Princess From the Past

by Caitlin Crews

  And he knew it. She could see that smug, male satisfaction in his dark gaze, the faint smile that toyed with the corner of his mouth.

  She did not know what to do. She knew how she might have handled this moment even two hours ago, but that had been before they’d walked through fields of green and gold and he’d told her things that still made her feel raw. Unsettled.

  That had been before her traitorous heart had let itself yearn for him so fully, as completely as if he had never broken it in the first place. What was she supposed to do now?

  “How did your meetings in Sydney go?” she asked, because it seemed so innocuous a question and because it could not possibly make this tension between them any worse. And perhaps because she was every bit the coward he had called her.

  Leo’s smile deepened, and he reached down to capture a piece of hard cheese with his long fingers. He took a bite, considering her, and she could not have said why she found all of it unbearably erotic.

  The lake was so quiet, the breeze so sweet against her skin. The sun above them was so warm, caressing. Her breasts felt heavy, aching behind her thin shirt. She felt a faint sheen of moisture break out across her upper lip.

  She knew he missed nothing. His head cocked to the side. “I do not often lose the things I want, Bethany. But perhaps you knew this already.”

  “I know you take your business very seriously, if that is what you mean,” she said, unable to look away from the dark seduction of his gaze, unable to keep herself from imagining what might happen if she tilted forward and let herself fall across that hard, rangy body spread out before her like a buffet of sensual delights.

  But of course she already knew what would happen. She could already taste the salt and musk of his skin against her tongue. She could already feel his long, smooth muscles hard beneath her palms. She could hardly breathe for the images that chased through her head, memory and imagination fused into one great wave of ache and want and need.

  She knew that he knew it, too.

  “I take everything seriously,” he said, his voice a low rumble she could feel as well as hear, moving through her, leaving heat and fire in its wake. “I am known for my attention to detail. Renowned for it, you might even say.”

  “Leo …” She did not know what she meant to say, but she felt so snared, so captured, as if he’d trapped her here. The truly terrifying part of that was how little she cared. What was happening to her? How could she let him cast this spell over her just by lying there?

  But she had the lowering thought that she’d left the fight somewhere back at the castello. That he had finally disarmed her and she was more vulnerable now than she had ever been before. Mostly because she could not bring herself to care as she knew she had even this morning. As she knew she would again when this dangerous moment was past.

  Still, here—now—there was only his hot gaze and her helpless melting deep within.

  “I can see the way you look at me, Bethany,” he whispered, his eyes intent on hers, his voice a seduction, a caress. “You are eating me alive with all that blue heat, all of your desires written like poetry across your face. I can see that your breathing has gone shallow and your hands tremble.”

  “Perhaps this is disgust,” she breathed. “After all.”

  He smiled, but it was a predator’s smile, and it connected hard with her core, sending heat searing through her. Electric. Shattering. Leo.

  “You are the student of psychology,” he said. “You tell me what it means, these physical signs and your continued denials that they mean what we both know they must mean.”

  Bethany looked away then, the word ‘psychology’ managing to break through the haze. You have another life, a different life, she told herself fiercely, trying to breathe through the tightness inside of her that mounted with every beat of her heart. This is just a dream by a lake that should not exist in the first place.

  “I do not need to be a psychologist to know that touching you would be a monumentally stupid thing to do,” she said in a low voice, her attention trained on the lake’s clear waters as they lapped against the shore.

  “If you say so,” he murmured, sounding neither offended nor put off. Hyper-aware of him, she could practically hear every shift of his body.

  She knew when he reached for the succulent cuts of salami and prosciutto crudo, when he tore off a piece of fresh-baked bread and slathered it with an olive tapenade. She knew when he relaxed back on his elbows, when he licked his fingers, when he let that hungry gaze of his eat her up instead.

  “Why did you never bring me here?” she asked finally when she could no longer stare at the lake without driving herself insane.

  Was it worse to imagine what he was doing or watch him do it? All these years later, and she still did not know. She twisted around to look at him, not surprised to find him watching her with that same intense regard.

  “Before,” she amended.

  He looked at her for a moment, then out toward the opposite bank of the lake where leafy green persimmon trees rustled in the slight breeze.

  “This was never a happy place,” he said finally. “It did not seem appropriate to bring a new bride to a place made from one man’s ego and a woman’s tears.”

  Bethany swallowed. “And now?”

  Why did she ask? What did she want from him?

  But she knew what she wanted. She had always known: everything. That was why the little she’d received had hurt so very badly. That was why she had haunted that house in Toronto for so long, hoping in the dark of night that he might return even as she hated herself for that weakness in the light of day.

  She was merely feeling the echoes of all of that now, she told herself desperately. Just the echoes, nothing more.

  “What answer do you wish me to give?” he asked softly, turning that brooding yet fierce gaze back upon her. “What must I tell you to make you touch me as you want to do, Bethany? As we both want you to do? Tell me what you want and I will say it. Just tell me.”

