Читать книгу The Pregnant Mistress - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8

SHE was beautiful, this woman with hair the color of autumn and eyes the deep green of the open sea.

Demetrios had noticed her as soon as he entered the room.

She was a vision of femininity in silk a shade just paler than her eyes. A short top—cropped, his last mistress had called the style—skimmed her breasts. Her trousers matched the pale green top. Ordinarily, he didn’t care for women in trousers, but these…

Idly, his eyes traveled the length of her body.

These were different. They began just below her navel, clung to her hips and thighs before falling to her ankles. Her shoes were the same pale green and seemed to be made of nothing but straps and slender, delicately spiked heels.

Only a saint would not have imagined her wearing just the heels and, perhaps, a scrap or two of tantalizingly placed lace, and no one would ever propose him for canonization.

That he should instantly envision her that way had not surprised him. What did was the swift reaction of his body. It was so sophomoric, so unexpected, that he’d turned away from her, half in amusement, half in annoyance, concentrated on envisioning barren stretches of ice-choked tundra, and plunged into conversation with a woman who’d just called his name.

It didn’t help. He said yes, no, and maybe; smiled when it seemed a smile was appropriate, but his mind was on the auburn-haired woman. Why was she so removed? Music was playing, people were talking and laughing. Rafe’s party was a roaring success and yet she kept herself separate. She stood on the threshold of the terrace, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to stay or leave, with a glass in her hand and an indefinable look on her face. Was it boredom? Polite indifference? Whatever it was, she would have drawn every man in the room except for the way she held herself.

Keep away, her posture said, I’m not interested.

Still, Demetrios couldn’t imagine she had come alone. Wasn’t there a man with her? Each time he looked at the terrace, he saw her still standing there, alone.

The only way to get answers to his questions was to go to her and ask them. That look of world-weariness didn’t put him off. On the contrary, it piqued his interest.

He waited for a lull in conversation, made an excuse and started towards her, but he didn’t get very far. He knew a number of people at this party. Voices called out to him. Hands—especially female hands—reached for his arm. There was no way to avoid saying hello and yes, he was fine and no, he would not be going to Gstaad or the Canaries…or, he’d almost said to the last woman who’d batted her lashes at him, or to anyplace he was likely to run into her.

They had enjoyed each other in the past, but the affair had been over for a long time.

The redhead on the terrace didn’t look like she’d cling to a man once the flame between them had died…but that was probably just wishful thinking. Experience had taught him that women were incapable of enjoying something for the moment without trying to build a life around it.

Still, it was pleasant to imagine such a possibility, the perfect woman, one who’d be as beautiful as a rare orchid and as self-sufficient as a desert cactus.

Unfortunately, such a creature had yet to be conceived. Women were either beautiful or sturdy. There was no way to blend the qualities and since he was most definitely a man who preferred beauty to durability, he’d suffered through his fair share of relationships that ended badly. More than his fair share, some might say.

Just once, Demetrios thought as the woman clinging to his arm chattered on, just once he’d like to meet a woman who knew her own mind, who would admit to desire with honesty and forsake the need for games…And then he felt a sudden tingling. He looked up, just quickly enough to see the redhead watching him with an intensity that made him want to push past the idiotic female babbling at him, shoulder through the crowd, take the redhead in his arms and carry her off.

Of course, he hadn’t done it. Civilized men didn’t do such things.

So he waited, ended the conversation and started towards her again, but the fates were against him. When Rafe called his name, what else could he do but respond? They’d been friends for years. Still, once they’d gone through the hellos and how have you beens, Demetrios decided to be blunt. You could do that, with a man.

“Rafe,” he said, with a little smile, “let’s catch up on old times later. Tomorrow, perhaps. How does that sound?”

Rafe grinned and clapped him on the back. “It sounds as if you have your eye on someone. Who is she?”

Demetrios grinned, too. “I don’t know her name yet. I’ve only seen her.”

“Well, point her out. What sort of friend would I be if I couldn’t help?”

“She’s right…” There, he started to say, but she wasn’t. He glimpsed a flash of green silk, nothing more. The mystery woman had faded into the darkness of the terrace. “She was right there. Never mind.” He smiled. “There are some things a man should do for himself.”

“And I’m sure you’ll succeed,” Rafe said, smiling back. “Nick says you used to put him to shame, in the old days.”

“I’m glad he admits it, but then, he’s an old married man now.”

“Happily married,” Rafe said, and cleared his throat. “As I am. And I’m sure you will be, too, when you find the right woman.”

