Soon he would possess her in the most fundamental way possible. But this time he would use his prowess as a lover to tie her irrevocably to him.
When they had been married the stakes had been much lower. His pride had been badly hurt when she had left him—but in the end all he had lost had been a lying bride.
But with the discovery of Paolo everything had changed.
Alexa would never be allowed to run away from him again—because what she possessed was too valuable. She had something he wanted.
Their son.
And Giovanni was never going to lose him again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEXA dressed for dinner with a cold feeling of dread at the pit of her stomach. How ironic that she found herself in a state which many women would find enviable—dining in a royal palace—and yet inside she was a bag of nerves.
But it wasn’t etiquette which was bothering her—the fear that she might not curtsey to the right person, or might inadvertently use the wrong knife at dinner, or eat something she wasn’t supposed to, or not want to eat something she was supposed to. No, she was worried about Giovanni—about what schemes were simmering away behind that implacable dark mask of a face.
And she was worried about her own unpredictable and volatile emotions. It was one thing to keep telling herself that he was the wrong man, but that didn’t stop her heart racing when he was near. Or the stupid, senseless longing to have him hold her, and look at her—with that melting look softening his hard black eyes—the way he’d once done such a long time ago. But—let’s face it—he wasn’t about to do that again, was he?
She felt as if she was in one of those subtle psychological thrillers, knowing that he was playing on her weakness and his strength. On the fact that a fiercely strong sexual attraction still burned between them. Even when they had been living together, and he had taunted her and despised her supposedly louche morals, he had still known exactly how to please her—even though his own particular brand of sexuality had been like making love to a man with no heart.
‘Are you ready, cara mia?’
Just the sound of that soft Italian accent was enough to send whispers of awareness shivering all the way up her spine. Alexa looked up to see Giovanni standing at the door of Paolo’s bedroom. She had been doing up the last button of Paolo’s long silk tunic, worn with matching trousers, which their son had been given to wear by Sorrel. It had been a bit of a battle to persuade him to put them on, until Giovanni had reassured him that he, too, would be wearing traditional Kharastani dress for the evening meal.
‘Why?’ Paolo had wanted to know.
‘Because it is courteous,’ Giovanni had replied solemnly. ‘And because surely you would like to look like a little prince for the night?’
That had swung it as far as Paolo was concerned, and Alexa’s worries about how looking like a little prince might turn the child’s head were instantly forgotten now, at the sight of Giovanni himself in the promised Kharastani costume.
He wore a robe of the finest silk she had ever seen, coloured a deep sunset-red which made him look like a moving flame. A headdress in pure gold, held in place with a knotted scarlet circlet, completed the outfit. Alexa guessed that some men—if they carried a little extra weight, perhaps—might be in danger of looking ridiculous. But the way that the fabric flowed over Giovanni’s hard and muscular body—he looked like a shimmering study in masculinity.
‘Papà!’ squealed Paolo. ‘Do I look like a prince?’
‘You look like a bold warrior,’ Giovanni replied gravely.
‘Do I?’
‘Indeed you do. Now, come along—for we must not be late for dinner.’
Paolo rushed past him, and Alexa had no choice but to follow. But Giovanni did not move, just continued to stand in the doorway, as if he’d been fashioned from some hard, pure steel. She could feel the shivering of her skin beneath her gown.
‘Let’s go,’ he said huskily, tearing his eyes away from the sudden thrusting points of her nipples against the fine silk of her gown. If only he were not constrained by palace rules and their child—he would be pinioning her up against the wall and thrusting into her.
The formal banquet for heads of state and visiting dignitaries had been held the night before—but this, the pre-wedding dinner, was a ‘family’ affair. It was held in a dining room which Malik had described as ‘intimate’—but which was the size of a small ballroom, lined with gold and mirrors and priceless paintings.
