Captured and Crowned

by Janette Kenny

  There certainly hadn’t been any humor on her last journey here, when she’d met Kristo. No, only raging passion followed by towering anger when she came to dinner that night and realized the stranger’s identity.

  At that pregnant moment she’d been sure that he would tell Gregor and her father what they’d done on that beach. She’d almost hoped that he would, for that would surely have broken the betrothal agreement.

  She would have been free of this obligation she’d never wanted. But Kristo had never said a word. Neither had she, for she had feared what her father would do to her and her sister if she messed up the opportunity that would surely enrich his life.

  Then too she didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be the daughter of scandal. That had only made her last trip more fraught with anxiety.

  She’d expected Kristo would tell his brother in private. So why hadn’t he? Why had he held their tryst in secret?

  Those questions needled her now as he escorted her for what seemed like miles through the palace. Finally Kristo threw open double doors and motioned her inside a room. She stepped into a large suite that was thankfully modern—with the exception of its high ceilings and grand size.

  The moment he closed the door and secured their privacy she was very much aware of him as a man. If only he’d smile. If only he’d show more than a glimpse of the man she’d met that day.

  Her gaze flicked from his tense expression to the room. The sumptuous sofa and overstuffed chairs lost her interest as she focused on the wedding gown that had clearly been commissioned for her. It was glaringly white, and traditional in the extreme, laden with flounces and heavy beading.

  She hated it on first sight. “You can’t expect me to wear that hideous gown.”

  He said nothing for the longest time, but his brow furrowed the longer he stared at it. “It doesn’t look that bad to me.”

  “Then perhaps you should wear it.”

  His lips twitched in the barest of smiles. “I’ll stick with a tuxedo.”

  “I’d prefer that over this,” she said.

  “Don’t think you can sway me with this petulant display.”

  She heaved a sigh, fists bunched at her sides. “Please, let me sketch the gown I have in mind. You can judge for yourself which one I should wear.”

  He tipped his head back and stared at her. “You’re that sure of your ability to convince me?”

  “I’m positive that what I design will be far superior to this stark white monstrosity.”

  Kristo strode to the gown and fingered the stiff overskirt. “Very well. Make a list of what you need and I will see it is delivered today. But understand that the final decision on what you wear rests with me.”

  Arrogantly put, and surely not a surprise. The Stanrakis men were noted for their draconian ways.

  She walked straight away to the desk, and found paper and a pen. In moments she’d listed the equipment needed: sewing machine, serger, various dressmaker supplies and a dress form.

  “I’ll need to choose the fabric myself,” she said, handing him the list and being careful not to touch him this time.

  He eyed her as he might a rare bug on the wall. “You expect me to allow you to go on a shopping jaunt?”

  “Yes.” She’d been hopeful that her name would have started to be well-known in the world of haute couture before she was forced to take up her duty and marry Gregor. “When I was at the draper’s in Istanbul yesterday, I happened on a wonderful silk.”

  “If it was so wonderful, why didn’t you purchase it then?”

  “Because I was busy getting ready for the show.” She stopped and shook her head, for since the King had died her life had been a whirlwind of change.

  He stared at the gown for a long solemn moment, the beautifully chiseled lines of his face revealing no emotion. She fidgeted with her hands, uncertain what else she could say to convince that this froth of satin, lace and beads was all wrong for her.

  “How long will it take you to make this design of yours?” he asked, neither agreeing with her request or denying it.

  “A week at the most.”

  “Do you always work that fast?”

  “Most of the time.” And often late into the night, losing time as she became engrossed in a project. “One more thing. All of my clothes and personal belongings are at my flat in Athens. I need to have my partner send them here.”

  He stroked the arrogant line of his jaw and stared at her so long she felt sweat dot her forehead and dampen the undersides of her breasts. “Very well. Phone your partner and have your things readied,” he said. “A courier will pick them up this afternoon and deliver them here by tonight.”

  She smiled and retrieved her phone from her bag, too excited over being allowed to make her gown to feel annoyance that he listened to her every word.

  With her call ended, she slid her phone on the table and jotted down the address to her flat. She handed that to him with a grateful smile. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  “Come now—you can do better than that,” he said.

  She felt the sudden change in him as he strode toward her with predatory intent, as if she’d just issued a challenge he couldn’t refuse.

  “What do you mean?” She backed up, suddenly desperate to keep him at arm’s reach when her body ached to do the opposite.

  “I’ve just granted you your wish. This concession certainly deserves more than a mere thank-you.”

  Her backside hit the wall and slammed a startled squeak from her. But he didn’t stop advancing until he was inches from her, so close her body burned from the heat radiating off his.

  Any coherent thought she might have had vanished. All she could think of was how much she wanted him to kiss her. Hold her. Love her?

  The intensity in his gaze changed, sparking a new emotion in his eyes. Before she could read its meaning he reached out and sifted his fingers through her hair, from the scalp to the ends that reached nearly to her waist.

  “Your hair is like dark rich coffee, and holds highlights of the deepest sea and midnight sun, yet against the white it simply looks black.”

