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“Subway?” she suggested. “The bus?”
“Bus.”He looked up, aghast, then saw her teasing grin. She clearly thought he was being rather silly, which he supposed he was, at least when it came to walking long city blocks or being packed like a sardine into mass transit. But his year living on the streets of Athens at fifteen, trudging sidewalks looking for food or work, trying to slouch in the back rows of buses and train stations long enough to sleep, had been enough for his lifetime. Not that he’d ever tell anyone about that. Turning back to his phone, Theo said, “There’s a car dealership two blocks from here.”
Emmie’s nose wrinkled. “I know. The gentrification is getting ridiculous. Some of my neighbors tried to fight it, but...where are you going?”
“I’m walking there.” He paused to let that sink in. He didn’t want to be too predictable. His gaze fell to her belly beneath her loose sundress. “Do you want to wait here? I can come back and pick you up.”
“I can walk two blocks,” she said dryly. “I just didn’t knowyoucould.”
Carelessly lifting the bag with one hand, he flashed her a sharklike grin. “I’m willing to suffer for a good cause.”
As they walked side by side down the lively block, Emmie kept glancing at him through her lashes, as if she were trying to work up to something.
So was he. Theo had no idea how to convince her to sign the prenuptial agreement that would be waiting for them at his penthouse beside their lunch spread. But she had to sign it. His attorney had been very definite about that.
“No prenup, no marriage,” he’d insisted to Theo on the phone. “Do you understand, Mr. Katrakis? Do I need to remind you what happened to Bill Gates? Jeff Bezos?” He’d paused. “Robert Romero?”
Theo still shivered at the memory. It was true Bezos and Gates had lost a tidy bundle after prenup-free divorces, but at least those marriages had been long and their wives had helped create those fortunes.
Robert Romero was something else. The self-made frozen-foods tycoon had married a twenty-one-year-old waitress, only to have her file for divorce when they returned from their honeymoon. With her lawyer’s help, she’d taken most of the man’s fortune. Romero had ended up destitute, shamed, mocked; he died of a heart condition six months later. Whether his heart was broken from losing love or his fortune was an open question.
Mae Baker Romero, the young ex-wife, still lived in a high-rise not too far from Theo’s, in a swanky penthouse overlooking Central Park. Called Killer by her friends, she often appeared in gossip columns, flashing her big, bright smile and even bigger and brighter diamonds.
Theo shuddered. Every wealthy bachelor in New York knew the story of Robert Romero.
But how could he convince Emmie to sign the prenup, without her feeling insulted and telling him to forget the whole thing? How could he be diplomatic enough to soften the blow, and seduce, and persuade?
He slanted a sideways glance at her.
In bed, he thought. Obviously. When she was close—hell, even when she’d been thousands of miles away—it was difficult for Theo to think of anything but making love to her. He’d made shocking mistakes because his brain ceased working beneath the onslaught of his desire.
Surely, Emmie had the same problem with him.
Surely?
He recalled how she’d trembled beneath his kiss, her hands gripping him tight. When he’d released her, she’d looked up at him like someone newly woken from a dream. That decided it.
Bed.
Bed, his body agreed fervently.
Walking together through the neighborhood, they arrived at the small used-car dealership about fifteen minutes later. It only took five minutes for Theo to select the best on the lot, a pristine cherry-red 1971 Barracuda convertible. It would be a nice addition to his vintage collection, he thought, as well as quick transportation back to Manhattan. He reached for his wallet.
“No,” Emmie said.
Theo frowned, turning to her. The salesman stared at the credit card in his hand intently, vibrating like a dog waiting for a particularly choice bit of meat to drop to the floor. “What do you meanno?”
“I’m not getting in that thing.” She looked at the low convertible doubtfully. “Even if I could lower myself into the seat, I’d never get up again.”
“You’ll be fine—”
“Forget it.”
As they glared at each other, he suddenly missed the old days when he could override her, when he was demonstrably, undoubtedly the boss.
But even then, sometimes they’d battled, usually when she’d decided to stand her ground in order to prevent him from doing something foolish. Like when his private jet had landed for emergency repairs in Florida and he’d nearly bought thousands of acres of swampland out of sheer boredom. Or the time he’d nearly sold an expensive Tokyo property for a single yen because he’d been annoyed his favorite noodle shop was closed.
On second thought, maybe he should let her win this one. Even if it was damned irritating. Setting his jaw, he demanded, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