Demetrios could almost hear his mental alarm start ringing. The expression on Rafe’s face had become serious. No, he thought, no. Surely a friend would not try to…

“So,” Rafe said, far too briskly, “have you met all my wife’s family?”

“Marriage has dulled your brain.” Demetrios grinned. “I’ve done business with Jonas, remember? At Espada, where I met his wife and sons. And, of course, I know Nick’s Amanda, and your beautiful Carin.”

“Then, uh, then the only one of the Barons you haven’t met is Sam.”

“Sam?” Demetrios frowned. “I don’t recall Jonas having a son named Sam.”

“No, no. Sam is short for Samantha.”

“Ah,” Demetrios said, as if he understood when, in fact, he hadn’t the slightest idea what his friend was talking about. “I knew the old man had a stepdaughter, but—”

“Sam isn’t Jonas’s daughter.” Rafe cleared his throat again. “Samantha isn’t actually a Baron. She is a Brewster. My wife’s youngest sister.”

“Ah,” Demetrios said again, and glanced towards the terrace. Was she still out there? She had to be. He had to meet her. In a room filled with beauty, hers had shone as brightly as the beacon that marked the anchorage of his private island in the Aegean. “Rafe, my friend—”

“Sam is here, somewhere. Why don’t you let me find her and introduce you?”

Hell. That was what this was all about. Rafael Alvares, who bred world-class horses and captained a Brazilian financial empire, had been given the role of matchmaker. It was pathetic, what happened to a man, once a woman put a ring through his nose.

“That sounds, uh, it sounds wonderful,” Demetrios said heartily. “But, ah, but I have to step out for a moment.” He patted the pocket where he kept his cell phone. “I have to, uh, to make a call to New York. And it’s so noisy in here…”

“You’ll like her. I know you will.”

“Yes. Well, I’m sure I would, but—”

“She’s your type of woman.”

“Really.” Demetrios raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. You might not think so, at first. Sam is a challenge.”

Meaning, she was bad-tempered.

“She’s hot-tempered, with a mind of her own.”

Meaning, no man had yet been found who could tolerate her. Demetrios had come to understand the language of those who wanted to end his happy bachelorhood. That the words should spew from the mouth of a friend didn’t make them any less deadly.

“She sounds…fascinating,” he said politely. “And I’m certain she is as beautiful as your wife.”

Rafe seemed to think about it. “No,” he said, after a minute, “I must admit, Sam doesn’t look anything like Carin. She doesn’t look like Amanda, either.”

Worse and worse. His old friend was trying to fix him up with an over-the-hill grouch who bore a man’s name and had none of the beauty of her sisters.

“Well,” Demetrios said, lying through his teeth, “she sounds delightful—but I have to make that call. And I see some people I know. Let me make the call, say hello, and then I’ll certainly get back to you so you can introduce me to your sister-in-law.”

Rafe sighed. “No, you won’t.”

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not trying to, ah, to avoid meeting this—this paragon. I simply—”

“You’re simply not ready to lose your beloved freedom.” Rafe’s sigh became a smile. “It’s all right, Demetrios. I said as much to Carin, but she insisted you and Sam would be a perfect match. What can I tell you, my friend? You know how women are.”

“All too well,” Demetrios said, sighing with relief. “That’s why I’m happy to remain single.”

Rafe walked away. He started towards the terrace only to be waylaid yet again, this time by a blonde with whom he’d had a long-forgotten liaison.

“Darling,” she squealed, and he kissed her cheek when she tilted her face to his, but there was a limit to his patience.

“Forgive me,” he said, with a show of teeth he hoped would appear to be a smile, “but I really must—”

And then a hint of fragrance drifted towards him. Jasmine? Lilac?

“Hello.”

The voice was soft, husky, and touched with amusement. Demetrios felt all his senses go on alert. Only one woman at this party had the power to turn him on with a simple word; he knew, instantly, it was she. He turned slowly, wondering if the reality of her would match his fantasies…

Yes. God, yes. She was more than beautiful. She was magnificent. Eyes a man could get lost in. A mouth that begged to be kissed. Hair that glinted with the fire of the sun.

“How lovely you are,” he said softly.

She laughed. “How direct you are.”

“I’ve been watching you. And you’ve been watching me. Why should either of us pretend?” He moved a step closer. “I’ve spent the entire evening trying to get to your side.”

She smiled and held out a glass. Until then, he hadn’t even noticed that she held one in each hand, both filled with crushed ice and pale golden liquid.

“In that case, you must be thirsty.”

Demetrios smiled. “Don’t tell me…caparhinias?”

