Free A Perfect Man: International Billionaires IV: The Greeks by Caro LaFever Page A

sworn at him.
    He’d mentioned getting some new sneakers.
    She’d sneered.
    Every evening they’d attended some function he needed to be at. He had to suffer through hours of staring at the top of her head, with her brown hair knotted into a motley chignon or twisted braid. Looking at her hair, though, was always better than looking farther down. Down meant encountering the flaps of another pantsuit covering any hope of a female figure. Did the woman even have a waist? She was a box from her big tits to her overly round hips.
    That was bad enough.
    What was worse, were the colors.
    Neon blue. Metallic green. Garish pink.
    The woman had no sense of style or color. Truly, she needed to meet his mother and sisters. The thought of that coming confrontation made him groan out loud.
    “Are you sick?” She didn’t sound concerned. Rather, she sounded amused.
    “What makes me sick is that thing you’re wear—”
    Her little hand shot forward, palm facing him. “Stop right there. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
    “But you need it.”
    She grunted a dismissal and swung around to stare through the window at the flashing lights of the city.
    Alex grunted back at her and looked out his own window.
    This morning, he’d hoped to see her in something other than ugly since today had been her TV show day. He’d even found himself lying in his bed last night wondering if she’d have her hair down for once or if she’d wear lipstick. He’d been stunned at how disappointed he’d been when she’d arrived in the kitchen looking even worse than usual.
    “They do me over when I get there,” she’d explained.
    “I would think you’d—”
    “And why are you getting up every morning anyway?” She threw the words over her shoulder before running out the door, her long brown hair latched to the top of her head like a clump of mud.
    Why he’d risen every morning at four a.m., much to Sophia’s displeasure, was easy to explain. He wasn’t being bossy or nosy—both accusations shot at him from her unpainted lips more than once.
    Nope. It was simple.
    She woke him. Every morning.
    He’d lived alone since moving out of the apartment he’d shared with Henry all through college. He liked living alone. After a childhood of sharing space with a bunch of females, he’d enjoyed the solitude. The quiet. Everything in the place he’d put it.
    Sophia had disturbed every piece of his place with her presence.
    When he’d settled in to watch some TV, the remote control was not where he’d left it. Several times, he’d had to pluck her coat from the couch and put it in the closet where it belonged. She not only discarded her ancient sneakers in the front hall, she’d also abandoned her surprisingly sexy high heels there too. All three pair.
    He glanced at her tiny feet. They were clad with the heels that were black but sparkly. His sisters would like those shoes. “You found your shoes.”
    She peered at the shoes, her forehead scrunched in a frown. “I had to look everywhere in that mausoleum of yours. They weren’t by the front door.”
    Mausoleum? What the hell did she mean by that? His penthouse had been written about by some of the top interior design magazines in the world. Her contempt for everything he was and everything he had made him lose his patience and his manners. “Shoes are not supposed to be left at the front door.”
    Her head whipped around, her eyes dancing. “Oh, no. Did I break one of your rules, Alexander?”
    The elongated vowels in his name soured his mood even more than her clothing. “I had Mrs. Palmer bring them back to your bedroom.”
    “How nice of you.” She snuggled into the corner of the seat, a smile tugging at her lips. “Or rather, nice of Mrs. Palmer.”
    He gave her another grunt of disgust and the noise made her smile widen. Swinging around to stare out the limo once more, he went back to his list of grievances against her.
    She watched the stupidest programs on TV. All those reality