He pressed the glass into her hand, noting the increased pulse in her slender neck. “Does being with me sans guests make you nervous?”
“Of course not!”
“You are not a good liar.”
She set her glass aside without touching a drop of the vintage wine. “Very well. I’m uncomfortable being around someone who thinks so ill of me.”
“How can you expect me to do anything but? You were unfaithful to my brother! You broke your betrothal vows.”
“With you!”
A cynical snort ripped from him. “Ah, so now I am to blame for your lapse of morals?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, looking hurt and proud at the same time. “I refuse to discuss this, for you’ve already made up your narrow mind to paint me as a floozy when you were the one who seduced me.”
He paused, for in truth he had done just that. He’d seen a beautiful woman and gone after her.
She’d seen him as a man—not a prince, not a rich man who could better her life. She’d seemed fascinated by the work he was doing, and that was the most potent turn-on he’d ever experienced.
“You could have said no,” he said, but guilt had served to strip his tone of its caustic bite.
She shook her head, looking shamed. Miserable. Guilty. “I tried, but simply couldn’t.”
At least she was honest about the powerful magnetic pull of desire that had yet to lose its strength for either of them. “What is done is done. There is no sense rehashing it.”
She walked to the railing, her back straight and her shoulders held tight. “There’s just one thing I must know. Why didn’t you tell Gregor about us?”
Such a simple question, and yet so damned hard to answer. “I was certain Gregor and the King would believe that I was as much at fault as you.”
“So you held your tongue for selfish reasons. My God, you only think of your own needs. You don’t respect my wishes. My desires.”
“Respect? You’ve done nothing to earn my respect.” He tossed back his liquor and slammed the glass down, but the memory of that moment with her in his arms refused to dim.
“Nor have you done anything to earn mine!”
He stalked toward her, backing her up against the railing. Moving close to her until there was barely a breath of air between them. Until he breathed in her floral scent tinged with anger.
He caught her chin under a bent finger and nudged her face up to him, thinking a man could drown in her turbulent eyes. “Why do you persist in placing the blame on me?”
“Because during the ten years I was betrothed to Gregor we should have known each other.” She batted his hand away and slipped from him, her narrowed gaze glittering with censure. “Of course for that to have happened you would have to have been in attendance more than the first time I visited Angyra.”
Of course she’d shift the blame back to him again! Did she really think he’d believe she’d kept her head in the sand all these years? That she’d been out of touch with the events of the world in the months preceding her last visit to Angyra?
“The fact remains I had not seen you since you were twelve years old,” he said, and let his gaze run admiringly over her curvaceous form once more. “You have changed considerably.”
“As have you,” she shot back.
“Yet I can’t believe you never saw my name or my picture in countless gossip magazines,” he said.
Everywhere he’d turned over the years, especially in that tense time frame, he’d seen himself and a woman he’d had a brief affair with emblazoned on every cover. The fickle woman who’d failed to tell him that she was married. Who was responsible for him vowing to avoid marriage until he was at least forty—for he’d been sure it would take that long before he’d ever trust a woman again.
And then he’d met Demetria.
The object of his desire and anger wrinkled her pert nose, as if even the thought of being aware of such celebrity news was distasteful. “I never read them—even when I see them clustered on the news racks.”
He had trouble believing that. His father had never read those magazines either, and yet he’d been well aware of the vicious gossip that had ensnared Kristo and the married woman. Hell, everyone on Angyra knew of his dalliance!
The King had been so enraged by his conduct that he’d threatened to remove him from his duties to the crown. But while he wouldn’t have minded having someone else take over the role of ambassador, Kristo had refused to relinquish his position safeguarding Angyra’s natural treasures, which included the Chrysos Mine.
He’d had to talk long and hard to convince the King to give him another chance. And that was why he’d kept his mouth shut about him and Demetria.
Yes, she was right. His reasons were selfish—but not entirely the ones she believed.
“It was in Angyra’s best interests to let the matter of our tryst remain secret,” he said.
“Angyra’s interests or your own?”
He swirled the liquor in his glass, the chink of ice loud in the ensuing silence. She persisted in thinking the worst of him while seeing herself as the one put upon.
Yet in this they were alike. They were both passionate about their personal interests. Both at fault.
“What of you, Demetria? It is obvious you place your career above your duty,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing her body stiffen in silent admission.
Ah, that was her sore spot. Her career. Wasn’t it said that the artistic crowd were a sensitive lot when it came to their craft?
She certainly was defensive of her desire to be a designer. Yet if that were true, why hadn’t she taken the easy way out when she’d had the chance?
“If you had confessed what you’d done, the King would have been eager to release you from your betrothal contract,” he said, watching her closely now that he’d put her on the spot. “Gregor certainly wouldn’t have wished to have anything to do with you.”
“Or with you?” she countered.