“I thought you asked me not to tell you.” Their fingers brushed as he took one of the glasses from her and a charge of electricity flashed through him. Through her, too. He saw her eyes suddenly darken and knew she must have felt the same hot surge. “Do you like what I’ve brought you, Mr. Karas?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, his eyes locked on hers, knowing she wasn’t talking about the caparhinias. “Very much.”

“Good.” She smiled, lifted her drink to her lips and took a sip of the sugary rum concoction. “I thought you might.”

She was a flirt. A tease. And yet, she was blunt about what she wanted. The combination was dazzling. He wanted to take her into his arms, carry her through the house, up the stairs to his bed…

“Demetrios?” a voice behind him whined.

Hell. “One moment,” he said softly, and turned to the blonde. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “But I’m busy.”

He was being rude. He knew it, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the woman…

She was gone. But where? The terrace. Yes. He saw a flash of green silk being swallowed up by the darkness. He put his glass on a table and shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring everything but the woman.

There she was, hurrying down the wide steps that led to the gently sloping lawn.

“Wait!”

Her pace quickened, until she was almost running. Demetrios cursed, went after her, caught her as she reached a shadowed gazebo. He clasped her shoulders and swung her towards him. Moonlight lit her face.

“Why did you run away? Are you afraid of me?” Gently, he cupped her face in his hands, his fingers stroking the curve of her cheekbones. “There’s no reason to be. I won’t hurt you.”

Sam stared up at him. There was no way to explain. What could she tell him? That she’d only been teasing, at first, because it was fun to know she’d been coming on to the evening’s unknowing quarry? That what had started as fun had changed? That she could imagine going to bed with him, wanted to go to bed with him, but that not even she, for all her talk, fell into bed so fast? It was out of the question anyway. Her entire family had pointed her in his direction. She doubted if he’d want to hear that.

Sam moistened her lips. “I’m sorry if I misled you. But I’m—I’m tired. And—”

“And, you don’t know me. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His gaze fell to her lips, then rose. “You could know me,” he said softly. “One kiss. That is all it would take, and then we would both know all we need to know.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think. Not tonight.”

Slowly, he lowered his head to hers. Despite his words, she knew he was giving her time to end the game before it was too late.

His eyes were pools of indigo, half shielded by thick, black lashes.

I could drown in his eyes, she thought, and then his mouth brushed hers like a whisper of moonlight, brushed it again and again, and with a little sigh, Sam gave up thinking, closed her eyes, parted her lips and welcomed his kiss.

He tasted of wine and of moonlight, of a thousand forgotten dreams and of a quest that had never quite been fulfilled. And despite everything, she knew, as he kissed her, that she wanted more.

Unbidden, the word whispered from her lips. “More.”

Demetrios groaned. More. Yes. He would give her more. He would give her everything, take everything. He brought her closer, slipped his hands up her throat, felt the urgent pulsing of her blood, cupped her face and lifted it to his.

Samantha leaned into him, wanting the feel of him against her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He slid his hands down her shoulders and she trembled at the rough brush of his fingers against her bare skin, moaned when he gathered her tightly in his arms.

Her hands lifted, wrapped around his neck, and he knew she was surrendering herself to him, to the night, to passion. He bit lightly at her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny hurt with his tongue. She tasted of rum and sugar, of heat and desire, and he groaned again and fell back against the wall, taking her with him, sweeping his hand possessively down her body. He cupped her breast, swallowed her cry as the silk-covered nipple rose against his palm, curved his hand around her hip.

“Matya mou,” he said thickly, turning so that their positions were reversed and it was she who leaned against the gazebo. He moved into the vee of her legs and she arched against him, moved against him, and he knew he was as close to losing himself as he had ever been in all the years since he’d left boyhood behind.

“Wait,” he whispered, but she was touching him, sliding her hands under his jacket, tearing at his shirt so that the studs popped free and fell to the ground. He caught his breath at the feel of her cool fingers against his skin, and he clasped her wrists in one hand while he stepped back and tried to regain his sanity, but she gave a little whimper of distress that fueled his hunger. He understood her need. It was the same for him, the urgency to touch and taste that was almost pain, but he would not permit himself such a total loss of control. He could wait. He would take her where there was privacy, where there was a bed, a place to be alone.

He brushed a light kiss on her swollen mouth and wound his fingers through hers.

“My room,” he said, but she shook her head wildly.

“No. Not in the house. I can’t—I don’t—”

She didn’t want to run the risk of seeing people. God knew, neither did he. “The stables,” he said, and before she could reply, he led her from the gazebo towards the outbuildings.

