As she packed upstairs, Maxie knew the answer to that. Angelos had happened. He had chipped her out from behind the safety of her cool, unemotional façade by making her feel things she had never felt before...painful things, hurtful things. She wanted the ice back far more desperately than Catriona did.
Maxie came off the catwalk to a rousing bout of thunderous applause. Immediately she abandoned the strutting insolent carriage which was playing merry hell with her backbone. Finished, at last. The relief was so huge, she trembled. Never in her life had she felt so exposed.
Before she could reach the changing room, Manny Di Venci, a big bruiser of a man with a shaven head and sharp eyes, came backstage to intercept her. ‘You were brilliant! Standing room only out there, but now it’s time to beat a fast retreat. No, you don’t need to get changed,’ the designer laughed, urging her at a fast pace down a dimly lit corridor that disorientated her even more after the glaring spotlights of the show. ‘You’re the best PR my collection has ever had, and a special lunch-date demands a touch of Di Venci class.’
Presumably Catriona had set up lunch with some VIP she had to impress.
Thrust through a rear entrance onto a pavement drenched in sunlight, Maxie was dazzled again. Squinting at the open door of the waiting vehicle, she climbed in. The car had pulled back into the traffic before she registered that she was in a huge, opulent limo with shaded windows, but she relaxed when she saw the huge squashy bag of her possessions sitting on the floor. She checked the bag; her clothes were in it too. Somebody had been very efficient.
Off the catwalk, she was uncomfortable in the daring peacock-blue cocktail suit. She wore only skin below the fitted jacket with its plunging neckline, and the skirt was horrendously tight and short. She would have preferred not to meet a potential client in so revealing an outfit, but she might as well make the best of being sought after while it lasted because it wouldn’t last long. The minute Angelos appeared in public with another woman, she would be as ‘hot’ as a cold potato. But oh, how infuriating it must be for Angelos to have played an accidental part in pushing her back into the limelight!
When the door of the limo swung open, Maxie stepped out into a cold, empty basement car park. She froze in astonishment, attacked by sudden mute terror, and then across the vast echoing space she recognised one of Angelos’s security men, and was insensibly relieved for all of ten seconds. But the nightmare image of kidnapping which had briefly gripped her was immediately replaced by a sensation of almost suffocating panic.
‘Where am I?’ she demanded of the older man standing by a lift with the doors wide in readiness.
‘Mr Petronides is waiting for you on the top floor, Miss Kendall.’
‘I didn’t realise that limo was his. I thought I was meeting up with my agent and a client for lunch...this is o-outrageous!’ Hearing the positively pathetic shake of rampant nerves in her own voice, Maxie bit her lip and stalked into the lift. She was furious with herself. She had been the one to make assumptions. She should have spoken to the chauffeur before she got into the car.
Like a protective wall in front of her, the security man stayed by the doors, standing back again only after they had opened. Her face taut with temper, Maxie walked out into a big octagonal hall with a cool tiled floor. It was not Angelos’s apartment and she frowned, wondering where on earth she was. Behind her the lift whirred downward again and she stiffened, feeling ludicrously cut off from escape.
Ahead of her, a door stood wide. She walked into a spacious, luxurious reception room. Strong sunlight was pouring through the windows. The far end of the room seemed to merge into a lush green bank of plants. Patio doors gave way into what appeared to be a conservatory. Was that where Angelos was waiting for her?
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. Utterly despising her own undeniable mix of apprehension and excitement, Maxie threw back her slim shoulders and stalked out into...fresh air. Too late did she appreciate that she was actually out on a roof garden. As she caught a dizzy glimpse of the horrific drop through a gap in the decorative stone screening to her right, her head reeled. Freezing to the spot, she uttered a sick moan of fear.
‘Oh, hell...you’re afraid of heights,’ a lazy drawl murmured.
A pair of hands closed with firm reassurance round her whip-taut shoulders and eased her back from the parapet and the view that had made her stomach lurch to her soles. ‘I didn’t think of that. Though I suppose I could keep you standing out here and persuade you to agree to just about anything. Sometimes it’s such a challenge to be an honourable man.’
