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His anger drained away. He felt something new take its place, something he could not name and he swallowed hard, closed the door quietly and stood watching her. Then, slowly, he walked to her.
Her head was turned to the side. Her lashes formed dark crescents against the high arc of her cheekbones; there were purple smudges of exhaustion under her eyes.
My fault, he thought. He had walked into her life… hell, he had bullied his way into her life, then dragged her halfway around the world. Not that he owed her more delicate treatment. It was just that she looked so innocent in her sleep. Her lustrous hair, lying tumbled over one shoulder. Her translucent skin. Her lips, delicately curved.
He could remember their taste.
Not from that last kiss he’d given her hours ago, a kiss given in rage. He remembered her taste from that night in Ellos. How her mouth had trembled beneath his. How her sigh of surrender had mingled with his breath. How he had groaned at the sweetness of her.
He didn’t think. Didn’t question. Instead, he bent down, brushed a soft, silken curl from her cheek. Put his lips to her temple. The pink shell of her ear. The curve of her jaw.
“Maria.” Her name was a whisper. “Maria,” he said again, and when she sighed, he squatted beside her and pressed his lips gently to hers.
Her lashes fluttered.
He kissed her again. Her taste was honeyed. Don’t, he thought, don’t. But what could be wrong with one more kiss? One more sip of nectar from her soft, rosy mouth? Just one last brush of his lips against hers. Just one… And this time, her lips parted to his. Clung lightly to his. Her eyes opened; her pupils were huge and dark.
“Alexandros?” she whispered, and he was lost.
Groaning, he scooped her into his arms. Brought her down on the soft Kilim carpet. Swept his hands into her hair, lifted her lovely face to his, and took possession of her mouth.
“Alexandros,” she sighed.
His name. Not any other man’s. His. Only his, and now her arms were around his neck, her mouth was moving on his as he lay her back and came down beside her.
His hands cupped her face. Her beauty stole his breath; the smile that trembled on her lips pierced his heart.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “That’s right, glyka mou. Say my name.”
She did, again and again until he silenced her with a deep, hungry kiss. A cry rose in her throat. Her arms tightened around him. Her back arched; she rose against him and he groaned again and slipped his hand inside her black tights.
Her flesh was warm. Soft. Fragrant with the glorious scent of arousal.
He could feel the race of his blood.
He put his lips to her throat.
She sobbed his name. Cupped the back of his head. Urged his mouth down, down, to the uptilted thrust of her breast. To the pebbled nipple that pressed against the softness of her sweater. He caught the bud lightly between his teeth. Her cry pierced the thick silence.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, yes …”
He pushed up the sweater. Sucked a nipple into his mouth. She was lifting herself to him, burying her fingers in his hair, urging him closer, closer…
A knock, as strident as Olympian thunder, sounded at the door. Alex barely heard it but Maria stiffened in his arms.
“Alex,” she hissed.
“Shh, agapi mou. Never mind. Whoever is there will go away.”
The knock came again. “Your Highness?” Athenia’s voice was thin and apologetic. “Your mother is on the phone. She asks if you and Keeria Santos would come by a few minutes early.”
Alex pressed his forehead to Maria’s. “Yes,” he called, “all right. Tell the queen we’ll be there as soon as we can.” He waited until he was sure the housekeeper was gone. Until he could move without disgracing himself. Then he sat up. “We’ll finish this later,” he started to say, but Maria had already rolled away from him and risen to her feet. Her face was white except for two spots of crimson high on her cheeks.
“Is that how you get your women, Your Highness? By taking advantage of them when they’re asleep?”
Her voice shook with indignation. Hell, he was shaking, too, but with thwarted desire.
“You know that isn’t how it was.”
“What I know,” she said, the words laced with accusation, “is that I woke up and found you all over me!”
He stood and faced her, caught between equal parts of anger and frustration.
“Liar,” he said in a low voice.
She turned her back. He grasped her shoulder and swung her toward him.
“What’s the matter, glyka mou? Don’t you like it when the tables are turned? When you’re not in control of the situation?”
“All right,” she snapped. “You made your point. You—you got me to—to give in to you. Are you satisfied now?”
He gave a sharp, ugly laugh. “We have a long way to go until I’m satisfied, sweetheart.”
The crimson drained from her face. “How can you do this?”
It was, he thought, an excellent question.
Despite everything, he was not a man who would ever take an unwilling woman to bed. That was part of the problem, when he came down to it. Maria said she didn’t want him but each time he took her in his arms, she turned that into a lie. Or did she?
Was she still playing him? Was she using him now, even as he was determined to use her? And how could he tell himself that was what he was doing when the truth was he had never wanted a woman as he wanted her and—be honest, Karedes—and revenge or payback, whatever name he gave his supposed motivation, had zero to do with what he felt once she was in his arms.
He turned away from her. Ran his hand through his thick, dark hair.
He was a man who had always prided himself on logic. On self-discipline. And right now, hell, who was he kidding? Ever since the night he’d first met this woman, logic and self-discipline had gone by the wayside.
Maybe it was enough to admit that he wanted her still, and that at the end of a month she would be out of his system. Damned right, she would, he thought grimly, and he turned and faced her again.
“I suggest you return to the house,” he said brusquely. “One of the maids has unpacked your suitcase. You have—” He glanced at his watch. “You have twenty minutes to get ready and then we leave for the palace.”
Her chin came up. “Where has your devoted slave put my things?”
Thee mou, she enraged him! He wanted to shake her. Or strip her naked and show her who was in charge here.
“Your clothes are where they belong,” he snapped. “In my room. We have an agreement, Ms. Santos, that says you are to fulfill your required duties in their entirety, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”
She gave him a withering look. “How could I forget what is sure to be the worst agreement of my life?”
