Rebecca Winters: Bride by Day

Sam didn’t like to be threatened. Staring him down she began, “I was vacuuming the carpet beneath your desk when I saw the exact piece of paper I needed to finish my collage.”

“Collage?” he bit out.

“My senior art project,” she defended boldly because she was on steady ground. “At the beginning of this semester my professor, Dr. Giddings, insisted that we could only use those bits of paper left on the grass, the ground, the sidewalk or the floor. No cheating by dipping into garbage receptacles, no using scissors to alter shape. Everything had to go into the collage as found.”

Warming to her subject she blurted, “With the exception of newspapers, telephone directories or cardboard, we could use absolutely anything else made of paper. The whole idea of the project was to be as original as possible, and still create an interesting design worthy of hanging in an art gallery.”

Not stopping for breath she explained, “When Dr. Giddings first gave us the assignment, I didn’t realize how fun, how challenging this final project would be. For weeks I’ve been walking around the city with my eyes on the ground, and I’ve come up with the most amazing finds which are now attached to my canvas.”

By now his eyes had become black slits. “So you’re telling me that the note my secretary left on this desk is now a part of your collage?”

“Yes. But I didn’t take it from your desk. She must have created a draft and inadvertently knocked it to the floor without realizing it.”

While Sam spoke, he raked a bronzed hand through vibrant, ebony hair. She longed to twine her fingers in it, and the distraction made it practically impossible for her to concentrate.

What was wrong with her? Up to now she’d never become seriously interested in the men who’d wanted a relationship with her. Yet Mr. Kostopoulos, a total stranger, had already ignited a fire in her that was growing stronger with every sparring comment.

“Your explanation is so incredibly absurd, I’m half inclined to believe you’re telling me the truth.”

“It’s certainly no more absurd than the fact that you have a Picasso hanging on the wall.”

He blinked. “What does the Picasso have to do with this conversation?”

Obviously he wasn’t used to anyone standing up to him. She got a perverse thrill out of shocking him.

“It has everything to do with it. You’re an art lover who probably can’t paint a straight line.” Mistake number nine or ten. She’d lost count, but it didn’t matter. Something about him had made her lose control.

“Dr. Gidding’s is an artist who wouldn’t know the first thing about your corporate clutter. The point is, you both love Picasso. While you spend your millions on his art so you can look at it from your comfortable leather chair, my poverty-stricken professor, who probably won’t be a legend until long after he has gone, has made us study Picasso and put his credo to the test.”

The man confronting her looked incredulous. “What credo?”

“Picasso said, and I quote, ‘The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place; from the sky, from the earth, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web, from a scrap of paper. We must pick out what is good for us where we can find it.’ End of quote.”

He thought she was insane. Right now, she felt that she was...

“Being a disciple of Picasso, Dr. Giddings challenged us to create beauty from the scraps of paper we found.”

For an instant their gazes collided, creating a new kind of turmoil in her breast, one that squeezed the air out of her lungs for no good reason.

After an eternity, “Where is this—” He paused. “Work of art?” The mockery in his grating tone was as unmistakable as his derision.

He didn’t believe her.

She felt another rush of adrenaline, the kind that prompted her to say things which generally got her into trouble. “At the university.”

“Very well. Then we’ll drive there and get it.”

“I’m afraid that note has already adhered to the wallpaper paste. If I try to pry it loose, my collage will be ruined.” To her mortification, the last few words had come out on a wobble. If she had anything to say about it, that art project was her passport to a brilliant future, one she intended to lord in her father’s face one day. Sam wasn’t about to jeopardize everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. Not for Mr. Kostopoulos, not for anybody!

“Even if I could extricate it, chances are you won’t be able to read what was written on it.”

She watched the ominous. rise and fall of his chest. “Then you’d better start praying that the gods are smiling kindly on you today. I need that number, and there’s no point in trying to dissuade me with those sodden eyes.”

“Sodden—” she practically shrieked the word.

“Hmm...like drenched blue pansies. I’ll warn you now—a woman’s tears have no affect on me whatsoever.”

She gritted her teeth. “And a man’s billions hold no sway with me. You think you’re some invincible god who can make mortals tremble with one bellow, and a simple lift of those black eyebrows. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Kofolopogos, or whatever your name is—”

By now her slenderly rounded body had gone rigid. “This mortal isn’t intimidated. Whoever called and left that number will call again. And if your secretary is so sensational, then she should have taken the number down on one of those pads that makes a copy. The point is, no phone number could possibly be as important as my final grade!”

At her declaration, his features froze. “Since you know absolutely nothing about my life except what you glean from the gossips in this building, I’ll let that comment pass.”

Unfortunately the truth of his remark deepened the fiery red of her cheeks. But it was the bleakness of his rebuke which sent an icy shiver through her body, taking some of the fight out of her, warning her not to antagonize him any further.

“Look Mr. Kostopoulos—I’m sorry I lost my temper. I’m sorry this whole thing has happened. But you have to know it wasn’t intentional. The trouble is, I’m not sure if my professor is still there. It’s the weekend. Everything could be locked up until Monday.”

“Then I’ll find someone to let us in, or call your professor myself.”

“But—”

“Shall we go?”

He ignored her distress and strode toward the doors leading to his private elevator. It was smaller than the ones built for public access. Next to his six foot three frame, she felt minuscule. He pushed a button and the door closed.

Like Persephone being spirited to the underworld by the merciless god, Hades, Mr. Kostopoulos plummeted them the sixty-plus floors to the car park below ground. Throughout the swift descent, her arm brushed against his, making her unbearably aware of his hard, powerful body, the faint, clean smell of the soap he used combined with his own male scent.

As far as she was concerned, he was the antithesis of her artistic, mostly bearded male friends who were generally undernourished, impoverished, and most importantly, benign.

This man projected an aura of physical and mental strength which came from facing life head-on, and enjoying every dangerous second of it.

She imagined he daunted the most self-confident male. That quality alone made him an exceptional man, one she secretly admired.

Without question his impact on the opposite sex was equally profound. Sam would be a liar if she didn’t admit he had a disturbing, earthy appeal.

Instinctively she felt that the forbidding Mr. Kostopoulos was a unique mortal who created his own destiny. She’d never met anyone remotely like him. Though loathe to admit it, he excited her in a frightening kind of way. That phone number had to be of life-and-death importance for him to go to these extremes. Something told her it had nothing to do with business.