The table was round, and set lavishly with crystal and silver, and bowls full of richly scented roses. Tall white candles guttered and cast intriguing shadows, while robed figures slipped silently in and out of the room, carrying dishes which catered to the diners’ every whim. In one corner was a small group of musicians who plucked on strangely shaped instruments to produce a sweet keening sound which was oddly haunting.
There were seven of them in total. As well as Alexa, Giovanni and Paolo sat Malik, with Sorrel close by. Next to her was Xavier, with Laura—his English fiancée.
‘We don’t usually eat this early,’ said Malik, his hard black eyes momentarily crinkling in a smile down at Paolo. ‘But then we are not usually honoured with such important guests as young Paolo.’
‘But I can stay up late!’ boasted Paolo, and followed this with an enormous yawn, which made everyone laugh.
Putting his heavy silver goblet down, Giovanni looked around the table, thinking what a disparate group they made. And that Malik seemed to be acting as host tonight, despite the presence of the royal groom.
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. Perhaps Malik had taken over because Xavier and his fiancée were at that stage of being so much in love that they could barely tear their eyes away from each other.
Even today, when he and his half-brother had met in an attempt to piece together their patchy pasts, to see if they had anything in common, Xavier had been keen to get back to the woman who tomorrow he would make his wife.
Giovanni watched while the Frenchman poured water for her, touched his hand to her hair almost in wonder, and mirrored her body language in a way which would have pleased the most critical of behavioural psychologists.
His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. Had he ever felt like that about Alexa? He tried to think back, but his memories were tainted with bitterness and a sudden sobering dose of insight—that all of them were subject to the capricious whims of their hormones.
Love was just a word used by society to regularise a much more basic instinct—nature’s imperative to continue the human race. What Xavier and Laura were experiencing right now was just a heightened state of sexual awareness—coupled with a compatibility which might or might not last. It probably wouldn’t—if you took the time to study all the statistics. And marriages of mixed race fared even less well. His mouth hardened into an implacable line as he stared across the table at his deceitful wife. Just look what had happened to him and Alexa.
Did she feel his eyes on her? Was why she looked up and their gazes locked? Yet for a moment he felt a victim of the tricks that time sometimes played, losing himself in the softness of her green gaze, seeing a fleeting sadness there which briefly weighed heavy on his heart.
He saw her bite her lip as she turned her face away, the movement making her lush breasts move beneath the fine fabric of her tunic, and he had to swallow down his frustration as he felt the springing of his erection. How dared she affect that sad, almost mistreated air? She who had taken it upon herself to deny him his son!
Dampening down his anger, he turned instead to speak to Malik—who seemed to be having some kind of uncomfortable exchange with the sassy blonde they called Sorrel. She was Malik’s ward, and acted as if she was part of the family.
‘The Sheikh will not be joining us for dinner?’ Giovanni asked softly.
Malik shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no. These days, His Imperial Highness retires early—but he wishes to meet with you and Paolo tomorrow, before the wedding takes pl
ace.’ Malik paused. ‘And your wife, of course.’
Giovanni pondered this for a moment, hearing the unspoken question in the other man’s words. He had not actually confirmed to Malik or anybody else that he and Alexa had long been estranged, though he suspected that it was common knowledge. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that they would have admitted him to the close confines of the royal circle without having him thoroughly investigated—indeed, they probably knew everything about him, right down to his shoe-size. ‘I see.’
‘You are a man of few words,’ Malik noted, raising his dark brows in query.
Giovanni smiled. He approved of a world where protocol forbade the asking of direct questions; a world where feelings could be acceptably buried and forgotten. ‘I believe in keeping my own counsel,’ he said softly.
Malik nodded. ‘A wise strategy, for that is the Kharastani way—particularly for its royal men,’ he observed sagely. ‘I trust that you find your rooms adequate?’ he added.
Giovanni smiled as their eyes met. How perfect! A polite question about accommodation which disguised the real question underneath. ‘More than adequate,’ he murmured, and the eyes of the two men met in a moment of unspoken understanding.