  She froze in place, the gentle pull on her scalp tugging at emotions she kept carefully hidden. Yet she couldn’t deny the thread of energy that passed from him to her, tightening to draw her closer.

  She tried to push him away, both palms on his chest, refusing to allow that to happen. But touching him was the wrong thing to do too.

  For now she felt the beat of his heart, strong and sure, beneath her hand. The solid wall of his chest was as unyielding as the man, yet so hot that her own skin began to heat.

  Sensual fire blazed in his dark eyes and her lungs felt scorched, too tight to draw breath. She burned in other places too, and a silent gathering of moisture between her thighs and the tightening of her core muscles proved her body responded on its own to his potent virility.

  She hated him for waking her needs with just a look, for making her want him. Crave his touch.

  Before she could think of a pithy retort to end this madness, he smiled at her. Any hint of cruelty was gone, replaced by something that took her breath away, something that reminded her of the carefree man she’d first met.

  It was really nothing more than a slight curling of his sensuous lips, a knowing smirk like the gods had bestowed upon women. A telling look that told her he was well aware of just how much he affected her, that let her know he was in control, that he could tempt her to do more if he wished.

  The puppeteer pulling the strings on the marionette.

  Yet she couldn’t find the energy or the anger to do more than drop her hands from his chest.

  It was enough for her to make a stand, to lift her chin in silent defiance. But her body defied her again, for her breasts felt heavier, straining toward him, the nipples unbearably tight and aching.

  “So soft,” he said, grazing her lower lip with his thumb until it was full and tingling. His fingers skimmed down the curve of
her jaw, stirring the fire of desire in her. “The sun has kissed your skin just enough to make it glow.”

  Was that a compliment? Even if it was praising her in a good way, she didn’t care.

  He splayed one hand on the wall by her head, while his thumb continued its meandering path down her neck to rest on the upper swells of her breasts. A pulse pounded in her throat and between her thighs, leaving her tingling with want. With a need so great she could barely draw a breath.

  “You are lovely beyond words,” he said, his voice dropping to a crushed-velvet baritone that strummed her taut nerves in an erotic melody.

  Demi managed a smile, and knew anything more would be a struggle. It had been a year since he’d held her prisoner by a smoldering look. She hadn’t been able to break free then. She didn’t think she could now. She didn’t know if she even wanted to try.

  But she couldn’t stand here either, and let him stroke her neck and her arm and the heaving upper swells of her bosom. She couldn’t let him make love to her with his eyes when he held her in such contempt in his heart.

  She grasped his thick wrists and tried to tug his hands from her. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Why, when it is something we both take pleasure in?” His palms cupped her breasts with a familiarity that shocked her, that brought to aching life all the feelings she’d held deep in the night.

  Her hands slid up his muscular arms to find purchase in the hard muscles as he weighed each one, before his hands bracketed her torso, flinging her back to that day on the beach when she’d granted a stranger far too much liberty because she’d been powerless to stop herself. Because she’d been so hungry for love.

  But where she’d lacked the strength of will then, pride gave her a modicum of strength now.

  “Stop it,” she said, trying to push his hands from her and failing, humiliated he could make her want him so badly that she’d let him have his way with her.

  Kristo ignored her protests and continued his exploration. “You have lost weight.”

  It angered her that he could tell the differences in her from before. Infuriated her that her body ached to sway into his.

  His hands slid to her waist and her fingers closed over his, trying to stop him, trying not to feel anything but hatred and anger that he was putting her through this torment.

  “I’ve worked long hard hours of late, in preparation for the Athens show.” Time and energy wasted now, for she wouldn’t be allowed to participate in it. “Something a royal would know nothing of.”

  His palms cupped her bottom and pulled her flush against his length. “Are you insinuating that I live a life of leisure? Because I can assure you that I too put in long hard hours working.”

  Her breath caught, for the hard length of his desire was pressed against her belly. His arousal should disgust her, but her body melted and bowed into him, wanting him.

  “Yes, I’ve seen pictures of you in the tabloids, hard at work for Angyra,” she said, her chin lifted in defiance.

  Each time she’d seen him linked with a new woman she’d been bitten with unwanted jealousy. On its heels had always come anger for allowing herself to be seduced by him in the first place.

  The sensual mouth that had curled into a mesmerizing smile now pulled into a hard line. She knew she’d struck a nerve, and clearly one that was raw.

  He pushed away from her so quickly that she stumbled to catch her balance, but he didn’t notice. He was already halfway to the door.

  “As I said, the wedding takes place in twelve days,” he said.

  “I’ll have the gown finished in one week.”

  He paused at the door and glanced back at her. “I will approve the design before you begin, understand?”

  She bobbed her head. “Of course.”

  He gave her another exacting perusal that had her skin tingling with awareness again. “I will send a servant up to assist you.”

  “I’d prefer my own assistants.”

  Again that slash of white teeth against dark skin, the cocky smile of a shark who had his quarry cornered. Or so he thought.

