Читать книгу Katrakis's Last Mistress - CAITLIN CREWS - Страница 9

HE SAT at a small table on one of the yacht’s decks, newspapers in three languages spread out before him and thick, rich Greek coffee within reach, basking in the morning sunshine. The golden light poured over him, calling attention to his haughty cheekbones and the fathomless dark eyes he’d neglected to cover with sunglasses, before seeming to caress his full, wicked mouth. His long legs, encased in comfortable tan trousers, stretched out in front of him, and he wore a linen shirt in a soft white that drew the eye, unerringly, to the hard planes of his chest and the shadow between his pectoral muscles. His feet, disarmingly, were bare.

He did not look up when Tristanne approached. She was not so foolish as to imagine, however, that he did not know she was there. She knew that he did. That he had tracked her from the moment she stepped onto this deck—perhaps even from the moment she’d climbed aboard the boat itself.

She stopped walking when she was only a few feet away, and tried to regulate her choppy, panicked breathing. She stood straight, her spine stiff and her head high. She hated herself—and him, she thought with a flash of despair, as she continued to stand there, like some supplicant before him. But she would not bow, or scrape, or whatever else she imagined a man like this must require. She would play her role—tough, sophisticated, focused entirely on what he could provide for her. She would think of her poor mother, whose cough was worsening and whose bills were staggering. It didn’t matter, at the end of the day, what Nikos Katrakis thought of her. Much less what she thought of herself.

Whoring yourself out to the highest bidder, are you? Like mother, like daughter after all, Peter had sneered—but she would not think of Peter. The temptation to dissolve into misery was far too great, and far too dangerous now. She resisted the urge to check her smooth chignon, to run her hands along her clothes as if her crisp white trousers and long-sleeved, sky-blue cotton blouse might somehow have become unkempt in the time it had taken her to board the yacht. She could not show nervousness. She could not show…anything, she thought, or she would crumble beneath the pressure of what she must do.

Still, he did not glance up at her, and there was nothing to do but stand there. She knew what he was doing—knew that this was a casual and deliberate display of his power, that he could and would ignore her until he saw fit to acknowledge her presence. Whenever that might be. Her role was to take this treatment. To ignore it, as if she often stood on the deck of luxury yachts, listening to the sounds of surf and water and the distant tolling of church bells, waiting for powerful men to condescend to notice her. The events of the previous day washed over her then and she could feel a scarlet fire roll along the length of her body, making her stomach clench and her breath catch. Had that really been her? That wanton creature, so easily commanded to passion by a man she had once dreamed might one day dance with her? Desire mixed with shame and twisted through her stomach, but she gritted her teeth against both.

It didn’t matter what she felt. It didn’t matter what had happened, or would happen. She was here. She had put these events into motion, and she had no choice but to see them through. She had to think of her mother—of her mother’s future.

“How long will you stand there?” Nikos asked casually, without looking up from his paper. His voice was like a touch, a rough caress that made her shiver. “Why do you loom about with that serious look on your face, as if you are attending your own execution? This cannot be how you think mistresses act, Tristanne, can it?”

Hateful man.

“I am calculating your net worth,” she replied coolly. She arched her eyebrows when his old gold eyes met hers, and ruthlessly tamped down her urge to squirm, to look away, to submit to the command in even his gaze. “I imagine that is the favorite pastime of most mistresses, in fact.”

His full lips twitched slightly, though he did not quite smile, as if he could not decide whether to laugh or cut her into pieces. Time seemed to fall away, as if he commanded that, too, with the power and heat in his gaze. Tristanne was aware of too many things at once, all conspiring to keep her under the spell of this dark, hard man. The golden sunshine. The lapping waves against the hull of the yacht as it moved beneath them, cutting through the swell and heading away from the French mainland. From all safety, however relative. The way his gaze touched her, heated her, for all that it was proprietary and, on some level, insulting.

“You are overlooking the primary purpose of keeping a mistress,” he said softly, breaking the spell, even as he cast another with his whiskey and velvet tone. He laid his paper flat on the tabletop and leaned back against his chair, every inch of him seemingly indolent and careless. She knew better than to believe it.

“By all means,” she replied evenly. She forced a smile, and reminded herself that it had been her choice to play this game, and there was no use being surly about it now. Vivienne was depending upon her. “Enlighten me.”

