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Then too he didn’t look forward to being present for this dinner tonight, with the Andreou family. After that first one ten years ago, where the King had announced that Gregor was to marry Andreou’s daughter, with the too-big eyes and rail-like form, he’d managed to miss every visit. Until now.
This was a royal decree and nobody, not even a grown prince, could ignore it. Not without incurring the King’s wrath.
He strode straight to the King and went down on a knee. “You look well, Your Majesty.”
His father snorted. “How good of you to tear yourself away from the gaming tables.”
“My duties as ambassador can be taxing,” he said—a joke, for if that was all he did with his time he’d be bored out of his mind.
As usual, his father scowled at the offhand remark. For years the King had found disfavor with Kristo for his errant ways, expecting him to spend more time on Angyra. Anything that took time away from official duties was inconsequential to the King, so Kristo had ceased bringing the subject up anymore.
“Rest assured I will be present when the State Council convenes next week,” Kristo said, and earned a wave of dismissal from the King.
They both knew he’d leave Angyra as soon as that duty was satisfied. Or perhaps not this time, he thought as he crossed to his brothers.
After the interesting diversion he’d had this afternoon on the beach, staying could prove interesting. He’d never met a woman who was as entranced by the wilds of nature as he. He’d never shared that kind of moment with anyone before.
That fact had made the explosive passion all the more sweet. Even now his body stirred at the memory of holding such perfection in his arms.
If the church bells hadn’t tolled, there was no telling how far she would have let him go.
“About time you showed up,” Gregor said.
Kristo took the glass of tsipouro the server handed him and took a sip before answering the Crown Prince. “The sea turtles were nesting, so I couldn’t leave until they did. Where is your fiancée?”
“She just arrived,” Gregor said, and yet no sign of elation or pleasure showed on his features. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Kristo smiled at his other brother. “He is just like Father—far too intense.”
“He’ll be a good king,” his younger brother Mikhael said. “The question is will he be a good husband to his young Queen?”
Kristo imagined that Gregor would follow in their father’s footsteps there as well. His marriage hadn’t been a love match, and he doubted the Crown Prince’s was either.
“Your Majesty,” Gregor said, his voice ringing with authority. “I present my betrothed—Demetria, the future Queen of Angyra.”
Kristo turned, and the welcoming smile on his face froze. No! It couldn’t be her!
But it was.
The beautiful woman his brother was escorting toward them was the same one he’d kissed to distraction an hour ago!
No, not just kissed.
The delicate stem of his wineglass popped in his tight grip, and his blood roared angrily through his veins.
Just an hour ago he’d tasted Demetria’s full, sensual lips. He’d held the weight of her lush breasts in his hands, known the silken texture of the skin, the tight budding of her nipples.
Gregor, unaware of the fury building within Kristo, escorted his fiancée toward him. Her polite smile vanished the moment their gazes locked. Her soft lips parted. Her face drained of color.
“Demetria, this is my brother, Prince Kristo,” Gregor said. “I doubt you remember him, since it’s been some time since you’ve seen him.”
An hour ago, Kristo thought morosely. One damned hour ago, when he’d brought her to a shuddering climax.
Yet how could he tell his brother that the woman he was to marry was unfaithful? He was just as much to blame for not recognizing her.
“Your Highness,” she said, and dipped into a deep curtsy that felt like a mockery in the face of what had transpired between them.
“My pleasure, Demetria,” he said, hating the coil he was caught in with her.
She forced a smile and mumbled an appropriate greeting.
In that moment he knew she’d not confess her sin either. And why should she?
Wealth and position awaited her.
Damn her for her perfidy! He hated her more than he did anyone on earth.
After today, he vowed to avoid the royal palace and his brother’s unfaithful fiancée.
Chapter One
PRINCE KRISTO STANRAKIS had never thrown a royal fit of anger in his life, but he was moments away from doing so just now. He flung his tuxedo jacket on a red brocade Louis XV chaise and ripped open his stark white shirt, sending a row of diamond studs flying. One pinged off an inlaid table before falling to the gold Kirman carpet, while another chinked as it hit a window.
This urgent meeting with the future King, his lawyers and the highest officials was over. Angyra would face change yet again.
His life had just been turned on its heel and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to evade his fate.
No! His duty!
He paced the impressive length of his apartment. Duty! How he hated that word. How he hated her!
Just one month ago they’d buried their father, the beloved King of Angyra. She’d come to the funeral and sat with her father and sister, looking solemn and royal and aloof. Looking sexy as hell in a black sheath that had hugged her luscious curves.
He hadn’t seen her in almost a year, yet the moment their eyes had met he’d been slammed him back to that day on the beach. A roiling mix of guilt, rage and desire had boiled in him.
He wanted nothing to do with her. Yet he still wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.
Being near her needled him with guilt for betraying his brother and he did not like that feeling one bit. But he’d been prepared to suffer through her return in less than two weeks to marry King Gregor. Except that would not happen now!
The rap at his door was preceded by its opening. He whirled to find Mikhael striding into his suite, with a bottle of ouzo under his arm and two glasses clutched in one hand.
“I thought you could use this,” Mikhael said, and promptly poured two drinks.
He took the offered liquor and tossed it back, relishing the bite to his senses. “Did you have any idea that Gregor was ill?”
Mikhael shook his head. “He’s seemed tired of late, and complained of headaches, but I attributed it to the stress of assuming Father’s duties.”
