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  “What if I asked you to stay on as CEO?” he questioned. “What if I made that my condition for accepting your offer?”

  Ilona’s heart skipped, then stretched with longing. She had built her company with more than pride and care—she had put her soul into it.

  Much as it would kill her to walk away from what she had created, however, the idea of finally escaping from the Pagonis tentacles was even more appealing.

  She would finally be free.

  Thanks to this man with the broad shoulders, glinting silver eyes and a sensual mouth that put shocking thoughts in her head.

  “Tempted?” he chided in that infuriatingly seductive tone.

  “No,” she lied. Her skin was still prickling, wondering if he found her appealing. “The idea of partnering with a man who hates me and wants to use me to exact revenge against my family sounds like a marriage best not undertaken. I suggest—”

  “Marriage,” Leander cut in, sitting straight up with a screech of his chair. “Now, there’s an idea.”

  Canadian Dani Collins knew in high school that she wanted to write romance for a living. Twenty-five years later, after marrying her high school sweetheart, having two kids with him, working at several generic office jobs and submitting countless manuscripts, she got The Call. Her first Harlequin novel won the Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First in Series from RT Book Reviews. She now works in her own office, writing romance.

  Books by Dani Collins

  Harlequin Presents

  What the Greek’s Wife Needs

  Her Impossible Baby Bombshell

  One Snowbound New Year’s Night

  Jet-Set Billionaires

  Cinderella for the Miami Playboy

  Signed, Sealed…Seduced

  Ways to Ruin a Royal Reputation

  The Secret Sisters

  Married for One Reason Only

  Manhattan’s Most Scandalous Reunion

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Dani Collins

  Innocent in Her Enemy’s Bed

  In loving memory of my mother, Sharon, who taught me to love reading, left romance novels on the coffee table, and showed me what a loving relationship looked like with her fifty-five-year marriage to my dad. We all miss you, Mom.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM HIS DESERT BRIDE BY DEMAND BY LELA MAY WIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  THIS MUST BE what it would feel like walking to the gallows, Ilona Callas’s imagination whispered as she passed through the security gauntlet in the lobby of the Vasilou Tower.

  Her skin was clammy and her stomach was filled with lead. Her heart raced and her breathing was so shallow and rapid, she grew light-headed. Her nostrils burned with the scent of danger. Flee!

  Perhaps it was the glass elevator. The guard showed her into it and pushed the button, but left her to rise alone. She averted her gaze from the way the plants and people abruptly shrank beneath her and grasped the rail for balance.

  She didn’t care for heights, not since her older half brother Midas had dragged her to the edge of a cliff and terrorized her with threats of throwing her off. A joke, her stepmother had insisted. Boys will be boys.

  Deep down, Ilona suspected the reason she was here was because Midas was at it again. He was so funny with his destructive pranks, he ought to have his own comedy special on the streaming networks.

  The Parthenon came into view then even that behemoth shrank as she continued to rise. Buildings this tall were a rarity in Athens. Most kept to twelve floors or less, ensuring the Parthenon was always in view. The fact the owner of this tower had been allowed to double that height told her he did not confine himself to the rules that governed others.

  Much like Midas.

  The knives in her stomach turned.

  The door pinged and opened. Ilona entered a top floor reception area of stunning design. The marble tiles were arranged so the veins created a river effect, guiding her through a gallery of modern art to a desk stationed before a glass wall etched with a map of the globe.

  A woman sat behind the desk, but a scrupulously groomed young man stood by to greet Ilona.

  “Kyría Callas. Kaliméra. I’m Androu. Kýrie Vasilou will be with you shortly. May I ask you to wait here?” Androu led her to a door adjacent to the reception area, one that opened into a small, stuffy glass-fronted room. It held a round table and four chairs that were a chic, modern design made from polished wood. He didn’t offer coffee or water before he left her.

  The lack of respect was obvious. This room was a prison where she had no privacy. The lighting was artificial, the music not piped in. The only sound was the loud tick of the clock. Ilona didn’t bother trying her phone. The service would be poor; she was sure. This room was deliberately uncomfortable so meetings here would be kept short.

  It was not the place to leave a peer.

  If Leander Vasilou thought she would depart in a huff of indignation, however, he was deeply mistaken. Ilona had been insulted, attacked and disregarded her whole life. Rather than taking offense, she was grateful for the time to sit quietly and escape the coming confrontation with more pleasant thoughts.

  She admired that marble floor and wondered how she might obtain the name of the mason so she could plagiarize the effect in her flat. Or, as she often fantasized, perhaps she would sell her flat and move to the island of her mother’s birth. She loved her work, but today was a perfect example of why it was also draining. It would be far less stressful to work in a café the way her mother had. On Paxos, she would have a view of actual water. She could feed the stray cats and try her hand at pottery. That had always fascinated her. So tactile and magical to create shapes from silt. She would have to look up whether there were appropriate clay deposits—

  “Kyría Callas?” Androu was back. “Kýrie Vasilou will see you now.”