He nodded at the chair next to his, a hard sort of amusement flaring in his gaze. Once again, there was no denying the command in even so small a gesture. Nor the fact that he expected instant obedience. She longed to throw it in his face with her whole heart, with every cell of her being—even as she walked slowly, casually, to the spot he had indicated and sat. Like a good, docile, well-trained girl. Like a mistress.

He was too close. He was too overwhelming. She imagined, hysterically, that she could feel the intense heat of him caressing her—even though she knew it must be the summer sun high above them. She could not seem to look away from his hands, so strong and too clever, that rested on the small table between them.

He watched as she settled herself, his lips curved into something far too cynically amused for Tristanne’s comfort. His hot gaze tracked the way she folded her hands so politely in her lap, the way she sat straight in her chair, the way she crossed her legs just so—as if she was that proper, and there was no wild mess hidden beneath her surface.

As if he had not held the heat of her in his hands, and made her sob.

“Fantasy,” Nikos said quietly.

Tristanne stiffened, and fought the pulsing heat that bloomed inside of her and then washed over her skin, scorching her.

“I’m sorry?” At least she did not stammer or gasp. Though she could feel a warmth behind her eyes, threatening her with complete exposure.

“A mistress’s primary occupation is the spinning of fantasy,” Nikos said patiently—too patiently, though Tristanne could feel the dark edge beneath. “A mistress is always ready to entertain, to soothe. She is always dressed in clothes that invite, seduce. She does not complain. She does not argue. She thinks only of pleasure.” His dark eyes met hers. Burned. “Mine.”

“That sounds delightful,” Tristanne murmured politely. She meant to sound sultry, alluring—but just like the day before, her words somehow came out prim. Tart. “Something to aspire to, surely. With so many days at sea ahead of us, I am certain that you will find me an avid pupil of all things mistress-related.”

“This is not meant to be an apprenticeship, Tristanne. I am no teacher, and I do not require a student.” His dark gaze made her feel heated, restless. She thought again of mythical creatures, fairy tales. Larger than life and twice as terrifying, that was Nikos Katrakis. Just as she had dreamed long ago.

And now she was entirely within his power.

“My apologies,” she said, her voice huskier than she intended. “What would you like me to do?”

“First things first,” he said, his voice and gaze mocking her—daring her. “Why don’t you greet me properly?” He indicated his lap with the faintest hint of a smile. “Come here.”

She looked terrified—or appalled—for the barest moment, but then schooled her features with the same ruthlessness that he had seen her employ several times already. Nikos nearly laughed out loud.

Tristanne Barbery, he was certain, had about as much interest in becoming his mistress as she did in swimming across the width of the Ionian Sea with an anchor tied around her neck. And yet she rose from her seat with that quiet grace that he found uncomfortably captivating, and moved to settle herself in his lap. Somehow, she managed to do it gracefully, politely, as if seating herself on a man’s lap was as decorous an activity as, say, needlepoint.

But that didn’t change his body’s immediate reaction, and his body was under no illusions—no matter how distant and polite she might wish to act, Nikos wanted her in every indecorous manner he could imagine. And his imagination was extraordinarily vivid.

He put his arms around her, holding her close, letting himself feel the suppleness of her skin beneath his hands and the soft cotton blouse she wore, that covered far too much of her body. He felt himself harden, instantly aroused and ready for her. It did not help that he knew exactly how soft, how hot, she would be for him. How uninhibited in passion. He let his head drop close to hers, and took a deep breath to keep himself from taking her where they sat.

It was not time. Not yet. This was about revenge, not merely sex. He did not understand why he had to keep reminding himself of that.

She wore the same sweet and spicy scent as the day before, inflaming his senses, just as she had yesterday. Her hair smelled of apples and musk, and something far more intoxicating that he suspected was all Tristanne. He dug his fingers into the sleek knot of her chignon, destroying it and its appearance of refinement, and sent her heavy mass of hair cascading down her back, enveloping them both in the scent and warmth of the dark blonde waves.

She did not say a word. She only gazed at him, her chocolate eyes shuttered; wary. She shifted against his thighs, as if nervous, moving against his arousal and then away from it, though she had little room to maneuver. She let her palms rest gingerly on the width of his shoulders, as if she was afraid to touch him.

