Irresistible Greeks: Unsuitable and Unforgettable. Jane Porter

obviously piqued now. “And what are the consequences if they break the gag order?”

      “Their firstborn child. All right, not quite but there are some monetary fees.”

      “You are quite deceptive, Ms. Carter.”

      “Am I?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

      “Yes. You seem so sunny. Soft,” he said, his dark eyes settling on her breasts. “And yet … you are cynical. More so even than I am, I think. Which is really quite something.”

      She swallowed and angled her face away from him. She could still feel him looking at her. “Call it cynical if you like, I call it realism. Human nature is what human nature is. No matter how much someone thinks they love you, if being with you starts to conflict with their ultimate goals … well, it won’t take much for them to start believing that they don’t love you anymore. That’s why I work to find people who have united goals and interests. Things that are concrete. Much more concrete than love. Whatever that is. I’m a realist, that’s all.”

      “Cynic. Realist. Whatever the case, you certainly aren’t soft.”

      She shook her head. “No. Being soft hurts too much.”

      She had no idea why she was telling him so much. What was inspiring her to give away any of her tightly guarded self to this man. She only knew that it was easier to talk around him than to hold it in. That was new. Strange.

      She’d always found it easier to just keep it all stuffed inside. Locked behind a wall of iron, defended by her sharp wit. Easier to have an off-the-cuff, half-serious response to everything than to let someone see her true self.

      And yet, with Stavros, she had shared.

      So pointless and silly. Irritating even, because there was no reason for her to choose him as a confidante. No reason at all. She didn’t have a confidante. She didn’t need one.

      So stop it, already.

      “You’re right about that,” he said, his voice different now. Serious. Lacking that mischief that was usually present. “Emotion … it can eat you alive. Steal every good intention. Every concept of responsibility. We’ll be staying in my private villa,” he said, changing the subject neatly. And she was grateful.

      “We? As in … the two of us?”

      “What did you imagine might happen, Jessica?” he asked. Her ears pricked and her heart stuttered at the use of her first name. It felt … intimate.

      “I thought maybe we’d stay in a hotel and I’d have my own room.” Perhaps a floor or twelve away from his.

      “I prefer not to stay in hotels, if I can help it, and you may reserve your comments on the irony of that.”

      She arched an eyebrow. “How did you know I had a comment ready?”

      “You always have a comment ready.”

      “True,” she agreed.

      “The villa is big. You won’t have to run into me at all, unless it’s work-related. If you don’t want to, that is.”

      His voice dropped a step when he said that last part, his words a husky invitation that her body was aching to respond to.

      “Why … why would I want to?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky.

      “You’re the only one who can answer that,” he said.

      She knew what her answer would be. And it would be completely inappropriate. “Well. I won’t. Come looking for you, that is. For anything besides work.”

      He nodded slowly and leaned back in his seat. “Probably a wise decision.”

      Probably. And she shouldn’t regret making it. But she did.

CHAPTER FIVE

      THE villa was everything a prince’s Grecian villa should be. Windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the room, offering views of the Aegean that were incomparable. Everything was washed in white and blue, reflecting the pale sun and glittering sea.

      “You have a room on the second floor. Ocean view,” he said.

      “Are there any non-ocean views available?” she asked.

      “Not many. But I like to be near the sea. The product of my island upbringing, I would imagine. I used to …” A strange expression crossed his face. “I used to like watching the ships come into harbor. Or sail out to sea.” He cleared his throat. “Until I became a teenager, and just enjoyed watching women walk around in bikini bottoms. Either way, I’ve always liked the beach.”

      “North Dakota’s not by the ocean. It’s landlocked.”

      “I know. And the idea of it makes me feel claustrophobic. How do you stand it?”

      “I leave. A lot.” Her hometown made her feel claustrophobic more often than not, in truth. Especially since she always ran the risk of seeing Gil and Sarah if she went grocery shopping. And now it was Gil and Sarah and Aiden.

      Suddenly the fresh ocean air seemed too briny, too harsh. Her throat tightened against it.

      “That’s one solution,” he said.

      “A temporary one.”

      “Why not make it permanent?”

      Because then she really would have to let go. “I own a house. It’s nice. I have … petunias.”

      “And I have bougainvillea. There are flowers everywhere.”

      “But they’re my flowers.” And it was the place she could go and rehash where her dreams had started. And where they had ended.

      No. Not ended. Changed. She was just hunting for some new ones now. Well, that was total garbage. She had a bunch of new ones. She was successful. She had awesome shoes. She helped people find … well, lasting marriage if not love.

      “You could transplant them.”

      She sighed. “Oh, come on, Stavros, they’re only petunias.”

      He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, catching her off guard. “Perhaps find me a woman you wouldn’t mind spending time with.”

      His suggestion caught her off guard more than his laughter. “What do you mean by that?”

      “You’re funny. Quick. I imagine you don’t hang out with people who bore you.”

      “I don’t hang out with much of anyone these days, outside of a working relationship, but you’re right, I don’t.”

      “So, find me someone you would be amused by. Someone who has better things to talk about than the weather.”

      “The weather here is lovely,” she said, unable to resist.

      “Things like that,” he said, amusement lacing his tone. “Find a woman who does things like that.”

      “So someone who’s like me, but not me.”

      “Exactly.”

      He was teasing. And even if he weren’t, there was no way she could be suitable. She wasn’t sweet and demure. She didn’t know how to do a royal wave. And she wasn’t fertile. Not even maybe.

      The only requirement she met was being a woman, a broken one. And that just wasn’t enough.

      Still, when she looked at her ex-husband’s curvy, blonde new wife, she felt like he had gone and done that same thing. A woman who was her, but not her. He’d found a replacement model with a working, intact uterus.

      It was something that still burned no matter how hard she tried to pretend it didn’t. She didn’t