The same thought had crossed Kristo’s mind. He’d never dreamed that Gregor had secretly seen a doctor just before the King’s death, only to discover two days ago that he had inoperable cancer.
The prognosis was grim. With death imminent, Crown Prince Gregor had chosen to abdicate before the State Council proclaimed him King of Angyra tomorrow.
That official announcement had been made just one hour ago.
By order of birth, the crown now passed to Kristo. He was now Crown Prince, which had thrown the council into emergency session. Unless they deemed him truly unfit to rule—which was possible, considering his reputation—the accession ceremony would take place tomorrow promptly at eleven in the morning.
As if that weren’t jarring enough, he was now forced to assume his brother’s betrothal agreement as well! He had to marry Demetria Andreou—in less than two weeks, if he kept to the schedule that had been set in place.
Damn the fates!
Desirable, unfaithful Demetria would be his wife. His Queen.
“I don’t look forward to tomorrow.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a good King,” Mikhael said.
Kristo wasn’t so sure. Though he’d done his duty to the State Council, and sat in on required meetings, he’d paid little heed for he’d been in reality no more than a figurehead.
However, he’d taken his role as ambassador much more seriously, as that had allowed him to wine and dine dignitaries around the world. Gambling and carousing, as his father had called it.
At times that had been true. But the setting had allowed him to do what came naturally. In turn, being away from Angyra had allowed him the freedom to do what he really wanted.
But that would soon be in the past.
“Has he contacted Andreou yet?” Kristo asked.
“He was speaking with him by phone when I left.”
How would Demetria take the change of plans?
Kristo stopped before the palatial window and looked out on the terraced garden that stepped down to the cerulean sea. He splayed his hands on the casing so hard that he felt the heavy moldings imprint on his flesh.
Dammit, he didn’t want to be King! And by hell’s thunder he certainly didn’t want to marry Demetria!
But the only way to surmount his fate was by death or abandonment of his country. Though he’d joked that he could walk away from Angyra and never miss it, the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t shirk his duty.
“Gregor felt certain that Andreou wouldn’t balk at the change of plans,” Mikhael said. “He suspects that the lady might feel differently.”
“How she feels doesn’t matter. She has a duty to uphold.”
“True, but you are a stranger to her.”
In some ways, but in others they were intimately acquainted. But that was his guilty secret to bear.
“As Gregor pointed out today, the betrothal contract simply states that Demetria is to marry the Crown Prince,” Kristo said, chafing over the fact that he was now that man. “Surely she is aware of that fact.”
“You are being callous about this, brother.”
“I’m simply being pragmatic,” Kristo said. “Demetria and I are bound by the same laws. There is nothing left to discuss.”
The Royal House of Stanrakis had one ancient and non-breakable rule. All future rulers must be of noble Greek blood. As the Stanrakis family continued to produce males, their Crown Princes had only to find a noble bride of Greek blood.
Easier said than done. But then, they weren’t marrying for love. Even if such a thing existed, it wasn’t ordained for a Stanrakis prince.
It certainly wouldn’t be for him!
Demetria had been handpicked by the King. She had been groomed to be the next Queen of Angyra.
She possessed the right lineage. Her maternal grandfather was Greek—one of the old noblemen like Kristo’s father. And her mother had married a Greek, even though Sandros Andreou’s blood wasn’t as pure.
That man had pricked his temper more times than naught over business dealings. As for Demetria—she fired his lust as well as his anger.
“I still think it would be wise for the sake of your marriage if you would take Demetria aside tomorrow and talk to her,” Mikhael said. “It would go a long way in allaying her fears.”
Kristo stared into his glass, his smile slow to come. “Yes, you’re right.”
He’d talk to her, all right. He’d let her know that he’d not tolerate her flirtations. That he’d have her watched carefully since he knew she was not to be trusted.
But the following day at the accession ceremony Demetria was embarrassingly absent.
“Please forgive her, Your Majesty,” Sandros Andreou implored as he bent in as deep a bow as a man with such a considerable girth could manage. “Demetria went on a shopping jaunt for her wedding trousseau hours before Crown Prince Gregor abdicated. I haven’t been able to reach her on her mobile phone to tell her of the news.”
“She is alone?”
The old Greek shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Don’t you know where she went?” Kristo asked, furious that the man hadn’t kept a closer eye on his daughter. “Couldn’t you send a messenger to find her?”
Sandros Andreou’s face turned an ugly purple. “I wasn’t sure where to send him, Your Majesty. Her sister thought she went to Istanbul, but the maid thought she went to Italy.”
“This is intolerable,” Kristo growled. She could be anywhere, with anyone. She could even be entertaining some man!
“Rest assured that when she returns I will have her contact—”
Kristo silenced the man with one wave of his hand that looked surprisingly like the dismissing gesture his father had employed. The wave he’d hated.
“I will see to it myself. Considering the turn of events, it would be wise if your daughter stayed here at the palace until the wedding.”
“For twelve days?” Then, as if remembering who he was addressing, Sandros quickly demurred. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“You and your family are welcome to avail yourselves of the guesthouse the day before the wedding.”
“The day before?” Andreou repeated.
“Yes. That is all.”
The old Greek attempted another bow before taking his leave.
Kristo pushed from his chair and stalked to the window, more restless than he recalled being in years. His gaze fixed on the ridge of mountains in the distance.
