took a photo. She shook her head, knowing he was capturing the architecture of Mykonos and not her. She stepped back from the railing so that he could get a better picture.
“Come inside,” Tristan said, and something in his tone put her on edge.
“What? Why?”
“We have to talk.”
Man, she hoped he wasn’t going to fire her. If he did, she could find another job as an executive assistant somewhere else in the city, but starting over was always hard.
“Let’s talk here,” she said.
“No. Come inside now.”
“Why are you—”
“Sheri, inside now.”
“Tristan, you can’t speak to me like that. I’m not your pet or slave.”
“I don’t think of you that way. Things have happened. Come inside and I will explain.”
“Is it Christos and Ava? Are they okay?”
“Yes, they are fine,” he said, reaching for her elbow and drawing her into the living room. He closed the door behind her and then clicked a button on the remote in his hand. The blinds slid slowly down, covering the windows.
“If this is how you always behave the morning after, I finally understand why women only stay with you for a short while.”
“Sheri, this is serious.”
“I was being serious,” she said, knowing that she had to find a way back to being his humorous assistant.
“You are being cheeky and another time I’d appreciate that, but not right now.”
He was starting to scare her. “Tristan, I can… Listen, it won’t be weird at work. I’m not going to be all clingy or anything.”
“I know you won’t be.”
“You’re going to fire me?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a narrow look.
“I can handle it, honestly. I just need to know what I’m facing.”
“You’re not facing anything,” he said, tossing her a newspaper. A Greek tabloid. “We’ll face this together.”
She saw the photo of herself naked in Tristan’s arms as they were kissing on the balcony.
Sheri had never wanted to be famous. Unlike other kids who dreamed of celebrity, she’d preferred her natural anonymity, so as she stared down at the newspaper in front of her, skimming the headline written in a language she couldn’t read, she saw only her picture.
Her face got hot as she blushed harder than she ever had before. She was going to die. That was it. There was no way she was going to live through this.
It was bad enough that she’d made the highly questionable decision to sleep with her boss. But now the entire world would know… Hell, Lucille would know, and she wasn’t going to let Sheri forget about this.
“Oh, my God.”
“I don’t think praying will help,” Tristan said in a quiet voice.
“What do you recommend?” she asked, desperately wishing she could go back in time.
He put a hand on her shoulder. It was big and warm and as he squeezed so slightly, she felt a little better. Not much, mind you, with her face and the ecstasy she’d felt in his arms clearly on display for the world to see.
Tristan’s expression wasn’t visible, as his face was buried in her hair. Her hands shook as she looked at the picture.
“I don’t look like myself,” she said, tracing a finger over her face. Her eyes were half-closed and she was clutching at Tristan as he kissed her. Thank goodness his broad shoulders covered her naked chest fairly well.
He reached around her to take the paper. “You look like a woman in the arms of her lover.”
“Yeah, ya think?” Sheri said, unable to help herself. She wished she could get good and mad. But this wasn’t Tristan’s fault. It was only that fact that was helping her keep it together. That and the strong belief that if she let go of her control she was going to crumple to the floor and never get up.
“Cheeky is cute, Sheri. Sarcastic is not,” he said, his accent very strong and pronounced.
She hated when he did that arrogant thing. Actually it was attractive at times, but right now, while she was grappling with the shock of seeing her scandalous picture in a major newspaper, it wasn’t.
“Sleeping with you was fun while it was our little secret,” she said, mirroring his tone. “Having the entire tabloid-reading world know about it is not.”
“Sheri—”
She cut him off and turned away, walking farther into the elegantly appointed living room. She stood underneath a painting, a large oil by someone famous, she was sure, but she didn’t know art. Her aunt Millie’s taste had run more to prints of the Brooklyn Bridge than real art.
“Sorry, was that too sarcastic? I’m not used to dealing with the paparazzi the way you are.”
“You’re right,” he said. “This is my mess. I will take care of this.”
“How, exactly?” she asked.
“Leave it to me.”
“Do they know my name?” She pivoted to face him. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass doors behind him, keeping his face in shadow.
Tristan lifted the paper and read the article.
“You haven’t read it yet?” she asked.
“Not all of it.”
“What does the headline say?”
“‘Snagged. Elusive bachelor found in love nest.’”
“Oh, my God.”
“If you’re going to pray, you should at least ask for something.”
“Tristan, I’m going to ask for lightning to strike you.”
“Not a wise course of action,” he said.
“You don’t think so?” she asked, trying to keep the panic she felt rising inside her from her voice.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her into his body. “I don’t. You need me, Sheri Donnelly, and I’m going to get you out of this mess.”
This close to him, it was hard to keep the distance she’d
