Passionate Playboys: The Demetrios Bridal Bargain / The Magnate's Indecent Proposal / Hot Nights with a Playboy

She was still frowning with discontent when she opened the box. The breath left her lungs in one shaky gasp.

On the red silk lay a ring, and not just any ring. The squarecut emerald surrounded by diamonds that stared back at her was exquisite.

Wear it, he’d said; the very thought of it scared her silly. It had to be worth a small fortune.

There was a slight tremor in her fingers as she slid it onto her left hand. It was a perfect fit. The tears that filled her eyes were, she told herself, ludicrous. It wasn’t as if she were self-deluded enough to wish this were for real.

The woman who became Mathieu Demetrios’s wife would have the eyes of the world on her every move. Rose wouldn’t be surprised to see a candid shot of her unshaved leg change hands for tens of thousands on the open market.

While Rose was prepared to admit her take on the subject might lack balance, one thing she was sure of was that the woman who married Mathieu would have a husband other women coveted. God, she’d spend her life on a permanent diet and develop a nervous tic from keeping a watch out for younger, hungry women with designs.

It wasn’t a job description that appealed to her.

She had to ring Rebecca. She would be economical with the truth, or Rebecca would be jumping on the next plane. Their parents, enjoying a second honeymoon aboard a cruise ship, she could deal with at a later date.

‘It’s just a marvellous opportunity,’ Rose enthused.

‘Marvellous. But what exactly are you going to be doing on this Greek island? For that matter, what Greek island?’

Rebecca, who had interrupted several times during her twin’s rambling and deliberately vague description of her new and exciting opportunity, sounded suspicious.

‘And who exactly did you say you will be working for?’

Rose hadn’t, and the omission had not been accidental. She grimaced down the phone. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of him … the family is called Demetrios.’

‘Demetrios! You’re working for the Demetrios family?’

‘It’s probably a very common name in Greece.’

‘Do they happen to own the island you’re going to?’

‘I think they might,’ Rose admitted uncomfortably.

‘And which Demetrios are you working for, Rose?’

‘The son, I think … I really have to go, Rebecca,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But I’ll be in touch,’ she added brightly.

The dismay and shock echoed down the line as Rebecca said blankly, ‘My God, Rose, you’re working for Mathieu Demetrios. He used to be known as Mathieu Gauthier.’

‘I think that was his name,’ Rose admitted uncomfortably.

There was an audible sigh of relief. ‘Then you haven’t met him … if you had you really wouldn’t have forgotten his name or anything else about him.’ This wry aside was muttered. ‘The thing is, Rose, there’s something I have to tell you …’

Rose was desperate to spare her twin the embarrassment. ‘Actually I’ve met him, but I really don’t think I registered on his radar. Reading between the lines, I doubt if I’ll actually see much of him once we’re there.’

‘Really …?’ The relief in her twin’s voice echoed down the line.

She hung up pleading an early night and was just putting the phone back into her bag when there was a sharp rap on the door.

‘You are ready?’

She turned and saw Mathieu standing in the doorway wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, black tee shirt and worn leather jacket. The violent stab of lust that slammed through her body with the force of a sledgehammer left Rose momentarily both breathless and speechless.

The indentation between his darkly defined brows deepened as he studied her pale face. ‘Are you sick?’

Rose sucked in a deep breath and thought, Oh, you have no idea how sick! But it was just physical, she told herself, determined to maintain an objectivity about the entire knee-trembling, pulse-racing thing she suffered in his presence—after all, pretending something wasn’t happening implied you were scared of it.

And she wasn’t; she had it under control. It wasn’t as if her emotions were involved—she barely knew the man and what she did know she didn’t much like.

Not like him and yet you planned to sleep with him …?

The guilty colour flew to her cheeks and her eyes fell from his.

Sanity had returned about two-thirty in the morning when she had sat bolt upright in bed, a horrified groan escaping her lips.

The only crumb of comfort she could take from this momentary madness was that Mathieu would never, ever know the underlying reason she had agreed to go along with his scheme. Neither he nor anyone else would ever know that she had ever got it into her head that she would throw caution to the wind and sleep with a man she didn’t love, and not just any man, this man. She schooled her features into a smile and lied. ‘No, I’m fine. Am I overdressed?’ she asked, hating that she was asking for his approval, but it was preferable to saying she was immobilised with lust.

Mathieu’s eyes, concealed from her behind the dark fringe of his lashes, slid down her body.

In his opinion she was overdressed only in that she was wearing anything at all.

He toyed briefly with and almost immediately discarded the idea of explaining to her that she was the sort of woman who looked better without clothes.

It was quite irrational to keep a guard on his tongue around a woman who he knew was more than capable of adopting the male role of sexual predator. Maybe it was because the air of wholesome sexuality she seemed unaware she exuded was tinged with vulnerability.

It was not as if he would be telling her something she did not already know. Something many men had told her before him. The thought of these faceless men who had looked with lustful longing at her lush curves brought a frown of dissatisfaction to his face.

‘You look fine. I thought we’d dine somewhere casual the first night. The rest of the week, I thought … in fact, here—I made you a copy of the itinerary.’

‘Itinerary?’ she echoed, staring at the paper he’d handed her as she stepped out into the corridor after him.

‘Unfortunately I’ve a full diary, the next ten days or so, but we should be able to take in a première, dinner three nights and a couple of lunches.’

‘But won’t people see us?’ she asked as the lift door closed behind them. She took a deep breath. Oh, God, but enclosed spaces with him in were so much more, well, enclosed.

Mathieu looked down at her with the advantage of his superior height and shrugged. ‘Being seen, Rose, is the idea. This is about photo opportunities, establishing us as a credible couple before you meet my family.’

‘Oh …’

‘What did you think it was about—getting to know the real me?’

The angry colour flew to her cheeks. ‘Well, if you’re as two-dimensional as you seem that shouldn’t take long.’

‘Well, if you struggle, the back page has a few pertinent facts.’

‘You think of everything,’ she snapped irritably. It was a good thing she had given up on the idea of seduction because Mathieu seemed to have this job laid out along very formal, businesslike lines with no room for anything more spontaneous. ‘But actually you don’t. I have nothing to wear at these sort of places,’ she pointed out, tapping the top sheet of his so-called intinerary with her forefinger.

‘The new wardrobe should be delivered in the morning.’