HIS FOR A PRICE

by Caitlin Crews

  “I mean, because of you,” she said, and her voice was a little too thick and too uneven. “You were always there, weren’t you? Since I was eighteen. And how could any of the boys I dated compete?” He only stared at her. “Whatever I felt for you, Nicodemus, it was consuming. I spent more time worrying about how to avoid you than I did about the boys I was supposed to be in love with. It never seemed right to take things any further when you were always there, lurking around in my head or at the next party. Always so sure that I’d end up with you.”

  “Careful, Mattie,” he said, unable to do anything about that dark thing inside him that colored his voice, bitterness and confusion and all these years, all these long years, “or I may be tempted to think you care.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she snapped back at him. “Obviously. Since I’m standing right here, in your office, after you left me on a Greek island half a world away.” She was scowling at him now. “Why else would I be here?”

  “Sex?” he supplied acidly. “As you mentioned in the reception area?”

  “Right,” she said, her voice so dry it hurt. “Because after waiting twenty-eight years to have sex, it makes perfect sense that I’d suddenly want to whore it up all over Manhattan. Like it’s a faucet I can turn on or off and oops! You left it on! Like it had absolutely nothing to do with you at all.” She looked so furious for a moment that he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d swung at him. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest again, which didn’t help him at all, as he already found those perfect breasts distracting. “You really are an idiot.”

  “I let that slide once,” he bit back at her. “Don’t push me.”

  “That’s the only thing I know how to do!” she shouted at him. “And God knows, Nicodemus, it’s the only thing you ever respond to!”

  He moved toward her then, but she backed away, her eyes stormy as they fixed on him.

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered him. “That confuses everything.”

  He recognized the things that flowed through him now, though he couldn’t quite believe any of them. Triumph, yes. Hope, which was harder to stomach. That same old wild desire—and he knew too much, now. He knew that the reality of her trumped his fantasies, and then some.

  “You wanted honesty,” she was saying, still watching him too intently, as if all of this was hurting her. “You can’t cut it off in the middle because it doesn’t fit the story you’ve already told yourself about how this would go.”

  She’d backed up all the way to that wall of windows, and stood there, bracketed by another perfect autumn afternoon in New York City. The light was tipping over toward gold, and it poured over her, making her look like something out of a dream.

  His dream, he realized. He’d had this dream.

  He stood and waited though he thought that it was perhaps the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

  “My mother died when I was eight,” she said, and for some reason, Nicodemus felt a chill go through him. “But you know that already.”

  “Of course,” he said, not sure why he felt so uneasy all of a sudden. “Lady Daphne was in a car accident while your family was on holiday in South Africa. It was a tragedy.”

  “It was a tragedy,” Mattie said in a whisper that wasn’t at all soft. “It was my fault.”

  Nicodemus only watched her. She swallowed hard, her gaze on his like she was searching for condemnation. She must have seen something on his face that encouraged her, because she cleared her throat and continued.

  “I was in the backseat with Chase. Mama was in the passenger seat in front, talking with the driver. I was singing. Chase told me to stop. They all told me to stop. And I hit him.”

  Her eyes darkened, and he realized that this was her nightmare. This was what he’d found her reliving that night in the pool house.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, when it seemed she’d gone somewhere inside her head. “But I don’t understand how you could have caused a car accident from the backseat.”

  “I hit Chase,” she said again, and it tore at him, how she said that so matter-of-factly, as if, inside her head, she’d conducted whole trials and found herself guilty again and again. “And he teased me, and I hit him again. They told me to stop and I didn’t. I was too mad. And then I hit the driver and everything...flipped. And then we were on the side of the road and Mama—” She shook her head instead of finishing that sentence. “It was my fault, Nicodemus. I hit the driver and made him lose control of the car. He died, too.”

  “Mattie,” he said softly. “It was an accident.”

  “Nothing was the same afterward,” she whispered. “No one could look at me. Chase, my father. We all pretended, but I knew. They even made us lie about what had really happened.” Her eyes welled up then. “And every time I told someone that Chase and I weren’t in the car, that it had happened to her while she was on her own, it made it worse. I did this horrible thing. I ruined my family and killed an innocent man. And yet I was protected.”

  He couldn’t hold himself back then and he stopped trying. He crossed to her, pulling her into his arms and holding her the way he’d always wanted to hold her—the way she’d only let him the night he’d found her sobbing and in the grip of her internal terrors.

  She shook against him, and he held her so he could look down at her, at those pretty eyes slicked with tears again, at all that guilt and misery he understood, now, had been behind all of this from the start.

  “And you wanted me so badly,” she whispered. “But I knew you wouldn’t, if you knew.”

  He shifted so he could cup her face in his hands.

