The Billionaire's Trophy (14 page)

EPILOGUE

F
OUR
YEARS
LATER
on her wedding anniversary, Emmie strolled down to the beach where Bastian was playing ball with their toddler sons, Dmitri and Stavros, Saffy's husband, Zahir, and their son, Karim. In Emmie's arms snuggled her baby daughter, Appollonia, cute as a button at six months old with her mother's hair and her father's eyes.

For a pleasant change the usually empty stretch of beach below the house was downright crowded. Bastian's grandfather, Theron, was sharing one of the tables on the sand with Nessa, Leonides and their infant daughter, Olympia. A family BBQ was organised for later that evening. Kat and Mikhail, Topsy and their twins were due to arrive on Mikhail's fabulous yacht before nightfall. Emmie knew it would be a fantastic, noisy celebration with kids running wild and sisters talking nineteen to the dozen to catch up on the latest news and she could hardly wait.

‘Give me that beautiful baby,' Saffy urged, reaching for Appollonia, who gave her aunt a gummy smile. ‘Trust you to get it right. I'm having another boy when I was convinced I was carrying a little girl this time,' she lamented, patting the rounded contours of her stomach.

‘Maybe the next time,' Emmie said with a grin.

‘I told Zahir there wasn't going to be a next time.'

‘You said that after Karim's birth as well,' Emmie reminded her twin, loving the closeness of the bond reborn after their long estrangement from each other.

‘Did I?' Saffy sighed. ‘Zahir is mad about kids, almost as bad as Bastian.'

A black-haired squirming bundle of lively toddler tucked under each muscular arm, Bastian lowered his twin sons to the ground and doled out cold drinks from the cool box.

Bastian strode across the sand to lift his daughter out of Saffy's arms and hold her high above him. The baby chuckled like mad, arms and plump little legs waving in frantic excitement. She was a cheerful baby with a wonderfully infectious laugh while her brothers were live-wire kids, who kept both parents on their toes.

Sometimes, Emmie could barely believe that years had passed since their quiet wedding on the island, which had only been attended by family. They had held a terrific party afterwards and just six weeks later their twin boys had been born early. One of their devoted nannies retrieved Appollonia from her father and Bastian crossed the sand to close an arm round Emmie's slim shoulders.

‘Happy anniversary,
pethi mou
,' he husked, brushing his sensual mouth gently across her temples.

In the sunlight, Emmie touched the perfectly matched pearls that gleamed at her throat with appreciative fingertips, Bastian's gift to mark the occasion. As a wedding present he had given her an outrageously extravagant sapphire necklace, confiding that the first time he had watched her walking down the stairs in his island home he had pictured her sporting sapphires that matched her eyes. Her husband's generosity had ensured that her jewellery collection and her wardrobe were pretty special. Never again would Emmie be able to use the excuse that she had nothing suitable to wear, for she owned a wonderful selection of clothes. Indeed anything she wanted, Bastian ensured she received and Emmie loved being spoilt and valued for the first time in her life.

‘Happy anniversary, my love,' Emmie whispered, gazing up at her darkly handsome husband with smiling warmth and love. ‘Has marriage lived up to your expectations?'

Bastian tugged her close to his big sun-warmed body. ‘Life with you has exceeded my every expectation.'

‘I know you never dreamt until I came along that you might enjoy three rug rats round your feet,' Emmie teased fondly, watching approvingly as she saw Zahir pull Saffy close with the quiet assurance of a firmly bonded couple. Emmie had never dreamt that falling in love could give her so much happiness.

‘The more the merrier,' Bastian quipped, stunning dark golden eyes welded with sensual intent to her blushing face. ‘We could head back into the house to check the catering arrangements.'

Her lovely face heated even more in the sunlight, hunger stirring as she looked up at him, a hunger laced with an excitement that had yet to fade. ‘Whatever you like,' she told him breathily.

‘Oh, I like...I like you very much,' Bastian growled raggedly, his arm tightening round her as he walked her back off the beach.

Her husband's desire for her never failed to make Emmie feel like the most exciting woman alive and she no longer remembered what it felt like to feel second best. She smiled, full of love and lust, happy and relaxed and grateful for the security and continuity of her tight-knit family circle.

* * * * *

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by Lucy Monroe

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CHAPTER ONE

D
EMYAN
SLID
THE
black-rimmed nonprescription glasses on before pushing open the door to the lab building. The glasses had been his uncle's idea, along with the gray Armani cardigan Demyan wore over his untucked dress shirt—no tie. The jeans he wore to complete the “geeky corporate guy” attire were his own idea and surprisingly comfortable.

He'd never owned a pair. He'd had the need to set the right example for his younger cousin, Crown Prince to Volyarus, drummed into Demyan from his earliest memory.

He'd done his best, but they were two very different men.

Maksim was a corporate shark, but he was also an adept politician. Demyan left politics to the diplomats.

For now, though, he would tone down his fierce personality with clothes and a demeanor that would not send his prey running.

He knocked perfunctorily on the door before entering the lab where Chanel Tanner worked. The room was empty but for the single woman working through her lunch hour as usual, according to his investigator's report.