“Much better,” he said. Their faces were so close together. He could lean forward and press his mouth to the elegant column of her throat, taste that strong, determined chin. “No man likes to see his mistress looking so civilized. It borders on insult.”

“I will endeavor in future to look as disreputable as possible,” she said crisply. But he could feel her against him, not so restrained, her thighs restless against his. “Shall I make certain to keep my hair in a great tangle? Is that what you require?”

“That would be a good start,” he said, keeping his voice serious, though he wanted to laugh. He could see the color, high and hectic, that stained her marvelous cheekbones and added a frantic sheen to her eyes, though she still held herself so rigidly against him. “But you must also do something about your clothes.”

“My clothes?” she asked, stung. Her gaze narrowed on his. “What is the matter with my clothes?”

“You are dressed to meet someone’s mother,” he replied easily. “It is entirely too conventional and inoffensive.”

“You prefer…offensive garments?” Her jaw tensed, that strong little chin lifting. “I wish you had mentioned that yesterday. I’m afraid I packed clothes more in keeping with your reputation for exquisite taste.” Those challenging brows rose again. “My mistake.”

“I prefer as few garments as possible,” Nikos said silkily. “Exquisite or otherwise.” He let one hand trail along her spine, tracing the contour of it, the shallow valley below and the ridge of it above. “Skin, Tristanne,” he whispered, close to the tempting hollow of her ear, and smiled when she shivered in helpless response. “I want to see skin.”

Her lips parted, though no sound emerged. Nikos smiled. She might be here for any number of reasons—and he would find her out, of that he was certain. But in the meantime, there was this chemistry between them, so surprising and electrifying. He had no intention of ignoring it. He would use it, he told himself, to make his revenge upon her—and her family—all the more devastating. It was a tool, that was all.

“When you enter a room, you must always come to me,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. One hand tangled in her hair, while the other continued its lazy exploration of her back, flirting with the hem of her blouse, teasing the band of flesh exposed between the top of her trousers and the shirt’s tail. “You should assume that you will sit on my lap, not your own chair, unless I tell you otherwise.” He pressed his lips to the curve of her ear, then traced a pattern with his lips and tongue along the length of her fine cheekbone. She shuddered.

“I understand,” she said, but her voice was the faintest whisper of sound. Her dark lashes covered her eyes, and her face was flushed. He could feel the electric current that moved through her body, making her tense and vibrate against him.

“And you should greet me, always, with a kiss,” he whispered, and then took her mouth with his.

Once again, that treacherous fire swept through Tristanne, reducing her to ruins.

She was nothing but need and yearning, gasping against his mouth yet held deliciously immobile in his strong arms. She nearly forgot herself as his lips claimed hers, tangled and teased and beguiled. She wanted to forget herself.

But that was the one thing she must never, ever do.

Tristanne leaned back, breaking off the kiss and daring to look down at Nikos, to meet his gaze full-on. His eyes were molten gold, dark with a passionate heat that made her sex pulse in response. His mouth, so wicked and masterful, curled into the slightest of smiles.

“Thank you for the lesson,” Tristanne said. Her voice was the breathiest thread of sound—completely insubstantial—and told them both far more about her frenzied state than she would ever have wished to share. How could he do this to her so easily? Some part of her had thought—hoped—that yesterday’s explosive passion had been an accident of some kind—an anomaly. But this was not the time to agonize over it. There was nothing to do but brazen her way through such an unexpected obstacle.

She must not succumb to passion. Hadn’t that been how her mother had thrown herself into her father’s power in the first place? Tristanne would not be so stupid.

“Has it ended?” His gaze dropped from hers to trace her mouth, and his fingers spread against the exposed skin of her lower back. She fought off a shudder of reaction, but couldn’t keep the heat from her face.

“Of course,” she said, pretending that she could not feel the heat between them—or in any case, did not care. She leaned back slightly. Barbery ice, she reminded herself, with some desperation. “We already have an idea of how well we suit in this area. There are so many other areas yet to explore.”

“Again, Tristanne, I believe you miss the point of the entire exercise.” His voice was low, rich, amused. His midnight brows arched up, while his dark gold eyes saw far too much.