said it exactly that way. Nobody can get to him, was probably more accurate.
Not true, Ivy thought. Just look at the man now.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She didn’t answer. The pleasure of catching him off guard was wearing off. She’d prepared for this moment but the reality was terrifying. Her heart was hammering so hard she was half afraid he could hear it.
“You were outside Portofino’s today.”
He was gaining control of himself. His voice had taken on authority; his pale gray eyes had narrowed.
“Are you a reporter for one of those damned tabloids? I don’t give interviews.”
He really didn’t know who she was. She’d wondered about that, whether Kay had ever shown him a photo or pointed out her picture in a magazine, but she’d pretty much squelched that possibility at the restaurant, where she’d followed him from his Fifty-Seventh Street office.
He’d looked at her, but only the way most men looked at her. With interest, avarice—the kind of hunger she despised, the kind that said she was a plaything and they wanted a new toy.
Although, when this man had looked at her today, just for a second, surely no more than that, she’d felt—she’d felt—
What?
She’d seemed to lose her equilibrium. She was glad someone had joined him because she knew better than to confront him with another person around.
This discussion had to be private.
As for that loss of equilibrium or whatever it was, it only proved how dangerous Damian Aristedes was.
That he’d been able to mesmerize Kay was easy to understand. Kay had always been a fool for men.
That he’d had an effect on Ivy, even for a heartbeat, only convinced her she’d figured him right.
The prince of all he surveyed was a sleek jungle cat, constantly on the prowl. A beautiful predator. Too bad he had no soul, no heart, no—
“Are you deaf, woman? Who are you? What do you want? And how in hell did you get up here?”
He’d taken a couple of steps forward, just enough to invade her space. No question it was a subtle form of intimidation. It might have worked, too—despite her height, he was big enough so that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes—but Ivy was not a stranger to intimidation.
Growing up, she’d been bullied by experts. It could only hurt if you gave in to it.
“Three questions,” she said briskly. “Did you want them answered in order, or am I free to pick and choose?”
He moved quickly, grasped her wrist and forced her arm behind her back. It hurt; his grip was strong, his hands hard. She hadn’t expected a show of physical strength from a pampered aristocrat but she didn’t flinch.
“Take your hand off me.”
“It’ll take me one second to phone for the police and tell them there’s an intruder in my home. Is that what you want?”
“You’re the one who won’t want the police involved in this, Your Highness.”
His gray eyes focused on hers. “Because?”
Now, Ivy thought, and took a steadying breath.
“My name is Ivy.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.
“Ivy Madison,” she added, as if that would make the difference.
He didn’t even blink. He was either a damned good actor or—A tingle of alarm danced over her skin.
“You are—you are Damian Aristedes?”
He smiled thinly. “A little late to ask but yes, that’s who I am.”
“Then—then surely, you recognize my name…”
“I do not.”
“I’m Kay’s sister. Her stepsister.”
That got a reaction. His eyes turned cold. He let go of her wrist, or maybe it made more sense to say he dropped it. She half expected him to wipe his hand on his trousers. Instead he stepped back.
“Here to pay a condolence call three months late?”
“I’d have thought you’d have been the one to call me.”
He laughed, although the sound he made had no mirth to it.
“Now, why in hell would I do that? For starters, I never knew Kay had a sister.” He paused. “That is, if you really are her sister.”
“What are you talking about? Certainly I’m her sister. And, of course you know about me.”
The woman who claimed to be Kay’s sister spoke with authority. Not that Damian believed she really was who she claimed to be.
At the very least she was up to no good. Why approach him this way instead of phoning or e-mailing? What the hell was going on here?
Only one way to find out, Damian thought, and reached for his cell phone, lying on the marble-topped table beside the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling your bluff. You won’t answer my questions? Fine. You can tell your story to the cops.”
“You’d better think twice before you pick up that phone, Mr. Aristedes.”
His intruder had started out full of conviction, like a poker player sure of a winning hand, but that had changed. Her voice had gone from strong to shaken; those green eyes—so green he wondered if she were wearing contact lenses—had gone wide.
A scam, he thought coldly. She was trying to set him up for something. The only question was, what?
“Prince,” he said, surprising himself with the use of his title. Generally he asked people to call him by his first or last name, not by his honorific, but if it took royal arrogance to shake his intruder’s self-control, he’d use it. “It’s Prince Damian. And I’ll give you one second to start talking. How did you get up here?”
“You mean, how did I bypass the lobby stormtroopers?”
She was trying to regain control. Damned if he’d let it happen. Damian put down the phone, angled toward her and invaded her space again so that she not only stepped back, she stepped into the corner.
No way out, except past him.
“Don’t play with me, lady. I want straight answers.”
She caught a bit of her lower lip between her teeth, worried it for a second before releasing it and quickly touching the tip of her tongue to the flesh she’d gnawed.
