Page 61 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 1-4

The Twins That Bind

Jackie Ashenden

CHAPTER ONE

ARISTOPHANESKATSAROS,BILLIONAIREowner of one of Europe’s most influential financial companies, had every minute of his phenomenally expensive time planned down to the last second. His schedule was his bible, his compass, and if something wasn’t in his schedule then it was irrelevant. He liked the certainty and he liked the control it gave him.

He was a man for whom control wasn’t simply vital, it was a way of life.

So as he exited the gala he’d been attending in Melbourne, a dull affair that he didn’t enjoy—social engagements were the bane of his existence—he checked his watch to make sure he was on time for the meeting he’d planned at the penthouse apartment he’d bought three years ago and never visited. A meeting he was sure wouldnotbe dull in the least.

Angelina was scheduled to join him for the night, as per his instructions to his personal secretary. She was tall, blonde, elegant, a professor of literature at an elite American college, and in Melbourne for a conference. She, like he, had a very tight schedule and one night was all she could do.

Not that he minded.

He had a revolving schedule of lovers, women who wanted only a night and nothing more, and he liked to make sure he had at least a couple of evenings each week with one in whichever city he was in at the time.

Sex was necessary and it helped him let off steam, but he didn’t prize it above anything else he had scheduled. It was a bodily requirement that he paid attention to as he paid attention to every bodily requirement in order to keep himself in optimum health.

He was looking forward to the evening, because he liked Angelina. She was cool, fearsomely intelligent and could more than hold her own in conversation with him. She was also uninhibited in bed and he was very much looking forward to that as well.

Beauty was not a requirement in his lovers, but intelligence was mandatory. Chemistry, too, was vital. His time was expensive and if he’d put aside the time for sex, then he wanted it. He also required that it should be as pleasurable as possible for all concerned.

That was all he was thinking as he came down the steps, his limo waiting for him at the kerb, and he wasn’t paying any attention to the light drizzle coming down from the sky, or the slick stone of the footpath, or the small figure hurrying along said footpath.

Hurrying too fast, in retrospect.

Aristophanes had his phone out of his pocket and was in the process of texting Angelina that he was on his way, when he heard a cry and the sound of someone hitting pavement. He jerked his gaze from the screen, startled, only to see the small figure crumpled on the pavement directly in front of his limo.

It wasn’t moving.

Aristophanes wasn’t a man who acted without thinking. He considered all his options carefully. He took his time. But now, faced with an unmoving human being lying prone on a slick street, he didn’t hesitate. He strode over and knelt on the wet stone, heedless of the rain on his immaculate black suit trousers.

The person was swathed in a cheap-looking black coat, what seemed to be miles of a woollen scarf, and he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman until he’d managed to pull away all that fabric.

The loveliest woman he’d ever seen lay on the footpath in front of him.

For long moments he crouched there, ignoring the drizzle, almost transfixed.

She wasn’t a conventional beauty, he supposed, though beauty didn’t interest him the way it obsessed other people. He prized intelligence and self-control above all things, yet even he couldn’t deny that the woman lying unconscious on the pavement was exceptionally pretty. Her features were delicate and precise, a small chin, finely arched brows, and the sweetest pout of a mouth. Thick, dark red lashes feathered her cheeks.

A couple of months ago he’d been forced to go to a gala at an art gallery in New York, and there had been an exhibition of Pre-Raphaelite painters. The gala had been as dull as expected so he’d busied himself by looking at the paintings instead, particularly those by Burne-Jones.

She reminded him of the women in those paintings. A Pre-Raphaelite beauty fallen on a wet pavement.

Not that he should be staring at her. She was unconscious, which meant she’d hit her head on said pavement, and what he should be doing was checking she was okay, not staring at her like a fool.

His driver had got out of the limo and was at his elbow, but Aristophanes didn’t turn round. Instead he held a couple of fingers against the pale throat revealed by the plunging neckline of the black dress she was wearing. Her pulse beat strongly beneath her warm skin.

Thank God.

‘Call an ambulance,’ he said roughly to his driver. ‘Now.’

He had other places to go tonight and this would put him behind schedule, but even he couldn’t leave an unconscious woman lying on the pavement in the rain.

He stared down at her, frowning. The black dress she wore looked as cheap as her coat, but it clung to every curve, outlining a body made to fascinate a man for days. Full, luscious breasts, rounded hips, an elegant waist...and unless he was very much mistaken, she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

A pulse of desire shot through him, making every muscle clench tight.

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