  A glance at the clock revealed she had been waiting thirty-three minutes.

  Since the young man held the door with an air of expectation, she rose.

  “Thank you,” she said, but the blanket of dread returned to her shoulders, heavy and cold.

  She followed him down a blessedly air-conditioned corridor, through a far more comfortable waiting area, one that provided a small banquet of refreshments and a view of the city.

  He waved her into a massive office.

  Here, the marble veins in the floor created a mountain effect. On one side, there were a sofa and chairs with a television mounted above a wine cooler set in a cabinet of glasses and bottles of spirits. The other side held a meeting table with six ergonomic chairs, a projector and a blank whiteboard.

  In front of her, at the pinnacle of the mountain, natural light poured through a wall of glass, backlighting the occupant of the office, Leander Vasilou.

  He sat at a desk made from a curved slab of polished mahogany set atop drawers arranged in a slant. The whole thing looked offset, but dynamic and ultramodern. He wore an earpiece and was speaking in French, booking a tennis match with someone.

  The doors closed behind her, but his conversation only lapsed into whether a certain
piste at a Swiss ski resort had been attempted, then the merits of protein shakes over whole foods after working out.

  He didn’t look at her once.

  Ilona hadn’t been invited to sit so she didn’t. She waited with the patience she had gathered around her through a lifetime of being least and last and deeply unwanted. It usually served her well, cushioning her against most of life’s spears and arrows.

  Not today.

  She knew he was aware of her, knew he was deliberately trying to get under her skin. To her chagrin, it was working. She wanted to put it down to the attack this stranger was waging on her. Many would label it “just business,” but it was deeply personal to her. It was her business he was attacking.

  That wasn’t what was piercing her bubble of detachment, though. It was him.

  She had seen photos of Leander Vasilou, but she hadn’t expected his suit-model looks to be so mesmerizing in real life. His eyelids sat heavy and bored over gray irises. A scruff of beard accentuated the height of his cheekbones and the hollows of his cheeks. That same scruff might be hiding a cleft in his squared off chin. It certainly framed a mouth that gave her a small thrill when his teeth briefly caught at the inner flesh of his bottom lip.

  “Oh, yes, I remember her very well,” he said, voice dipping into smoky amusement rife with sensual memory.

  That tone had the strangest effect on her, turning the greasiness of dread in her belly to warm butter laced with honey.

  A flush of heat rose from that same place, radiating into her breasts and turning to an embarrassed heat as she realized she was reacting in a very sexual way to that timbre in his voice.

  She never reacted to men. Or women. Not to anyone. Not like this. She dated when an escort was expected—like a gala or holiday party—but she rarely allowed more than a kiss at the end because that was when her interest always dried up.

  Oddly, this man, whom she was predisposed to fear and dislike, was making her wonder how his lips would feel against her own. How would they feel in the crook of her neck? His wide hands became a source of fascination as he briefly squeezed the back of his neck and laughed, causing the fabric of his shirt to strain across his well-built shoulders and thick biceps.

  She had never once in her life felt her breath leave her because the beauty of a man appealed so strongly. Or experienced a compulsion to unbutton a man’s shirt and nuzzle the hair on his chest because a few fine hairs at his collar caught her attention, but she was envisioning doing that to him and was appalled with herself.

  She swallowed, discovering her throat was hot and tight. Her cheeks were beginning to sting as her blush arrived from her chest and swept upward.

  She averted her gaze to a sculpture that could have been steel flames. She thought about the time Midas had thrown her doll into the fire at the Pagonis chalet in Switzerland. It had been the last thing her mother had given her.

  That painful memory helped her remember why she was here. At nine, she hadn’t had the courage to pluck her doll out of the fire and save it. She wouldn’t be so cowardly today.

  She firmed her feet to the floor and drew a long subtle breath of patience.

  Leander Vasilou finally ended his call. He dropped his earpiece onto his desk and looked at her with a distinct lack of interest.

  “Kyría Pagonis. You wanted to see me.” He didn’t rise, didn’t offer his hand to shake.

  She didn’t even glance at either of the chairs she stood between.

  “Callas,” she corrected with a polite smile. “My mother wasn’t married to my father so I use her name.” Ilona always corrected that. It was a whole thing with Odessa, her stepmother. “But given you’re attempting to take over my company, I expect you already know my name.”

  “I am taking over your company,” he assured her. “Ilona.”

  His facetious tone was dangerously close to that other, intimate timbre he had used a moment ago. It had the same effect of unfurling frond-like sensations deep in her belly.

  She tried to ignore it, but her throat was constricting again.

  “You have acquired forty percent of the shares in Callas Cosmetics. I own forty-five. Pagonis International owns the remaining fifteen, so I don’t know how you—”

  “Does it?” he cut in.

  The sweet sensations in her stomach curdled. The text from her younger half brother Hercules appeared in her mind’s eye.