  “There is nothing you could do to make me want you any less,” he said gruffly. “Much less this revelation that when you were a child, you acted like one. There was a terrible accident. You survived.”

  “What kind of person kills their own mother, Nicodemus?” she asked harshly.

  “Me,” he said after a moment. “I’m as guilty of it as you are.”

  Her face flushed. “It’s not the same.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is. If I was a child who couldn’t be held responsible for what followed my recklessness, so were you. Maybe it’s time we both forgave ourselves.”

  Her eyes searched his. She took a deep breath that he could feel move through him, too.

  “I’ll try if you will,” she whispered.

  And then, at last, he kissed her.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the second kiss, that sweet fire, that easy press of his mouth to hers, that Mattie realized she hadn’t truly believed he would ever kiss her again.

  When she felt him smile against her mouth, her neck, she realized she’d said that out loud.

  “I should have kissed you at that ball a hundred years ago and spared us both all this wasted time,” he muttered. “And all this unnecessary guilt.”

  Mattie lifted her head then and opened her eyes, and couldn’t quite fathom what she saw on that hard, fierce face of his. Shining openly from those dark eyes. It lodged in her chest. It melted all that hard, cold glass inside her as if it had never been.

  “You gave up on me,” she said, very seriously. “On us. Don’t do it again.”

  His smile deepened. “My version of giving up involved signing a major merger with your family’s company and returning to the city where you live.” His fingers moved near her temple, playing with a strand of her hair, and the look in his dark eyes made her want to cry again. “I don’t think you have to worry.”

  “I never sleep through the night, Nicodemus,” she said. “Never. But I did that night in Greece. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

  “I don’t want any more of these games we play,” he told her, and the words were like a song inside her, buoyant and melodic, sweet and perfect. “I only want you.”

  “You can have me,” she promised him, and these, she understood then, were her real vows. These pierced straight through her, leaving tangled ro
ots in their wake. Binding her to him forever. No witnesses. No pictures for the hungry tabloids. Only the two of them. And the truth. “But I want the same in return.”

  “I’m yours, Mattie,” he told her, and he pulled her close again, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing and holding her there, like she was a miracle. Like this was, this thing between them that finally made sense. That meant everything. “All you had to do was ask.”

  “I love you,” she said softly, threading her arms around his neck and smiling down at him as if he was the whole world. Because he was. He was hers. “But to tell you the honest truth, Nicodemus, I think I always have.”

  She kissed him then, and there was nothing between them but light.

  And the love that had been there for all those years, waiting for them to notice it.

  * * *

  The summer sun poured in through the high window, and Mattie woke slowly, letting the gold of it warm her and run all over her like her husband’s clever hands. She reached out to feel for him across the vastness of that great, Greek bed, and woke further when she heard his low chuckle from beside it.

  “Do you miss me already?”

  She opened her eyes to find Nicodemus standing there in nothing but a towel, and smiled at him, feeling lazy and happy.

  “Always,” she said. “You should have taken me with you.”

  It was amazing what a full night’s sleep could do—much less three years of the same. Three years of learning how to love this man as he deserved. Three years of learning how to let him love her back.

  The best three years of her life.

  “The last time I attempted to take you into the shower before you were ready, you acted like it was an attempt on your life,” he reminded her. “You’ve become appallingly lazy, princess.”

  “I have,” she agreed with a grin. “And so demanding.”

  She crooked her finger at him, letting the instant gleam of dark honey in his eyes warm her.

  Nicodemus crawled across the bed to her, taking her mouth with that marvelous ferocity that made her sigh against him while everything else turned molten and hot.

  “I love you,” she whispered when he pulled back marginally, and smiled when he kissed her again, harder and deeper than before.

  “I love you, too,” he replied. “Which is why you’ll understand that I cannot tolerate any secrets between us. Was I unclear on this in the past? I feel certain I wasn’t.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied. “I’m a model wife. What more could you ask? I’m the perfect decoration.”

  “The decor does not normally start its own PR firm and find itself too busy to tend to its primary purpose, which is standing about looking pretty,” he pointed out, shifting so he could take her in his arms and roll them both, until she was on her back and he was sprawled out beside her. “You’ve become entirely too professional.”

  “I apologize.” She wasn’t sorry at all, and the little nip he gave her, at the tender place beneath her ear, made her laugh. “I know you preferred it when I was pointless and spoiled.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow so he could look down at her, and she loved him so much it felt like a wave that crashed over her, again and again, bathing her in its sweetness. Its goodness. She loved the smile he wore so often now and that gaze of his that was always more honeyed than grim. She loved how well she knew him and how, astonishingly, he’d come to know her, as well.

  Intimacy, it turned out, was worth all the trouble it took to get there. All the fear and all the pain. That sensation of being turned inside out, vulnerable and exposed, was only the beginning. Every day it deepened. Every day it got worse.