It was, Maria thought, a fine line.
But the Prince of Arrogance only laughed, and that was the sound that followed her all the way to the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_70b66312-0455-511e-8a9f-84f446cc6927)
WHAT did you wear to dine with royalty?
Probably nothing she’d packed, Maria thought unhappily as she followed Athenia to Alex’s bedroom.
Bedroom? Could you call a room this size a bedroom? It was bigger than her loft. Polished wood floors. Handmade rugs. A cathedral ceiling. Skylights. A wall of glass and, beyond it, a terrace and the pool that seemed to hang suspended over the bay.
And a bed.
A bed centered beneath the skylights, elevated on a raised platform, covered by a black silk comforter and a sea of black and white pillows as if it were a stage set.
“Madam will find her things hung in the dressing room.”
Maria swung toward Athenia. “Yes. I—I—Thank you.”
“Everything has been pressed, keeria, to your liking, I hope.”
“Thank you,” she said again. They seemed the only words she could manage.
The housekeeper smiled politely and shut the door behind her. Maria waited a couple of seconds, then turned the lock. She leaned back against the door, shut her eyes and inhaled deeply.
It was a handsome room. Hell, it was a magnificent room. And that bed…
Do not look at that bed, Maria. Do not even think about it.
She would not. She would shower and dress. She had twenty minutes. Not much time, but enough. Actually, she never took longer than that to get ready for a date. Except, this wasn’t a date. It was business. Business to be conducted at a palace.
She’d seen the palace—from the outside, anyway—the last time she was here.
It made Buckingham Palace look small.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Work yourself into a panic. That’s going to be a huge help!” Spine straight, she ignored the bed and marched across the room. This was an important night.
Indeed, it was. At the end of it, Alex was going to make love to her.
Maria rolled her eyes. It was stupid to let her thoughts wander. Of course, tonight was important. She had the commission; now, she had to make sure she had the hearts and minds of her clients.
Her clients. The king of Aristo and his queen. She’d come a long way from the phony Frenchman of L’Orangerie.
The dressing room made her laugh. Add some plumbing and most Manhattan residents would have happily called it an apartment. And there were her things, on a rack all by themselves, surrounded by other racks filled with men’s clothes. Alex’s clothes.
And no, she was not going to think about that now. Dinner was everything. It had to go well.
Her clothes, as Athenia had told her, had been pressed, hung and organized by color. Giddy laughter rose in her throat. Jeans and jeans and jeans, T-shirts and blouses and sweaters. Organized and pressed, and what in hell was there hanging in front of her she could wear to a palace?
Casual, Alex had said. Easy for him to say. And to do.
What was he going to wear? And where would he shower and dress?
Not here, and that was all that mattered. For all she knew, he kept a complete wardrobe in each bedroom. A mistress in each, too. Or maybe this was the way installing a new mistress was handled. Maybe his staff was trained to move some of the master’s clothes, just enough to get his latest conquest through the confusion of her first night here.
Stop it, Maria thought furiously.
She was most assuredly not Alex’s conquest, she was his—What would be the correct word? Never mind. She would not dwell on how or why she was in his bedroom, or the implications of it, either—or on the fact that his entire staff surely now understood she would be sleeping with him.
A dozen other women probably had gone this route. She lacked their experience in the art or business of being a kept woman but instinct told her that a woman who filled that role would not blush at such information being public.
She’d do her best not to blush, either.
Besides, Alex would not ‘keep’ her. The money for the commission didn’t come from him. It was for the design and execution of the queen’s birthday gift, and she would not accept so much as a penny for anything else.
A phone rang.
Maria looked around. There it was. A small white telephone on the wall of the dressing room. It rang again and she plucked it from its cradle, put it to her ear and said a careful, “Hello?”
“You’re down to twelve minutes, glyka mou.”
“Alexandros?”
“I like it when you call me that.”
His voice was husky. Why did that roughness always send a tingle along her skin?
“Alexandros!” She looked around wildly. “Where are you?”
He laughed. “Relax, sweetheart. I can’t see you—but I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re standing in the middle of my bedroom, trying not to look at the bed and wondering what on earth possessed you to bring nothing suitable to wear this evening.”
She blinked. “Wrong,” she said airily. After all, she was in the dressing room, not the bedroom, and she’d already wasted time trying not to look at the bed.
“Try the emerald silk dress and the black stiletto sandals. And before you tell me you won’t wear another woman’s cast-offs, let me assure you they aren’t. The dress and shoes were both delivered from the Chanel boutique in Ellos a couple of hours before we arrived.” His words took on that same sexy softness again. “I had to guess at the size, glyka mou, so I hope I got them right. Of course, we won’t have any such difficulties after tonight.”
Maria felt her entire body blush as she slammed the phone back onto its cradle. How dared he buy her clothes? Did he really think she’d wear anything he’d paid for?
There it was. The dress. And right below it, the shoes. Both were gorgeous. The brilliant color of the dress would be perfect with the delicately spiked heels. Exactly what she’d have bought for an occasion like this… if she’d been in a position to spend, what, ten thousand bucks?
She would not wear these things.
She would wear something of her own.
Black jeans. A white silk blouse. Dressy enough for dinner at an upscale New York restaurant… but for dinner at a palace? For what was, basically, a business meeting that was surely going to change her life?
“Damn you, Alexandros,” she said bitterly—and knew she had lost Round One.
She showered quickly, and never mind that the faint, clean scent of the hand-milled soap reminded her of Alex. The shampoo had the same effect. So what? Soap was soap, shampoo was shampoo. She towel-dried her hair—no time for anything else—and hurried into the dressing room.
There were more than shoes with the dress. There was a tiny black evening purse. And undies. A black lace bra. A black lace thong. The sheerest thigh-high nylons she’d ever seen.