  It was as if there was a sudden earthquake beneath her—as if the earth tumbled and rolled, cracked and heaved all while she sat there, not moving, not touching him, not even fighting with him—which was, she acknowledged in some far-off part of her brain, far easier than whatever this was.

  This …aching regret. This longing. This undeniable need and this deep, wrenching fear that if she did not reach over and place her hands on him he would truly disappear as if he had never been.

  Because he never should have been. He never should have noticed her in the first place. He had never been meant for her—he had always been on loan, and some part of her had recognized that from the start.

  Was that why she had thrown tantrums, indulged her inner lunatic, done everything possible to push him away? Had she done it all to hasten along the inevitable day when he looked at her and saw nothing but his worst mistake? Why not rush to that end, when she’d known they were always destined to get there one way or another?

  “You look at me as if I have become a ghost,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Before your very eyes.”

  “Sometimes I think that’s all you ever were,” she heard herself say as if she had no control over herself any longer—as if all the things she had only ever admitted to herself in the dark of the night were suddenly free to tumble from her lips. As if this secluded, unnatural spot, so pretty and so calculated at the same time, was somehow the safe haven she had searched for all these years.

  “That is all you allowed me to be,” he said quietly. “It is all you would give me—your body, your protestations of love. But the real woman? The flesh and blood? That was never on offer.”

  Any other day she might have thrown something back at him, tried to hurt him in return. But today was too different. Too out of time, as if their usual rules did not apply. Or perhaps it was this odd place, this peaceful lake hidden away on a hilltop, yet never meant for happiness—just like us, she thought.

  She could not bring herself to
do anything but reply honestly.

  “Whose flesh and blood did you want?” she asked, her voice as soft as his. “You wanted something I could never be. You wanted the woman you should have married. The woman you would have married, had you not met me instead.”

  She did not know what she expected from him. Protestations? Denials? Some part of her yearned for him to storm at her that she was mistaken, to demand that she tell him who had put such thoughts in her head. But he did neither.

  Instead, his dark gaze seemed electric on hers, searing and hard, and his face darkened. A moment passed, and then another, and he did not speak.

  “You were meant for someone noble, well-educated, refined and elegant,” she continued, reciting from memory the words his cousin had hurled at her, trapped in Leo’s gaze but unable to look away. “Every day I was none of those things, and every day you resented me more for it.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes clear on hers even though his voice was gruff. “I did not. I did not resent you for that.” He paused, then continued, his voice low and harsh. “If anything, I resented myself for trying to make you into something you were not.”

  She opened her mouth then, but nothing came out. She looked at him and it was as if she shook, or the earth shook, but nothing made sense. It was all a jumble of regret and misunderstanding; her own fears and his cousins’ poison; his retreat into his title and her inability to reach out to him; resentment and anger, the wounds inflicted across the years, and her inability to dismiss him as she should. And she knew she should.

  “The fact that you were not those things, could never be those things, was why I married you in the first place,” he said, his voice softer, yet somehow more urgent.

  She was astounded to realize that she believed him. Yet she remembered how it had been. He had been so cold, so distant, so disapproving, and she had not known how to handle that when the man she had fallen so far in love with had been so fiery, so deeply entwined with her at every moment.

  “Why did you not tell me that then?” she asked, surprised to find she was whispering. Would it have made a difference? she asked herself now. Would it have changed anything?

  “I could not tell you something I did not know myself,” he said in a low voice.

  But she could not get past what his words seemed to imply. And she was shaken by the wave of grief that washed through her, over her, making her feel too large and unwieldy, too exposed, too vulnerable.

  “You wanted something different, is that it?” she asked, because she could not seem to stop herself, not because she really wanted to know the answer. Her voice was hoarse from the agony of this conversation. She was sure she had bruises, yet she still could not seem to stop. “You …what? Thought I could be the symbol of your rebellion?”

  “I wanted you,” he said, his voice as dark as his eyes, his expression as troubled as she imagined hers to be. His lips pressed together and she could see that tension radiating along the length of his body. “I wanted you. And I confess, Bethany, that I did not think of anything else at all.”

  She wanted to weep. To curl herself into a ball and sob until the great mess of the feelings that swirled around inside of her were purged from her once and for all.

  But instead, responding to an urgency she dared not examine too closely, she leaned forward. She propped herself up on her hands and held herself above him for a long, trembling moment. Then she closed the distance between them and went to press her lips to his.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped her just before she touched him and she froze, her mouth so close to his, so very close. She dragged her gaze up to his, so bright now, with desire glowing like molten gold. She shivered and he smiled, though his whole big body was as taut as a spring, coiled tight beneath her, so much raw male power leashed and ready.

  “What is it?” she whispered just a breath away. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and she could see his hands in fists at his hips, digging into the blue and white blanket beneath them.