“You are a fine one to talk when you are consumed with this notion of designing clothes,” he said. “Why did you keep what we’d done secret?”
She refused to look at him, which only convinced him that she wouldn’t be forthcoming with the truth. “My father would have been enraged.”
No doubt that was true, yet with her career unfolding she could have managed well without him. “There must be more to it than that.”
“There wasn’t.”
Yes, she was still lying to him. But why? What was she hiding?
“Enough talk about the career you failed to grasp when you had the chance,” he said. “First and foremost you are groomed to be Queen. Nothing more.”
Her features looked as smooth and cold as porcelain. “I am well aware of my duty, Your Majesty. I only ask to be allowed to design my wedding gown. Are you denying me that now as well?”
He stared at her, sorely tempted to pull her flush against him and prove that she would respond freely to his touch. That this tension that sizzled between them was as much born from pent-up desire as from anger and a good dose of frustration.
“Go ahead and create your wedding gown,” he said. “Let it be your one shining moment in the design world.”
“I will.” Affecting a dismissal that would have done his mother proud, she whirled and strode to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To my room.” She flung it open, and then paused to look back at him. “I’ve lost my appetite. Do forgive me.”
She strode out without waiting for his permission.
Kristo fumed silently, torn between going after her and letting the matter drop for tonight. Enough had been said already.
Duty bound them together, just as it had generations of kings and queens of Angyra.
Like any delicate business endeavor, he must handle Demetria diplomatically. Twelve days seemed an eternity before he could claim her as he longed to do.
He was not one who sat around waiting for event
s to unfold. He struck first. He made things happen, for then he was in control.
This was no different.
He wanted her, and he wasn’t above seducing her into his arms. Next time she wouldn’t walk away from him.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE sun was just peeking above the verdant mountains that lay black and sleeping by the time Demi finished sketching the design for her wedding gown. It had taken her two attempts before she’d finally envisioned a gown that suited her.
At least she had something to be proud of for her night’s work. Something that she could present to the King of Arrogance today.
Just thinking of him set her insides quivering anew, just as they’d been when she’d returned to her room last night. She’d been so furious with his high-handedness that she could have screamed.
Yet that anger had been tempered when she’d returned to find that her personal effects had been delivered in her absence. And that wasn’t the only surprise.
A sewing machine, serger and a variety of sundries she’d requested had also been set up, creating a studio that outshone the one she had in Athens. A studio that was a designer’s dream.
For a long moment she’d just stood there, stunned that Kristo had kept his promise. That everything she’d need was right at her disposal.
In that exhilarating spate of time she’d been on the verge of rushing back to the terrace to thank Kristo.
But sanity had prevailed—for she’d known in her heart if she did that she’d not return to her room that night. She’d end up in his arms. In his bed.
She’d not find the willpower to break free of him a second time. Already she was weary of fighting the inevitable.
But she was determined to gain the upper hand over this raging desire. She had to. She would not let her passions control her, weaken her, as they had surely ruled her mother!
In less than two weeks she’d be the Queen of this country. She’d be Kristo’s wife. But though she was giving up her career, she refused to lose the essence of who she was.
She studied her new sketch with a critical eye. It was a blend of modern and traditional lines purely from her imagination. New. A bit daring.
This reflected the woman she was now, not the fanciful girl she’d been.
The dream gown of a woman.
A design nobody had ever seen. A style that people would remember forever for the romantic vein it captured while still looking sophisticated.
It was a very simple classical design, with a delicate golden-embroidered edging on the bell skirt. A nearly sheer lace cream shawl shot with gold softened a simple strapless bodice and lent a seductively mysterious air.
The ivory color would complement her light olive complexion. The addition of gold would set it apart from the majority of gowns.
And that touch of gold would lessen its appeal to the masses who wanted virginal white or palest cream. It would set the bride too far from tradition.
Her shoulders slumped as that fact hit home.
For that reason alone she feared the King would dismiss it straight away. He’d likely want a more opulent style, encrusted with pearls. A style that screamed wealth and old world and was totally unlike her. Something in the order of the lavish gown Gregor had commissioned.
She rubbed her forehead, unable to think clearly anymore. She crossed to the sofa on legs that feel wooden.
She desperately needed sleep, and if she was lucky she would be too exhausted to dream of one tall, arrogant King.
Kristo let himself into Demetria’s room midmorning, with the intention of asking her to join him for a walk. He wanted to get her away from the palace for a while. He wanted to start over fresh with her before they embarked on this arranged marriage.
But his impatience to put the strained past behind them froze when he caught sight of her curled on the sofa, fast asleep. She looked like an angel, with her dark hair spilling to the floor and her long lashes sweeping her sun-kissed cheeks.
He frowned, noting the darker smudges beneath her eyes. Had she stayed up all night?