Shielding her from the source of her mindless terror with his big powerful frame, Angelos propelled her back indoors at speed. Appalled by the attack of panic which had thrown her off balance, Maxie broke free of him then, on legs shaking like cotton wool pins, and bit out accusingly, ‘What would you know about honour?’
‘The Greek male can be extremely sensitive on that subject. Think before you speak,’ Angelos murmured in chilling warning.
Maxie stared at him in surprise. Angelos stared levelly back at her, black eyes terrifyingly cold.
And it tore her apart just at that moment to learn that she couldn’t bear him to look at her like that As if she was just anybody, as if she was nobody, as if he didn’t care whether she lived or died.
‘You get more nervy every time I see you,’ Angelos remarked with cruel candour. ‘Paler, thinner too. I thought you were pretty tough, but you’re not so tough under sustained pressure. Your stress level is beginning to show.’
Colour sprang into Maxie’s cheeks, highlighting the feverish look in her gaze. ‘You’re such a bastard sometimes,’ she breathed unevenly.
‘And within itself, that’s strange. I’ve never been like this with a woman before. There are times when I aim to hurt you and I shock myself,’ Angelos confided, without any perceptible remorse.
Yet he still looked so unbelievably good to her, and that terrified her. She couldn’t drag her attention from that lean, strong face, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t forget what that silky black hair had felt like beneath her fingertips. She couldn’t stop herself noticing that he was wearing what had inexplicably become the colour she liked best on him. Silver-grey, the suit a spectacular fit for that magnificent physique. And how had she forgotten the way that vibrant aura of raw energy compelled and fascinated her? Cast into deeper shock by the raging torrent of her own frantic thoughts, Maxie felt an intense sense of her own vulnerability engulf her in an alarming wave.
‘Relax...I’ve got a decent proposal to put on the table before lunch,’ Angelos purred, strolling soundlessly forwards to curve a confident arm round her rigid spine and guide her across the hall into a dining-room. ‘Trust me...I think you’ll feel like you’ve won the National Lottery.’
‘Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ Maxie whispered, taking in the table exquisitely set for two, the waiting trolley that indicated they were not to be disturbed.
‘Because you don’t want me to. Even the way you just looked at me...’ Angelos vented a soft husky laugh of very masculine appreciation. ‘You really can’t look at me like that and expect me to throw in the towel.’
‘How did I look?’
‘Probably much the same way that I look at you,’ he conceded, uncorking a bottle of champagne with a loud pop and allowing the golden liquid to foam expertly down into two fluted glasses. ‘With hunger and hostility and resentment. I am about to wipe out the last two for ever.’
Angelos slotted the moisture-beaded glass between her taut fingers. Absorbing her incomprehension, he dealt her a slashing smile. ‘The rumour that Angelos Petronides cannot compromise is a complete falsehood. I excell at seeing both points of view and a period of reflection soon clarified the entire problem. The solution is very simple.’
Maxie frowned uneasily. ‘I don’t know what you’re driving at...’
‘What is marriage? Solely a legal agreement.’ Angelos shrugged with careless elegance but she was chilled by that definition. ‘Once I recognised that basic truth, I saw with clarity. I’ll make a deal with you now that suits us both. You sign a prenuptial contract and I will marry you...’
‘S-say that again,’ Maxie stammered, convinced she was hallucinating.
Angelos rested satisfied eyes on her stunned expression. ‘The one drawback will be that you won’t get the public kudos of being my wife. We will live apart much of the time. When I’m in London and I want you here, you will stay in this apartment. I own this entire building. You can have it all to yourself, complete with a full complement of staff and security. The only place we will share the same roof will be on my island in Greece. How am I doing?’
Maxie’s hand was shaking so badly, champagne was slopping onto the thick, ankle-deep carpet. Was he actually asking her to marry him? Had she got that right or imagined it? And, if she was correct and hadn’t misunderstood, why was he talking about them living apart? And what had that bit been concerning ‘public kudos’? Her brain was in a hopelessly confused state of freefall.