The Millionaires' Cinderellas. Sharon Kendrick

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      Because the weirdest thing was that this trip seemed horribly similar to the first and only other she’d made to America—and that only increased her anxiety level. Because all those years ago, she’d been at the beck and call of a wealthy man who had called all the shots and now she was in exactly the same position. The main difference was that Louis had been weak—something her immaturity had failed to pick up on at the time. And Zak was the opposite. Zak was strong. Inside she knew that, though she wasn’t quite sure how. Just something bone-deep and certain assured her that the Greek tyrant had a core of steel.

      What did he really want from her? The promise that she would leave his brother alone—was that all he wanted?

      The car began travelling downtown and Emma looked out through the smoky windows at the brightly lit department stores. There was Sacs on Fifth—where Louis had once bought her a costly and rather traditional pearl necklace, then been delighted when she’d wrapped it around her blond hair like a coronet. That was one of the better memories—but there were bleak ones, too, piling in on her now like dark spectres.

      The giant billboards and lights of Broadway reminded her of the Yankee Stadium where the Patterson band had been poised to make their big comeback—until it was cancelled at the last minute when a shocked promoter realised that the lead singer was barely able to stand. And there was St Patrick’s Cathedral, where she’d crept in to light a candle and to quietly weep for the death of her marriage and soon after that, for the death of her husband.

      Shaking her head as if to clear some space, she became aware that Central Park was sliding past and that the car was now purring to a halt outside Zak’s Pembroke hotel.

      She tried to take in all the beautiful details which she’d only ever seen on promotional literature. The art-deco exterior and the revolving door fashioned from rich, dark wood. The lamps made of wrought-iron and the carefully shaped box trees which added a splash of green to the urban environment. A doorman opened the door and she stepped into the gleaming marble lobby to see an enormous chandelier, its diamond shards glittering light down onto ornate displays of flowers.

      In the confusion of a changed time zone and being in a foreign city, she felt a little disorientated. Should she go over to the main desk and ask whether Mr Constantinides had left a message for her? Or …

      And then suddenly she was aware of a man towering over her. Of the olive-skinned hand which had reached out to pick up her suitcase as effortlessly as if it had been filled with butterflies rather than a rather large amount of shoes.

      ‘Welcome to New York,’ said a sexy and horribly familiar voice and she found herself staring up into the granite features of Zak Constantinides. Was that triumph she could read in his grey eyes? Very probably—since he’d got exactly what he wanted. He’d had her being shipped over to New York as if she were some kind of human parcel!

      She wanted to react to him with nothing but cool indifference but somehow that wasn’t as easy as it should have been. She felt daunted by him, and she felt attracted to him, too, despite her determination not to be. It didn’t help that today he looked curiously accessible. He wore a soft cashmere sweater of the same hue as his eyes which hugged his muscular torso, along with jeans which emphasised the powerful thrust of his long legs. Once again she found herself acutely aware of his presence as a man and she didn’t want to be aware of him that way!

      Beneath her own warm jacket—bought specially to withstand the potential cold of the November weather—Emma shivered.

      ‘You’re cold?’ he questioned.

      ‘A bit,’ she said airily, terrified that he’d guess her involuntary shudder had been more about desire than temperature. ‘I always find American hotels a bit heavy-handed with the air conditioning. And why on earth are you carrying my suitcase?’

      ‘Why not? You object to a little old-fashioned chivalry, do you?’

      There hadn’t exactly been a lot of old-fashioned chivalry in Emma’s life and for a moment she was a little taken aback. ‘You greet all your guests in this way, do you?’

      ‘Not all of them, no. But for you, Emma—I’m prepared to make an exception.’ The words came out of his mouth before he realised that he meant them. Zak didn’t stop to ask himself why he had been watching the clock until he’d heard from his driver that her flight had touched down safely. Or why he’d felt the leap of his heart and the heat of his groin when he’d known that she was heading towards the city.

      Yet wasn’t the truth of it that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her? That she had entered his night-time dreams like some pale and unwanted intruder, with her green eyes and the moon-pale spill of her hair. Hadn’t he found himself wanting her with an ache which had been intense and unfamiliar?

      It was interesting that his fantasies weren’t matched by the reality of seeing her again—because she certainly hadn’t dressed up. Her face was completely bare of make-up, the stark ponytail was back and the clothes she wore beneath her functional jacket were distinctly unimpressive. Her muted appearance should have been a real anticlimax and yet she possessed an indefinable something which made him want to study the way the light fell on her chiselled cheekbones and the faint golden sprinkling of freckles over her nose. Just how did she do that air of vulnerability so beautifully? he wondered. Had she worked on her technique, just as a tennis player might work on her backhand?

      ‘You must be tired,’ he said softly as he became aware of the faint shadows beneath her eyes. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you where you’re staying—and then you can start thinking about dinner.’

      His words penetrated Emma’s befuddled thoughts, shook her out of the somewhat dazed acknowledgement that his gaze was focused on her like a laser beam and that her body was glowing in response. ‘You mean, I’m going to be staying here? At the Pembroke?’

      ‘Of course you are. As you’re only here on secondment for a few weeks it makes much more sense. Where else did you think you’d be staying?’

      She’d imagined some small studio apartment on the lower side of town. Somewhere where she’d be woken up by the early-morning sounds of street cleaning and kept awake by late-night revelry. The kind of place where it would be tough to find a taxi. Somewhere as far away from Zak as possible.

      ‘It was such a rush to get out here that I didn’t stop to think where I’d be staying,’ she said, her dismissive air not quite ringing true.

      ‘Well, you’re here now—so you can relax.’

      She was aware of people staring at them as they crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. Some of those were the staff, obviously—probably wondering why their boss was carrying the suitcase of this rather ordinary-looking guest. But some of the guests were giving them the once-over, too. Younger women wearing conspicuous signs of wealth had openly envious looks on their faces, while their older male partners glanced up briefly from where they were tapping addictively on their computers.

      Zak didn’t speak until the elevator doors had shut out the rest of the world and he found himself alone with her. She was staring steadfastly at the red arrow which was indicating the floor count as the lift rode upwards and it was an odd sensation to be in the company of a woman who wasn’t focusing her attention entirely on him. ‘Not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever received from a member of staff who’s just been told she’s staying in one of the world’s finest hotels,’ he observed wryly.

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