Page 7 of Husband for the Holidays

He settled into the captain’s chair behind the driver and looked across the console to Eloise in the other one, studying her as the glow on the overhead bulb faded and his driver pulled into traffic. Between the painted freckles and round pink circles adorning her cheeks, and the hat and yarn that hid her real hair, he had almost missed recognizing her.

His only thought while he’d waited for the elevator had been that he couldn’t wait to leave New York. He could stand the bustle and honks, but the relentless assault of seasonal cheer, of carols and blinking lights and jangling bells, almost made him nostalgic for the deprivations of his childhood. Winters back then had been damp and gray. He’d shivered so hard his teeth had hurt and the only escape had been the rocky slopes and barren vineyards of northeastern Greece, but at least it had been quiet.

When the elevator opened and yet another ludicrous manifestation of the season appeared before him—a young woman in an elf costume—he’d barely looked at her. He’d had the sense she was staring at him, but that was normal. Konstantin owned a conglomerate worth billions. He didn’t seek the spotlight, but he often earned reactions of awe and deference.

While his front brain essentially ignored her the way he ignored any staff who were getting on with their work, some preternatural sense had prickled to life in him as she brushed past. Once she was out, he should have stepped into the empty elevator to get on with his life, but his inner beast had snatched a look at a retreating woman, gauging her to benota teenager as he’d first assumed.

She was petite, yes, and her clothing was an eyesore, but the doorman was hitting on her, indicating she was old enough to drink.

Konstantin had been irritated by that other man’s attention toward her, which had been irritating in itself. What the hell did he care? He wasn’t the possessive type even when he was in a relationship. This stranger was nothing to him. She wasn’t even the kind of woman who usually caught his eye. He preferred tall curvy blondes who looked him in the eye and radiated sexual confidence. He slept with women who knew their own worth and went after what they wanted, even if it was him and his fortune. At least he knew where he stood and that they were capable of looking after themselves.

Vulnerable waifs were a hard no.

But he’d lingered to watch the interplay and listen to her speak. Even as the neutral elocution that denoted a cultured education was hitting his ears and ringing bells, she shook out her coat.

It wasn’t a remarkable coat. Konstantin had seen many like it on various women through the years. It was a classic trench-style lined with a signature plaid from a popular designer. It looked well-worn so maybe she’d picked it up from a thrift store because it seemed high-end for someone in her position.

Yet, it fit her perfectly.

And suddenly Konstantin had heard a voice from the grave.

I have to buy my sister a coat. Something warm. She’s coming for Christmas and I don’t want her to be cold.

The ground had shifted beneath him. A flare of something dangerous had whooshed alight inside him. It was a reaction he had deliberately distanced himself from the first time he’d felt it. And the second.

But as she flashed him a last persecuted glance, he finallysawher. It was a gut punch and a knee to the groin and an awakening of something primal in him that he didn’t even know he possessed.

She ignored his call of her name, which propelled him outside after her. None of this made sense. What thehellwas Ilias’s little sister doing, trudging through a snowstorm in a Peter Pan costume, dragging a sack like she was moving a dead body in a cheap detective movie?

She was aggressively ignoring him. Still. As the vehicle moved forward in the heavy traffic, she kept her stiff profile turned to the busy sidewalk beyond her side window.

“I told you to contact me if you needed anything,” he reminded her. “Why haven’t you?”

She made a noise between a choke and a laugh. “That was six years ago. At a funeral. You were being polite.”

To some extent, perhaps, but... “I always mean what I say.”

No response.

“How is Lilja?” he asked of her mother.

“Fine.”

“In the same way that you’re fine?”

She drew a deep breath, as though ready to launch into a lengthy reply, then said a cryptic, “She remarried a few years ago.” Her breath hissed out and her chin went down. Her fingers twined together in her lap. “They live in Nice.”

“I heard about that.” Distantly. He had had his assistant send an appropriate gift expressing his felicitations. “Areyoumarried?” It was a jarring thought that had him recollecting her remark about not buckling to an overbearing man.

“No,” she said pithily.

“Living with someone?” Who was looking after her? Because it wasn’t herself.

“I have a roommate,” she said, talking to the window again.

“Are you using drugs?”

“No,” she cried. “Why would you think—” She clammed up.

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