“Wait,” she said, just as he had moments before, and he thought she had changed her mind, thought what he would do if she had, but she stopped only long enough to kick off her shoes. He scooped them up and they ran through the damp grass side by side. She was laughing softly, and he stopped, swung her into his arms and kissed her.

A cloud hid the moon, leaving the sky touched only with the fire of the stars, but Demetrios knew his way. There was a small office just off the stables. He and Rafe had sealed a deal in it. It was not elaborate. A desk. A chair. A couch. An old leather couch. Not big, but big enough for a man and a woman to make love.

He would take her there, undress her, sink into the lushness of her mouth, into the heat of her body. With the first frantic hunger eased, he would hold her in his arms, caress her. The crowd would thin, the party would end, and they would go to the house then, to his room, lose themselves in each other through the long, hot Brazilian night.

The stable was dark and pleasantly scented with horse and leather. An animal snorted as the door swung shut behind them.

Demetrios drew Samantha towards the office at the rear of the building.

“Demetrios?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said thickly. She knew his name? He didn’t know hers. He thought of asking, but what did it matter at this moment? Instead, he took her hand, brought it to his erection. “Feel what you do to me, o kalóz mou.” He heard her breath catch as her fingers curled over his hardness.

“Feel what you do to me,” she said, and she lifted his hand to her breast.

Her silk-covered nipple, hard as a pearl, pressed against his palm. He groaned, kissed her deeply, savoring the sweetness of her mouth while he drew her down onto the couch and gathered her into his arms. She moaned, pressed fevered kisses to his jaw, wound her arms around his neck and, for a heartbeat, the frenzy within him eased. He felt a sudden need to hold her, just hold her, to learn the sweet secrets of her body before slaking his desire.

“Tell me your name,” he said softly. “I want to know—”

Impatiently, she moved against him, moved again, and he was lost. He slid his hand along the warm, exposed flesh between her breasts and her navel, eased his hand under the waistband of her trousers, down and down, groaning at the first brush of silken curls, capturing her mouth with his when she cried out…

Lights blazed on in the stable. The woman in his arms froze. “Oh, God,” she said in a frantic whisper, and her sinuous movements turned to frenzied attempts to push him away. “Get off me! Don’t you see the lights? Someone is—”

“Shh.” He put his lips to her ear. “Don’t talk. Whoever it is will leave.”

Leave? Sam squeezed her eyes shut. Please, yes. They had to leave…

“…delighted you are prepared to make up your mind about the colt, Nick,” Rafe Alvares said, and chuckled. “I have had an offer. An excellent one, and I’m tempted to accept it.”

“The hell you will,” Nicholas al Rashid replied, with lazy humor. “Doesn’t being your brother-in-law count for anything?”

Both men laughed. Their footsteps sounded on the planked floor. Sam buried her face in Demetrios’s throat.

“There he is. A fine animal. As handsome as ever.”

Nick sighed. “More handsome than ever. All right. It’s a deal. Ship him to my farm in Greenwich.”

“As soon as I can make the arrangements.”

“They’ll go now,” Demetrios whispered—and followed it with an oath. He was wrong. The men weren’t leaving. The footsteps were drawing closer. Closer…

He sat up quickly, whipped off his jacket and draped it around Sam’s shoulders. Then he shot to his feet and stood in front of her, blocking her from view.

The light in the little office came on. “Let’s celebrate,” Rafe said, “with a brandy. Or would you prefer…Demetrios?”

“Demetrios?” Nick said, his voice a puzzled echo of Rafe’s. There was a moment’s silence, and then he cleared his throat. “Oh.”

Oh, indeed, Sam thought, and wished, with all her heart, that she were dead.

“Have we, uh, have we interrupted something?”

She squeezed her eyes shut in an old parody of the children’s game. If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. They really couldn’t, she told herself frantically. Demetrios hadn’t moved. He was a protective wall, and she was huddled deep in his jacket with her knees drawn up, her face buried against them, but she had never felt more exposed in her life.

“Let’s step outside,” he said. There was a shuffle of feet, the creak of the door half closing, then the sound of Demetrios’s voice saying calmly, almost lazily, “Actually, you have interrupted something,” as if were all some sort of joke.

Sam curled her hands into fists.

“Damn,” Nick murmured. “Sorry, Karas.”

Sam’s heart pounded like a drum. Go away. Go away. Go away!

Rafe cleared his throat. “I had no idea that you—that you were…” He cleared his throat again. “Well. I can see why you didn’t want to meet my wife’s sis…Damn! Never mind.”

“Right,” Nick said quickly, “never mind. We’ll see you later, Demetrios. Rafe? Let’s go.”

