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.
With a sense of déjà vu they returned to her apartment where he submitted her to more toe-curling scrutiny. “While you obey doctor’s orders and keep your hand elevated, I’ll fix you something to drink and get to work.”
Actually, she felt too weak to argue with him. Deep inside she knew her injury played only a minor part in what was really ailing her, but she’d rather die than allow him to discern the truth—that his presence was wreaking havoc with her emotions.
As an unfamiliar lethargy depleted her energy, she removed the tablecloth from the couch and sank down in one corner, content to watch him for a change. In a few hours she’d have to report to her night job and didn’t know how she was going to make it to the front door, let alone walk the eight blocks in the warm May drizzle.
“There’s some tea in the cupboard over the stove.”
As if he were used to this, he shed his suit jacket and tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and boiled some water. Through half-closed eyes she watched him maneuver in the tiny space, obviously no stranger to mundane tasks when necessity dictated.
Though he dwarfed her apartment, she had to admit she liked his solid male presence, and didn’t mind the invasion as much as she’d supposed.
Despite their cajolings, no other man had ever made it past her front door. Perseus, on the other hand, had simply removed the key from her trembling fingers and taken over her apartment and her life. And you let him Sam, because you couldn’t help yourself. You still can’t...
Her head fell back against the couch. She had to admit that for a little while it felt good to be waited on. So good, in fact, she almost forgot the reason for his unexpected entry into her life. That is until he handed her a cup of hot tea before going to work on her collage.
He seemed to know exactly what he was about. When he bent over to dislodge the note with her tools, she noticed the play of muscle across his shoulders, the strength of his rugged physique. If she were into drawing human figures, he’d make a perfect model in all his raw, male splendor.
Once more upset at the direction of her uncontrollable thoughts, she drank her tea thirstily. He’d made it strong, and had added more sugar than she generally used. Her mouth curved upward. Greeks had a noted penchant for sweets. She guessed he was no exception.
“I’ve worked it loose,” his deep voice announced with satisfaction. “What’s the next step?”
Totally engrossed in thoughts of his likes and dislikes, she didn’t realize until too late that he’d caught her staring at him. This time prickly heat washed over her entire body, even to the roots of her abundant gold hair.
Quickly averting her eyes she murmured, “I intended to use a solvent to loosen the paste and soften the paper enough to open it. Just a moment and I’ll get it.”
“Tell me where it is and I’ll find it.”
The authority in his tone warned her that if she tried to get up, he’d use his daunting physical strength to prevent her from leaving the couch.
Faced with the knowledge that he’d have to get into her bedroom closet to locate the solvent, she didn’t know which alternative was the most unpalatable. Especially considering that her more intimate apparel and nightware hung from hooks on the door.
Of course a woman’s underclothing would hold no mystery for a man like Perseus Kostopoulos, but it wouldn’t be just any woman’s undergarments practically hitting him in the face. They would be hers.
Perhaps most women didn’t care, but she’d never grown up with a father or brothers. Since her morals prevented her from having an intimate relationship with a man outside of marriage, she’d been very selective about the men she had allowed in her life.
To date she’d only had one semiserious boyfriend. When he found out she expected marriage before going to bed with him, he accused her of being an outdated prude, and he moved on to someone else. That was just fine with her. She preferred her solitary existence, and hadn’t counted on an unknown entity like Perseus knocking the foundations out from under her.
“Why the hesitation?” he mocked, seemingly as amused by her reticence as he was irritated.
She closed her eyes in defeat and lay back against the cushion with her hand propped upright. “I-it’s in a box on the closet floor in the bedroom.”
He’d disappeared before she had the courage to open them again. Several minutes passed by with no sign of him. When he didn’t come back out, she started to grow nervous and got off the couch to investigate.
Revived by the tea, she didn’t feel as unsteady as before and hurriedly made her way to the bedroom.
“The box is in plain—” But the rest of the words never came out of her mouth. He had virtually emptied the contents of her closet. Not the stuff on the shelves or floor, but everything on hangers, mainly samples of fabrics she’d been designing since her early teens.
In .actuality, the contents bore more resemblance to the materials of an upholstery department in a furniture store than they did a woman’s wardrobe. The few ancient skirts and blouses she possessed had been shoved into one corner.
He’d laid out the large samples across her unmade twin bed. Some were 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,