  And better. So much better. So exquisitely, miraculously better.

  “Tell me,” he said, grinning down at her. “Because I already know.”

  “Then why must I tell you? Surely, your psychic powers are their own reward.”

  “Confession is good for the soul,” he said, letting one big hand travel over her warm body, heating it as he went, from her tender breasts to the bright phoenix that flirted with the curve of her belly that wouldn’t stay trim much longer. “Especially yours.”

  “Maybe you should spank it out of me,” she suggested, taking his hand in hers and holding it where it rested, hot and right, above the place far within where their baby already grew.

  “How kinky you’ve become,” he said, pretending to chide her. “Spanking was meant to be a punishment, Mattie, not a pleasure.”

  “Liar,” she teased him, and he grinned back at her.

  “I love you,” Nicodemus said, his gaze another vow, and it warmed her all the way through. “You and that baby, who you should have told me about weeks ago.”

  And then he made her pay, in the delicious way only he could.

  The way he always did.

  The way she knew—as she knew the sun would rise in the morning, as she knew she’d loved him a lifetime already, as she knew this child of theirs would be a little boy whose father would never, ever lie to him or leave him—he always would.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from COMMANDED BY THE SHEIKH by Kate Hewitt.

  Ten years ago one devastating night changed everything for Austin, Hunter and Alex. Now they must each play their part in the revenge against the one man who ruined it all.

  Austin Treffen has the plan… Hunter has the money… Alex has the power!

  Read each of their stories in the captivating Fifth Avenue trilogy,

  only from Harlequin Presents:

  Avenge Me by Maisey Yates (June 2014)

  Scandalize Me by Caitlin Crews (July 2014)

  Expose Me by Kate Hewitt (August 2014)

  And don’t miss the Fifth Avenue prequel that started it all, Take Me, by Maisey Yates!

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  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I NEED YOU, OLIVIA.’

  Olivia Ellis quickly suppressed the flare of feeling Sheikh Aziz al Bakir’s simply stated words caused inside her. Of course he needed her. He needed her to change his sheets, polish his silver and keep his Parisian townhouse on the Ile de la Cité pristine.

  That didn’t explain what she was doing here, in the royal palace of Kadar.

  Less than eight hours ago she’d been summoned by one of Aziz’s men, asked unequivocally to accompany him on the royal jet to Siyad—the capital of Kadar—where Aziz had recently ascended the throne.

  Olivia had gone reluctantly, because she liked the quiet life she’d made for herself in Paris: mornings with the concierge across the street sipping coffee, afternoons in the garden pruning roses. It was a life that held no excitement or passion, but it was hers and it made her happy, or as happy as she knew how to be. It was enough, and she didn’t want it to change.

  ‘What do you need of me, Your Highness?’ she asked. She’d spent the endless flight to Kadar composing reasons why she should stay in Paris. She needed to stay in Paris, needed the
safety and comfort of her quiet life.

  ‘Considering the circumstances, I think you should call me Aziz.’ The smile he gave her was whimsical, effortlessly charming, yet Olivia tried to remain unmoved. She’d often observed Aziz’s charm from a distance, had heard the honeyed words slide from his lips as he entertained one of his many female guests in Paris. She’d picked up the discarded lingerie from the staircase and had poured coffee for the women who crept from his bed before breakfast, their hair mussed and their lips swollen.

  She, however, had always considered herself immune to ‘the Gentleman Playboy’, as the tabloids had nicknamed him. A bit of an oxymoron, Olivia thought, but she had to admit Aziz possessed a certain charisma.

  She felt it now, with him focusing all of his attention on her, the opulent palace with its frescoed walls and gold fixtures stretching around them.

  ‘Very well, Aziz. What do you need of me?’ She spoke briskly, as she had when discussing replacing the roof tiles or the guest list for a dinner party. Yet it took a little more effort now, being in this strange and overwhelming place with this man.

  He was, Olivia had to admit, beautiful. She could acknowledge that, just as she acknowledged that Michelangelo’s David was a magnificent sculpture; it was nothing more than a simple appreciation of undeniable beauty. In any case, she didn’t have anything left inside her to feel more than that. Not for Aziz, not for anyone.

  She gazed now at the ink-black hair that flopped carelessly over his forehead; his grey eyes that could flare silver; the surprisingly full lips that could curve into a most engaging smile.

  And as for his body...powerful, lean perfection, without an extra ounce of fat anywhere, just pure, perfect muscle.

  Aziz steepled his fingers under his chin and turned towards the window so his back was partially to her. Olivia waited, felt the silence inexplicably tauten between them. ‘You have been in my employ for six years now?’ he said after a moment, his voice lilting as if it was a question, even though Olivia knew it was not.