Sitting at a computer in the far corner, she typed in quick bursts between reading one of the many volumes spread open on the cluttered desktop.

“Hello.” He pitched his voice low, not wanting to startle her.

No need to worry on that score. She simply waved her hand toward him, not even bothering to turn around. “Leave it on the bench by the door.”

“Leave what, precisely?” he asked, amused in spite of himself by her demeanor.

“The package. Do you really need to know what's in it? No one else ever asks,” she grumbled as she scribbled something down.

“I do not have a package. What I do have is an appointment.”

Her head snapped up, red curly hair flying as she spun her chair to face him. “What? Who? You're Mr. Zaretsky?”

He nodded, impressed by the perfect pronunciation of his name.

“You aren't expected for another half an hour.” She jumped to her feet, the pocket of her lab coat catching the edge of a book and knocking it to the floor. “And you're going to be late. Corporate types interested in funding our research always are.”

“And yet I am early.” He crossed the room and picked up the book to hand to her.

Taking it, she frowned, her small nose scrunching rather charmingly. “I noticed.”

“Eventually, yes.”

Pink stained her cheeks, almost washing out the light dusting of freckles. “I thought you were the delivery guy. He flirts. I don't like it, so I ignore him if at all possible.”

The woman was twenty-nine years old and could count the number of dates she'd had in the past year on less than the fingers of one hand. Demyan would think she might welcome flirting.

He did not say that, of course. He gave her the smile he used on women he wanted to bed. “You have no filter, do you?”

“Are
you
flirting with me?” she demanded, her gray eyes widening in shock.

“I might be.” Awkward and this woman were on very friendly speaking terms.

Her brows furrowed and she looked at him with evident confusion. “But why?”

“Why not?”

“I'm hospitably inept, not desperate.”

“You believe you are inept?”

“Everyone believes I'm
socially awkward,
particularly my family. Since not one of them has trouble making friends and maintaining a busy social life, I bow to their superior knowledge in the area.”

“I think you are charming.” Demyan shocked himself with the knowledge that he spoke the truth.

An even bigger but not unwelcome surprise was that he found the geeky scientist unexpectedly attractive. She wasn't his usual cover model companion, but he would like very much if she would take off her lab coat and give him the opportunity to see her full figure.

“Some people do at first, but it wears off.” She sighed, looked dejected for a few short seconds before squaring her shoulders and setting her features into an expression no doubt meant to hide her thoughts. “It's all right. I'm used to it. I have my work and that's what is really important.”

He'd learned that about her, along with a great deal else from the investigation he'd had performed on top of the dossier his uncle had provided. “You're passionate about your research.”

“It's important.”

“Yes, it is. That is why I am here.”

The smile she bestowed on him was brilliant, her gray eyes lighting to silver. “It is. You're going to make it possible for us to extend the parameters of our current study.”

“That is the plan.” He'd determined that approaching her in the guise of a corporate investor was the quickest way to gain Chanel's favor.

He'd obviously been right.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I thought we'd been over that.”

“Most corporations donate without sending someone to check our facility over.”

“Are you offended Yurkovich Tanner did not opt to do so?”

“No, just confused.”

“Oh?”

“How will you know if this is a good setup or not? I mean, even the most fly-by-night operation can make their lab look impressive to a layman.”

“The University of Washington is hardly a fly-by-night operation.”

“No, I know, but you know what I mean.”

“You really have no filter, do you?”

“Um, no?”

“You as good as called me stupid.”

“No.” She shook her head for emphasis.

“The implication is there.”

“No, it's not. No more than I consider myself stupid because I could stare at my car's engine from dawn to dusk and still not be able to tell you where the catalytic converter is.”

“It's under the engine.”

“Is it?”

“Point taken, but you knew your car exhaust system has one. Just as I know the rudimentary facts about lab research.”

“I know about the catalytic converter because my mother's was stolen once. I guess it's a thing for young thugs to steal them and sell them for the precious metal. Mom was livid.”

“As she had a right to be.”

“I suppose, but getting a concealed weapons permit and storing a handgun in her Navigator's glove box was taking it about sixty million steps too far. It wasn't as if she was in the car when they stole the thing.”

Demyan felt his lips twitching, the amusement rolling through him an unusual but not unwelcome reaction. “I am sure you are right.”

“Is English your second language?”

“It is.” But people rarely realized that. “I do not speak with an accent.”

“You don't use a ton of contractions either.”

“I prefer precise communication.”

Her storm-cloud gaze narrowed in thought. “You're from Volyarus, aren't you?”

He felt his eyes widen in surprise. “Yes.”

“Don't look so shocked. My great-great-grandfather helped discover the oil fields of Volyarus. Did you really think I wouldn't know that the Seattle office of Yurkovich Tanner is just a satellite? They paid for my university education. It was probably some long-ago agreement with Bartholomew Tanner.”

She was a lot closer than was comfortable to the truth. “He was bequeathed the title of baron, which would make you a lady.”

“I know that, but my mom doesn't.” And from Chanel's tone, she didn't want the older woman finding out. “Besides, the title would only pass to me if I were direct in line with no older sibling.”

