. I told them you’d get back to them in a few days.”

      On that succinct note he began tidying the room. Sam sank back on the couch, too bemused by the circumstances to argue. Someone upstairs had