Alexa heard the exchange between the two men, and her head jerked up in indignation as Giovanni spoke.
More than adequate? What would the select assembled group say if she suddenly blurted out that, no, they were not adequate—that in fact they were quite the opposite? That she had been put in a room and was expected to share it and a bed with her estranged husband, and she wasn’t sure how she would be able to resist him?
But she knew how to behave at a royal banquet—or rather, how not to behave—and her generous hosts would learn nothing of her inner disquiet. Instead, she smiled at Laura. ‘Are you nervous about the wedding?’
Laura shot a look at Xavier—but he was busy recounting a story to Giovanni about one of the Sheikh’s famous racehorses, and not paying the two of them any attention. She bit her lip with an excitement which was almost palpable.
‘I should be nervous,’ she confided to Alexa. ‘What with just about every royal family in the world being represented—not to mention all the politicians and filmstars, and the fact that I’m going to be photographed from just about every angle, and I’m terrified I’ve got a spot brewing—but the thing is…’ Her voice tailed off and her eyes grew misty and dreamy. ‘I love Xavier so much that none of it seems to matter—we could be standing barefoot on a deserted beach, for all I care!’
‘Fantastique!’ interjected Xavier silkily, who had clearly heard the last part of the sentence. He shot Alexa a mischievous look. ‘They are calling it the wedding of the decade, and yet now I realise that we could have eloped to the Maldives for all Laura cares!’
‘Because it’s you I’m marrying!’ pouted Laura. ‘And you’re the only important person.’
‘Am I, now, cherie?’ he questioned softly.
Their love was incandescent, and Alexa was glad of their glowing happiness, but it was hard not to feel a twinge of envy. She remembered her own engagement. That had been equally ecstatic. But she could see now that all their idealistic expectations had made it seem unreal—as different from Xavier and Laura’s easy familiarity as chalk was to cheese.
Giovanni had behaved with almost exaggerated regard for her, and Alexa had let him, not having the self-confidence to do anything other than accede to his wishes. She had been so in love—and so disbelieving of the fact that he seemed to feel the same way—that she honestly thought she would have dyed her hair green and walked on burning coals if he’d asked her to. Or let him believe you were a virgin by implication? an inner voice questioned painfully. Alexa winced. How could anything so unequal ever have lasted the course?
But she did her best to put such futile introspection out of her mind, and to concentrate on an experience she was unlikely to repeat once the wedding celebrations were over. Dinner in a palace!
Course after course was placed before them. Meats and fruits and figs and pastries—and a huge fish which had been cooked with raisins, carried in by two people on an enormous golden platter.
Alexa thought that Paolo had behaved extremely well during the protracted feast—every adult around the table had been paying him lots of attention and he had revelled in it—but when he demanded a grape and added, somewhat imperiously, “And you must peel it for me, Mamma!” she knew it was time for a reality check.
‘I think you’ve had enough to eat, darling,’ she said gently. ‘And I think it’s time I took you to bed—it’s been a long day.’
‘I don’t wanna go to bed!’
Alexa winced, guessing that this rare tantrum had been long overdue in light of the dizzying array of events which had taken place—but that didn’t stop her cheeks from burning with embarrassment as she scrambled to her feet, wondering if Giovanni would try to cite this untoward scene as an example of her poor mothering skills.
Yet when Giovanni looked up there was no expression of recrimination on his face, though his black eyes remained enigmatic. ‘You want me to come and help?’
Such a simple question—yet it had the power to tug unbearably at her heartstrings. Because it was just the kind of thing a normal husband might have asked his wife and Alexa could have wept for what might have been. Theirs wasn’t a normal relationship, she reminded herself fiercely—it never had been and it never could be. And Giovanni wasn’t stupid—on the contrary, he was an operator par excellence. His remark had probably only come out as being caring and solicitous because they were in company, and he was aware that the others were watching, listening.