  “I am sure that you would,” he said. “But you will have to make do with what I provide for you.”

  Without waiting to see if she’d argue or concede, he swept from the room and closed the door in his wake. Such arrogance!

  How would she ever cope with this man? Being with him rattled her senses so much she’d forgotten to tell Yannis everything that she’d need.

  She reached for her phone—but it wasn’t there. How odd. She’d finished talking to Yannis and laid it there. She hadn’t touched it again the entire time Kristo had been in her room.

  Kristo! He must have taken it.

  She ran to the door he’d just left by, intending to go after him. The unmistakable click of the lock froze her in place. He’d locked her in. And that drove home the fact that she wasn’t simply the bride-to-be. She was a prisoner—not just in the palace but in this room.

  Kristo was firmly in control of her. He was smug in his belief that she could do nothing but blindly follow his orders, that she’d melt at his touch.

  And to her shame she had—every time. She’d never lost control around any man but him. Though she’d believed it had been a fluke, that she’d resist him if ever they met again, she now knew that wasn’t true.

  Her face flamed with anger and embarrassment. How could one man make her toss aside her convictions? How could he make her want him when she hated the very air he breathed?

  “Damn you!” she screamed, venting the anger inside her.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  So, because she could, because he’d left her no other recourse after treating her like a dockside trollop being passed from one brother to the next, she crossed to the lavish gown that had been made for her.

  Gregor had never sought her opinion. Neither had Kristo. Neither would ever have done so.

  She suffered one moment of indecision, for the gown had certainly cost a fortune. That was her. Always thinking of the other person’s feelings—in this case a designer she didn’t even know.

  She had always done what was required of her, from her papa to the King. And look where it had gotten her!

  Locked in a room in a palace and forced to marry a man who despised her.

  Quite simply, she looked at the stark white gown and saw red.

  With anger pounding through her veins in thick molten waves, she ripped the heavy overskirt off the gown. The mile-long train came next, followed by the grossly puffed sleeves.

  She yanked and ripped and reduced most of the gown to rags.

  It was petulant. Wasteful. Destructive. But it proved one thing.

  She, too, could only be pushed so far.

  He shouldn’t have touched her. Touched?

  Ha! Kristo paced the length of his private salon and battled the lust that throbbed through him, begging for release. He’d done far more than touch Demetria Andreou. His hands had molded over the lush swell of her breasts in a blatant caress, lingering until her nipples budded against his palm, until his sex grew to an unrelenting ache.

  For that brief moment time had stood still. He’d been back on the beach with her. Both wet from the surf. Both hot with desire.

  Just like then he’d easily gotten lost, stroking the gentle curves of her torso and waist, relearning her shape even though every delicious inch was branded on his memory. The shivers that had danced over her silken skin and into him in an erotic rhythm had pounded in his soul.

  He’d pushed resentment and anger from his mind. He’d forgotten who she was. Forgotten they were bound by duty.

  He had simply been a man caressing a very desirable woman. A woman who responded to him as no other ever had.

  And that was the problem. All he had to do was touch her and he went up like dry kindling, the fires of desire roaring through him so hotly that they burned out all reason.

  He could barely think beyond the driving need to sate the hunger that gnaw
ed within him. And now that she was here in the palace—now that they were alone…

  This time Kristo had to finish what he’d started with her a year ago. Maybe then he could be near her without being consumed by this primitive lust.

  He wanted her. He’d have her. But he’d be a fool to trust her.

  The door to his suite opened and Vasos slipped inside, deceptively quiet for such a giant of a man. That was why he was the best bodyguard a man could want.

  He could move soundlessly. He could blend in. And Kristo trusted him with his life. Now he trusted him with Demetria’s as well.

  “Your Majesty,” Vasos said, and bowed. He rarely let emotion show on his rugged face. But right now that visage was drawn in deep lines of worry.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Demetria has destroyed the royal wedding gown.”

  “How?”

  His mouth turned down. “She ripped it apart with her bare hands.”

  He’d have never thought her capable of such rage. Such volatile passion.

  Anger curdled in Kristo, but he couldn’t help but allow a grim smile as well. She would need a strong hand. A man who could match her in bed and out!

  “The lady is removing the options,” he said.

  Vasos lifted one thick black eyebrow, the action far more noticeable due to his cleanly shaven head. “I don’t understand.”

  “She is a clothing designer.” A very angry one, because she hadn’t been consulted about her wedding gown.

  She didn’t trust him to abide by his promise either. So she had removed his choice. She played to win.

  “I was not aware of her vocation,” Vasos said.

  He likely never would have been either if Gregor hadn’t fallen ill and passed the crown and the lady over into his care. Damn, what a coil!

  “Alert the guards to pay close watch on the palace. Keeping her under lock and key will only breed more resentment.” She certainly resented him enough already! “I don’t wish for Demetria to leave it as yet.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” Vasos bowed and then left the room.

  Kristo stared at the closed door for the longest time. In the span of a few days his life had turned into a complication. Duty. Business. Desire.