He noticed the sketchpad lying on the table, as well as the pages ripped out and lying helter-skelter. Some were of completed gowns. Others were clearly half-formed ideas that she’d discarded for one reason or another.
The one finished design on the sketchpad caught his attention. The detailing was minute, with neatly printed notes explaining the finer points.
He could picture her wearing it and knew she’d turn all heads her way. She’d surely capture his attention with her creamy shoulders covered with only the sheerest strip of cloth kissed with threads of gold.
Kristo’s gaze lifted to Demetria, lost in sleep. He wasn’t a stranger to working all night and grabbing a nap when he could. But he hadn’t thought she would work this hard to create a design for her wedding gown. He hadn’t thought she was this dedicated.
Again, she wasn’t behaving like the conniving woman he’d envisioned. What other surprises would he discover about her?
He paused at the sofa and reached down to slide his hand beneath the dark hair falling over the pillow. His fingers slipped through the mass as if it were spun silk—another memory that had tormented him.
He’d toyed with a woman’s hair before, but he’d never felt this deep erotic pull. Never been so distracted by a woman. Never had his pulse quicken and his breath catch just watching her sleep.
He knew her hair and body held the scent of exotic flowers and the sea. He’d been tormented by the brief memory of those long strands brushing against his naked body. But he wanted more. He wanted to bury his hands in her hair when they were in the throes of passion. When he finally made her his.
How much he’d thrill to have her glorious hair blanket them both after they’d sated their need, to sink into her again.
His mouth thinned. She’d lost a night’s sleep with her sketches, but his inability to get her out of his thoughts had deprived him of the same for nearly a year.
At this moment he was in the same uncomfortable place he’d been before he’d sought sleep—wanting her with a ravenous hunger. Surely that overwhelming need would be sated once they’d made love. Once she was his and his alone.
She wouldn’t invade his thoughts during the day. She wouldn’t weave in and out of his dreams at night.
Eleven days before the royal wedding. It seemed a lifetime away.
Kristo let her dark hair fall from his fingers to the pillow, impatient to get her alone. To claim her as his own.
He crossed to the sketches again, no longer taking care to be quiet. Her talent was remarkable. She surely would have made a name for herself among the top designers.
Her soft gasp ribboned toward him on a sense of earthy awareness. “How long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes.” He canted the sketchpad her way. “Is this the design you favor?”
She huddled in the corner of the sofa, a fringed throw drawn around her, cheeks tinged a dusty coral that emphasized the dark half-moon smudges beneath her luminous eyes. Eyes that were surely red-rimmed, proving she hadn’t been asleep long.
“Yes. What do you think?”
That her talent was unparalleled. That while Angyra gained a Queen, the world of fashion would lose a budding star.
“It’s nice,” he said instead. “If your ability to sew is as good as your talent for design, you will certainly be the most gorgeous bride that Angyra has ever had.”
A deeper flush stole over her cheeks, giving him the impression she was unused to such compliments. “I’m relieved you approve. With your permission, I’ll return to the draper in Istanbul and select the cloth.”
He shrugged and dropped the sketchpad on the table, where it landed with a muffled thud.
“It’s out of the question for you to travel alone.”
Her brow pulled into a deep frown. “Are you always this controlling?”
“I am always this cautious.”
“What a convenient answer.”
She slumped back against the sofa and hugged her arms against her pert breasts like a petulant child might do, but the pensive glance she cast out the window confirmed she hadn’t considered the need for high security.
“I’ve always been free to come and go.” She shook her head and lifted her gaze to his, a storm of annoyance brewing in her eyes. “How do you adjust to the loss of privacy?”
He gave an impatient shrug. “You are asking me something I have never known—not as you have.”
Her lips firmed in a tight line and a chill glinted in her eyes. “Of course—what was I thinking? A man of privilege would have no idea how the other half lives.”
He muttered a curse, for she’d hit on a hot button of his own. It was the main reason he’d fought for his role as ambassador. It had carried him away from Angyra and the stiff formality that ruled in the palace.
In Cannes or Vegas or Rio he had been able to mingle with people to a degree. He had lived a somewhat normal life even though he’d had a bodyguard shadowing him.
But that role was history, for his duty now was as King of this kingdom. He had to be more careful. He could no longer take a night on the town without a horde of reporters or, worse, political adversaries of Angyra following him.
His wife would be obliged to be just as circumspect.
“The palace isn’t a prison, Demetria,” he said, and swore again, for his father had said much the same to him years ago.
“But our marriage will be a life sentence unless—”
“Do not say it!” His gaze shot to hers, and he didn’t try to hide the anger burning in his soul for it masked a greater fear. “There has never been a divorce in the Royal House of Stanrakis, and I won’t break that tradition with you.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that!”
He threaded his fingers through his hair. This topic was scraping his nerves raw. Nothing could be gained from bemoaning their fate. Nothing.
Captured and Crowned Page 6