  You should be here. They’re making decisions without you.

  “I understand you’ve made an offer to buy those shares from Pagonis. May I assume you’re prompted by product loyalty? Your skin is certainly flawless,” she said.

  There was a flash behind his sharp gaze, like the glint off a knife blade.

  “You may assume that my intention is to take over Pagonis International. Acquiring their cash cow is the first step.”

  Ilona had been called many things, but never that. And Midas must know he was the real target. That’s why he was throwing her company forward as a sacrifice. Big surprise.

  She tightened her grip on her clutch, fighting to keep an impervious expression on her face.

  “I’ve bettered your offer,” she said with false calm. “If they sell, it will be to me. I’m here to offer for the forty percent you’ve already obtained. I’m prepared to pay above market value.”

  “I’ve upped the ante myself, promising ten percent over any offer you make. The sky is the limit. That was one of the Pagonis board members on that call.” He flicked a finger toward his earpiece. “We’re old friends and he owes me a favor. He’s also greedy as hell. Pagonis will not be selling their shares to you.”

  The churn in her stomach grew into a tangle of thorny brambles.

  “Why is it that you’re targeting Pagonis?” she asked, lifting her brows in absent interest. “Cosmetics and biotechnology fall outside the Vasilou bailiwick, doesn’t it?” His conglomerate took on large infrastructure projects like bridges and airports.

  “I want to take back what’s mine and destroy the rest,” he said very casually, as though mentioning his errands for the day.

  Her blood went cold as she began to see where Midas was dragging her. Here was the cliff, and its churning sea was in Leander’s eyes, mercilessly crashing against sharp rocks.

  “What, um, what exactly is yours?” she inquired, fighting to keep a level tone.

  “The speech recognition technology that your brother ‘developed’ sixteen years ago.” He only curled the fingers on one hand to indicate the air quotes, not even lifting the heel of his palm off the blotter on his desk. Contempt dripped off his tongue. “Most of the credit goes to my father, but I worked with him on it. Then Midas talked us into allowing him to assist us with taking it to market. That was the last we saw of him or any profit we should have earned.”

  Of course, Midas had stolen that technology. She kicked herself for not seeing it long before now, but she had still been at boarding school when he had been impressing their father with his business acumen. Then she had focused on building her own enterprise, distancing herself as much as possible from Midas and the corporate headquarters, not wanting to work at Pagonis International because she would have to work directly under Midas.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re coming after my company, rather than some of the subsidiaries that Midas controls,” she said.

  “I entered the door that was open. Your shares aren’t as expensive or well-protected against speculative trading. Which doesn’t make sense to me when your company has been infusing the mother ship with much-needed cash for over a year.”

  It made sense if he knew her family, but she didn’t let their greed and scorn of her value distract her in this moment.

  “Your intention is to persuade the board to sell you its share in Callas Cosmetics and take it over from me? Then what do you plan to do with it?”

  “Let it wit
her and die.”

  That pushed her onto her back foot. “Why?” she asked with anxious bafflement. “You just called it a cash cow.”

  “Because I want your family to know that I don’t need it the way you do. I want it to hurt. I want you all to feel sickened at the mistake you made, living off the fruits of my father’s labor, stealing the credit and driving him to ruin.”

  The gravel rolling in her middle stopped. It became heavy and nauseatingly hard, but at least it was a feeling she was used to. This was very familiar ground.

  “Your takeover is motivated by vindictiveness,” she acknowledged.

  “Yes.” No hesitation or apology.

  Perhaps he was entitled to his antipathy, but she hadn’t stolen from his father. There was no defusing hate, though. Ilona had learned that with Odessa. It didn’t matter that Ilona was her father’s mistake. Ilona had always borne the brunt of Odessa’s resentment.

  That seemed to be what Leander had in store for her. He would take the majority share in Callas Cosmetics, then force her to watch as he ran it into the ground. That would crush her, given she had built it from a patch of dry skin on her cheek to a global enterprise.

  A familiar despair at injustice floated around the edges of her periphery, but she mentally batted it away. Crying or fighting against the bullies of the world had never served her. The best she could do was soften the punch and get away as quickly as possible.

  “I don’t want innocent employees to lose their jobs.” She made her decision with the swiftness of self-preservation and acted on it before second thoughts could creep in. “Our customers depend on the efficacy of our products, especially those with facial scars and burn injuries. It would be a shame to deny them something they need. I propose you buy my shares.”

  He snorted and his chair squeaked as he threw himself back in it. “I know what it looks like when a rat jumps ship, Ilona.”

  No fernlike tickle when he said her name this time. She was nothing but granite inside, hardened with resolve.

  “I propose that you buy my shares for the amount my father gave me when he approved my business plan. That was one hundred thousand euros of start-up capital and a fifteen percent share. I don’t know what I’ll do next, but I’m happy to maintain those terms on any venture I pursue.” A café, for instance. With dolmades served on hand-thrown crockery.