  “If I taste you, I will take you.” His eyes, glittering with that intoxicating heat, were hard on hers. His harsh promise hung between them and lit her on fire. She exulted in the flames, the burn. “Be certain, Bethany. Be very certain.”

  She was not certain at all. She felt reckless, compelled. She felt as if she had lost herself in quicksand. She felt too much, all of it so big, so terrifying, shaking her even as she sat.

  I wanted you, he had said, and it made her shiver. Today of all days, here beside a lake that should not have been—a monument to a marriage disturbingly like the one she had walked away from—she would not let herself worry about the consequences.

  She licked her lips and felt him sigh against her, felt that dark and intoxicating desire kick hard and hot between them.

  Just for today, she promised herself. This is only for today.

  And then, reaching across all of their history, across too many years and regrets, too much resentment and the space of one quick breath, she fit her mouth to his.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LEO let her kiss him, her soft, lush mouth hot against his. Once. Twice. Like heaven, her taste. A kind of paradise, the slide of her lips on his—tasting, touching. Needing him as he needed her. If this was his rebellion, he did not know why he would ever do anything but fall.

  And then he could not help the thudding, pounding, heady mix of desire and triumph, victory and relief that flooded through him. He jack-knifed forward, never taking his mouth from hers, and took her face in his hands, angling her head for a better, hotter, slicker fit.

  Oh, the taste of her. It was like the finest of his wines, like the heat of the summer sun, and he had been hard for her for days. Years. He went harder still when he heard the impatient, greedy sounds she made, her mouth opening over his, her hands spearing into the thickness of his hair to hold his head close to hers.

  He felt her fine cheekbones under his thumbs, the soft swell of her cheeks. Still he tasted her, over and over, as if he could sate himself on this alone—as if he feared that should he stop, should they breathe, should they pause for even a moment, she would disappear from him all over again.

  Not again, he told himself. Not now. Not while he captured her curls beneath his palms. Not while he tasted her as if he were dying of thirst and she was the coolest, sweetest, purest water he had ever known.

  And then he could not think. He could not plan. He could only pull her close, crushing her breasts against the wall of his chest. But soon even that delicious pressure was not enough. Could anything be enough?

  He shifted, sliding one hand down the enticing line of her spine, the other along the side of her body to trace her perfect, delectable curves—the side of her breast, the indentation of her waist, the fascinating curve of her hip.

  When his hands reached the tempting swell of her bottom, he lifted her, shifting her up and toward him so she sat astride him, the heat of her nestled tight against the hardest part of him.

  She gasped and pulled back, bracing her small hands against his shoulders, and for a long, fierce moment he gazed at her. Her curls tumbled around them, dark and wild, and her lips were swollen and slick from his. Her color was high and bright, and her eyes glowed like sapphires, dazed with the same dizzying, raging passion that charged through him, burning him alive.

  She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, like lightning and quicksilver in his arms, and she was his. She was his. She had always been his. Even when he had wanted her to be something other than she was, he had known that simple truth. Every curve, every sigh, every shiver that wracked her delicate body—all of it, all of her, was his.

  Leo wanted to lick every single inch of her until she admitted the truth of it, until she screamed it, until she sobbed out his name like it was a prayer that only he could answer. And he would.

  “Tell me you want me,” he commanded her, his voice a stranger’s, no more than a growl as his hands retraced their journey and she squirmed on his l
ap, rocking her core against him, making them both sigh as the fire licked through them.

  “You know I do,” she replied, more groan than words, her hands testing the shape of his shoulders, the corded muscles she found there, the smooth skin that stretched across his biceps.

  He found her high breasts with his hands and let them fill his palms, teased the hard nipples through her soft shirt until she rocked against him, her eyes dark with need, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

  “Say it.” It was a stark demand, a necessity for reasons he could not understand and did not care to examine.

  As if she understood that on some primal level, she bent her head down and licked him, her small tongue tracing fire across the sensitive skin where his neck met his shoulder. He felt himself shudder with an elemental need as the storm within him began to howl.

  “Bethany …” A warning. A plea.

  “You know that I do,” she whispered in his ear. “You have always known it.”

  He was lost. He found her mouth with his, hot and wet and perfect, as his hands worked between them. He tested her thighs beneath his palms, pushed her skirt out of the way and felt the scalding heat of her at her core. It inflamed him.

  With a muttered curse, and more determination than skill, he released himself, letting his member free, proud and hard between them. Then he lifted her again, pulled her lacy panties to one side with an economy of motion and held himself perfectly still at her entrance for a breathless, shattering moment.

  “Leo …” His name was a sob, a curse, a chant.

  “Tell me.” His voice was thick, tortured.

  He could feel her heat, beckoning and promising, so close. So close. She squirmed against him, her hips wild beneath his hands. Desperate.

  “I want to hear the words,” he gritted out. “From your mouth. I want you to say it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts tighter against him, torturing them both. When she spoke it was as if it had been torn from her, as if she was as helpless in the face of this passion as he was, and he loved it.