Sam held her breath until she heard the footsteps recede. The lights went off, the door banged shut and she scrambled to her feet just as Demetrios hurried towards her.

“Kalóz mou,” he said, reaching for her…

She slammed a fist against his chest. “Don’t—don’t ‘kalóz mou’ me! And don’t touch me, either!”

“Sweetheart. I am sorry. I regret that we were interrupted, but—”

“Yes. I’ll just bet you do.”

She glared at him, her blood hot with rage. He was talking in a soft, soothing voice, trying to talk her back onto that couch, but that wasn’t going to happen. How could she have done this? She’d almost slept with a stranger—a stranger who hadn’t wanted to meet her. Wasn’t that what Rafe had just said? That Demetrios hadn’t wanted to meet his wife’s sister?

The man who’d almost bedded her hadn’t wanted to meet her. Okay, he didn’t know she was the woman he hadn’t wanted to meet. Maybe that made a difference. Maybe her logic was flawed but dammit, who cared about logic? She’d been humiliated, embarrassed…and the man who was arrogance and self-conceit personified was still talking.

“Oh, shut up,” Sam said, and brushed past him. She tried to, anyway, but he put out his arm and stopped her.

“Have you heard a thing I said?”

His faint accent, so softly sexy a little while ago, had thickened. Sam blew her hair back from her forehead.

“This is all your fault. If you were any kind of gentleman—”

“Ah. I see. You wish to pretend you had no part in this.”

“I’m not the one who dragged me into this—this barn.”

“One,” he said coldly, “it is a stable. Two, if I were not a gentleman, there might be some debate as to who dragged who.”

“Whom,” Sam snapped.

“Three,” Demetrios said, his voice cutting across hers, “we are only here because you refused to go into the house.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I, at least, have some sense of propriety.”

“That is surely the reason you climbed all over me at the gazebo.”

He wasn’t just arrogant, he was insufferable. Sam thought about slapping him but really, he wasn’t worth the effort. Exhaustion, she thought furiously, as she pushed past him and headed for the stable door. It was all a case of exhaustion.

“You have my jacket,” he said sharply. “Or are you in the habit of taking souvenirs?”

She swung towards him and flung a string of curses she’d just learned in Egypt in his face. Demetrios glowered; a horse in a nearby stall gave a soft whinny and looked on with interest.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Sam replied, smiling brightly, “that I hoped your descendents would all be carrion-eating jackals, and that you’d lose all your teeth and go bald by the time you’re thirty-five. Good night. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but it hasn’t.”

“You’re right. It hasn’t.”

“As for your precious jacket…” She shrugged the item in question from her shoulders and held it out in a two-fingered grasp. Demetrios looked from her face to the jacket to the horse in its stall…

“No,” he said, but it was too late. The jacket dropped. The horse snorted. And the woman he’d been fool enough to have thought he wanted strode towards the door.

“Good night,” Sam said pleasantly, and batted the door open with her hand.

A single, harsh word floated out into the night. It was Greek, but she didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what it meant. Sam dusted her hands off as she strode towards the house. The jacket had, undoubtedly, found its hoped-for target, something that was the inevitable product of horses and stables.

There was justice in this world after all.

Demetrios glared at the closed door. Then, teeth clenched, he leaned into the stall and carefully retrieved his jacket. He carried it as the woman had, by two fingers, until he reached the door where he dropped it into a trash container.

He had never learned her name, but it wasn’t necessary. As far as he was concerned, it might as well be Circe. She was a sorceress. A tease. Hell, she was a bitch…And yet, as he stepped out into the warm night and thought of the curses she’d uttered, his lips began to twitch.

Descendents that were jackals were bad enough, but that he should be toothless and bald in another two years? He began to chuckle, and then to laugh out loud. She was not the first woman to have cursed him, though it had always been because he was the one heading for the door. Certainly, none had ever done it so creatively.

As for Nick and Rafe…Demetrios sighed. He was going to have to come up with some kind of explanation. He was sure they’d be waiting for him. They’d want details, the name of the woman, why he’d taken her to the stables instead of to his bedroom…

Why he’d had to dump his jacket in the trash.

Well, they were in for a disappointment. He wasn’t going to tell them much of anything. The assignation—the almost assignation—had begun as passion and ended as farce, but he had no wish to share it, not even for the good-natured laughter it would surely bring. It had been far too private.

As for Circe…whoever she was, she was quite a woman.

Whistling softly, even smiling—which, he had to admit, was an odd thing to do, considering the less than satisfactory end to what had begun as a fascinating evening—Demetrios tucked his hands into his pockets and strolled towards the house.