How much did the others know about their situation—how much had he told them? Had he painted her as the hard-hearted bitch of some of his more heated accusations? But, if so, then Xavier and the others were showing no sign of disapproval. On the contrary, she had been shown nothing but consideration and courtesy by everyone here this evening, and it made her feel pensive. How she would have loved to be a proper part of a group like this—feeling she belonged somewhere.
Giovanni’s black eyes were still trained on her in glittering question, but Alexa shook her head.
‘No, honestly—I’m fine on my own, thanks. Goodnight, everyone.’
‘You look tired,’ said Laura, frowning.
‘I am. Completely bushed,’ admitted Alexa.
Maybe Giovanni would take the hint, she thought—more with hope than conviction. Maybe he would sit up late, talking and drinking with Xavier and Malik—and by the time he came to bed he would find her sound asleep and leave her alone.
Maybe.
A servant was there to guide her through the cool marbled corridors back to their suite, and in an effort to quell the relentless chatter in her head Alexa forced herself to concentrate on the small things while she got Paolo ready for bed. The wash of moonlight on the floor. The heavy scent of roses in a gleaming vase. The trace of jasmine as it floated in through the open shutters on a gentle breeze. What a beautiful place this was, she thought wistfully as she squeezed a blob of toothpaste onto Paolo’s brush.
She lit a couple of low lamps, and Paolo was so exhausted that he was almost asleep by the time she pulled the cotton sheet over him. None of her fears about him being freaked out by such strange, new surroundings were fulfilled.
Hadn’t there been a part of her which had hoped he might be a little fractious and unsettled, causing her to have to stay with him in a kind of motherly vigil?
Lovingly, she stared down at the dark lashes which formed two soft arcs, brushing against his olive skin. Oh, Paolo, she thought.
‘Night, Mamma,’ he murmured sleepily.
‘Night-night, darling—sleep tight.’ But his breathing had already settled into a soft, deep rhythm.
So now what did she do?
There really wasn’t a lot of choice open to her. She did not want to sleep with her husband, that was for sure. Far too dangerous—on so many different levels. B
ut she was equally certain that Giovanni wouldn’t dream of camping out on one of those low divans in the sitting room—which meant that she would have to. He could have the huge bed to himself and get on with it!
Quickly she undressed, and took out a long nightgown which Teri had insisted on giving her for the trip, along with two matching bra and knickers sets.
‘Nightwear and lingerie can never be done on the cheap,’ her boss had said, and when Alexa had shaken her head in protest, she had added firmly. ‘Take them, Lex—and look on it as a bonus for being such a good worker.’
Wasn’t there a part of every woman which adored luxury? Alexa hadn’t needed asking twice. With its soft layers of oyster silk-satin and lace, the gown felt like heaven—but at least it swept the ground in a relatively demure way. So if she needed to get up in the middle of the night, then at least Giovanni wouldn’t be able to accuse her of provocation.
Brushing her long hair so that it spilled in a golden waterfall all the way down her back, she took a pillow and a heavy satin coverlet from the four-poster bed and made herself a makeshift bed on a divan, then climbed into it and prayed for the solace of sleep.
Outside, she could hear the sound of some unknown bird calling in the palace gardens—was that the Kharastani equivalent of an owl? she wondered sleepily. Moonlight crept in through the slatted shutters, relieving the darkness with muted silver stripes of light. The divan wasn’t soft, and the one pillow was woefully inadequate—but maybe the emotional maelstrom of the last few days had been enough to completely exhaust her because, almost with a sense of disbelief, Alexa quickly felt herself sinking into the dark embrace of slumber.
But if she slept then she had no recollection of it—because it seemed almost as soon as her eyelids had drifted wearily down she was startled by a soft sound in the room, and her eyes fluttered drowsily open.
Which of her senses was engaged first?
Was it his presence she felt, or did she hear the sound of his breathing?
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