“Do you have one?” he asked, knowing the answer but following the script of a stranger.

“No.”

“So you are Dame Tanner, Lady Chanel, if you prefer.”

Her lovely pink lips twisted with clear distaste. “I prefer just Chanel.”

“Your mother is French?” he asked, continuing the script he'd carefully thought out beforehand.

Demyan was always fully prepared.

“No. She loves the Chanel label, though.”

“She named you after a designer brand?” His investigators had not revealed that fact.

“It's no different than a parent naming their child Mercedes, or something,” Chanel replied defensively.

“Of course.”

“She named me more aptly than she knew.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked with genuine surprise and curiosity.

He would have thought it was the opposite.

“Mom loves her designers, but what she never realized was that Coco Chanel started her brand because she believed in casual elegance. She wore slacks when women simply did
not.
She believed beauty should be both effortless and comfortable.”

“Did she?”

“Oh, yes. Mom is more of the ‘beauty is pain' school of thought. She wishes I were, too, but well, you can see I'm not.” Chanel indicated her lab coat over a simple pair of khaki slacks and a blue T-shirt.

The T-shirt might not be high fashion, but it clung to Chanel's figure in a way that revealed her unexpectedly generous curves. She wasn't overweight, but she wasn't rail thin either, and if her breasts were less than a C cup, he'd be surprised.

That
information had not been in her dossier, either.

“You're staring at my breasts.”

“I apologize.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “I'm not offended, but I'm not used to it. My lab coat isn't exactly revealing and the men around here, well, they stare at my data more than me.”

“Foolish men.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“You're flirting again.”

“Are you going to try to ignore me like the delivery man?”

“Am I going to see you again to ignore you?”

“Oh, you will definitely see me again.”

* * *

As hard as Chanel found it to believe, the gorgeous corporate guy had meant exactly what he said. And not in a business capacity.

He wanted to see
her
again. She hadn't given him her number, but he'd called to invite her to dinner. Which meant he'd gone to the effort to get it. Strange.

And sort of flattering.

Then he'd taken her to an independent film she'd mentioned wanting to see.

Chanel didn't date. She was too awkward, her filters tuned wrong for normal conversation. Even other scientists found her wearing in a social setting.

Only, Demyan didn't seem to care. He never got annoyed with her.

He didn't get offended when she said something she shouldn't have. He didn't shush her in front of others, or try to cut off her curious questioning of their waiter on his reasoning behind recommending certain meals over others.

It was so different than being out with her family that Chanel found her own awareness of her personal failings diminishing with each hour she spent in Demyan's company.

She'd never laughed so much in the company of another person who wasn't a scientist. Had never felt so comfortable in a social setting with
anyone.

Tonight they were going to a dinner lecture:
Symmetry Relationships and the Theory of Point and Space Groups.
She'd been wanting to hear this particular visiting lecturer from MIT for a while, but the outing had not been her idea.

Demyan had secured hard-to-come-by tickets for the exclusive gathering and invited her.

She'd been only too happy to accept, and not just because of the lecture. If he'd invited her to one of the charity galas her mother enjoyed so much, Chanel would have said yes, too.

In Demyan's company, even she might have a good time at one of those.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror her mother had insisted Chanel needed as part of her bedroom decor, she surveyed her image critically.

Chanel didn't love designer fashion and rarely dressed up, but no way could she have been raised by her mother and
not
know how to put the glad rags on.

Tonight, she'd gone to a little more effort than on her previous two dates with Demyan. Chanel had felt the first two outings were flukes, anomalies in her life she refused to allow herself to get too excited over.

After all, he would get that glazed look at some point during the evening and then not call again. Everyone did. Only, Demyan hadn't and he had—called, that is.

And maybe, just maybe, she and the corporate geek had a chance at something more than the connection of two bouncing protons.

He understood what she was talking about and spoke in a language she got. Not like most people. It was the most amazing thing.

And she wanted him. Maybe it was being twenty-nine or something, but her body overheated in his presence big-time.

She'd decided that even if their relationship didn't have a future, she wanted it to have everything she could get out of it in the present.

Both her mother and stepfather had made it clear they thought Chanel's chance of finding a lifelong love were about as good as her department getting better funding than the Huskies football program.

Nil.

Deep inside, Chanel was sure they were right. She was too much like her father—and hadn't Beatrice said she'd married him only because she was pregnant with Chanel?

Chanel wasn't trapping anyone into marriage, but she wouldn't mind tripping Demyan into her too-empty bed.

With that in mind, she'd pulled out the stops when dressing for their dinner tonight. Her dress was a hand-me-down Vera Wang from her mother.

It hadn't looked right on the more petite woman's figure, but the green silk was surprisingly flattering to Chanel's five feet seven inches.

The bodice clung to her somewhat generous breasts, while the draping accentuated her waist and the line of her long legs.

It wasn't slutty by any stretch, but it was sexy in a subtle way she trusted Demyan to pick up on. She would usually have worn it with sensible pumps that didn't add more than an inch to her height.

But not tonight. Demyan was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall; he could deal more than adequately with a companion in three-inch heels.