Читать книгу 12 Gifts for Christmas - Джулия Кеннер, Джулия Кеннер - Страница 10

WHEN Lucy woke the next morning, tucked away in one of the lesser bedrooms—behind a locked door to be safe as much from herself as from him—the world outside her window was pure white.

Snow fell inexorably from above, just as it must have been falling throughout the night because the usually breathtaking view was entirely obscured. She could not see six feet from her window, much less into the great valley below.

There was a terrible sinking sensation in her belly and a quick check of her messages confirmed her fears. Her car could not make it through the snow and all the flights had been canceled.

She wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was Rafi.

She dressed quickly and then made her way through the house. Even today, she was unable to walk through the grand halls without marveling at the Qaderis’ power, their grace and consequence. It was evident in the richly appointed rooms, the banquet halls, even the smallest vase upon an incidental table—everything was clearly precious. Ancient. Part of the great sweep of Alakkul’s history.

Except for her. She was nothing but the cocktail waitress whom Rafi believed had trapped him into marriage.

It was no wonder her stomach twisted when she walked into the breakfast room and found him sitting there, lounging back in one of the elegant chairs with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and his brooding gaze directed out the windows.

The fire crackling away in the nearby fireplace was nothing next to the heat of his gray eyes when he turned them on her. Lucy froze.

“You’re still here,” she said stupidly even though she’d known he would be. Was she distraught? Or relieved?

He only gestured toward the window and the snow that continued to fall, silent and impassable. The roads in these mountains were treacherous at the best of times; it would be days before they’d be cleared, and then only once the snow stopped falling.

But her mind reeled away from what that must mean. For both of them.

It was almost funny, she thought from some kind of distance, her gaze trapped in his far darker one. She’d gone to so much trouble to get him here and now that he’d be stuck here for some time—now that they were both stuck here—she wanted no part of it.

“It looks as if your wish has come true,” he said with an edge in his voice, as if he blamed her for the snowfall on top of everything else. “I will be here for Christmas after all. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled, Lucy thought as her heart fluttered wildly and her throat clenched tightly, was not at all how she would describe her feelings. She swallowed and told herself to pull it together. He lounged there at the end of the table, looking impossibly big and dangerous, but she assured herself it was just nerves and nothing else that swelled and contracted within her, sharp and rhythmic, making it hard to breathe.

“Christmas is in three days,” she said. She forced a bland smile. “Anything can happen.”

It was the longest day of his life.

Rafi found himself in the old library later that afternoon, swirling his drink in a crystal tumbler as he scowled into the fireplace. He felt restless. Hunted. As if she were right there with him, crowding him. An itch he could not reach, that would not leave him be.

She had avoided him for hours, yet he was as wild as if she’d had him naked in their bed, begging for her touch. He, who had never begged. He, who was more and more convinced that she possessed some supernatural power that enslaved him to her whenever he was near her. Even if she was only under the same roof.

With a growl of impatience, he tossed back the remainder of his drink and slapped the tumbler down on the mantelpiece. He raked his fingers through his hair. This enforced seclusion was clearly making him insane. He was supposed to be back in Germany by now, talking contracts and profit margins. Not … trapped here. With her.

He had hardly slept the night before. Being near Lucy made him edgy. As if he were suddenly made entirely of angles. He’d tossed in his magnificent four-poster bed, unable to sleep, images of Lucy haunting him. Taunting him and teasing him.

He remembered that first, delicious night. As he’d watched her work, he had been blindsided by the maelstrom of lust and need she had stirred within him. He had hardly known what he’d been doing, but he’d waited for her at the club until her shift was over and then taken her back to his hotel. She’d gone with him eagerly, seemingly as dazed by their connection as he was. The instant the doors of the hotel’s lift had closed behind them, he’d had his hands on her rich curves and his mouth on hers. He’d urged her legs around his waist and pressed her to the wall within moments of entering his hotel suite. He remembered the fierce, incomparable joy of that first slick entry, right there against the wall. He remembered her soft cries, the look of wonder on her face.

And that had only been the beginning.

Now, as the snow fell outside, he tortured himself with images of that first long night and the holiday he’d coaxed her into taking with him afterward.

I’ll take you to Paris, he’d said, and he’d done so, but it had hardly mattered where they were. They might as well have stayed in Manchester for all they’d seen of the City of Lights. He had no memory of the weather or anything else. It might have been a heat wave or a blizzard. Rafi hadn’t known and hadn’t cared. But he remembered her body in perfect detail. Every freckle, every curve. He knew the texture of her nipples against his tongue and the sweet weight of her astride him, riding them both into oblivion.

He’d thought he’d known her just as well.

“Even the great Rafi turns out to be fallibly mortal,” his cousin Adel had teased him in a family meeting not long after Rafi’s quick wedding—and not long after the phone call that had ripped his heart to shreds. “I would never have believed it possible.”

“We are not all of us destined to wed the future Queen of Alakkul, should she ever be found,” Rafi had replied, forcing a smile. He was known for his cool head, his unshakable resolve—and yet he had fallen for the oldest trick imaginable? A temptress and a liar?

“A beautiful woman should be a prize, Rafi,” Adel had replied, his gaze too calm, too knowing. “Not a curse.”

But Rafi did not believe it. Would not let himself believe it—and he was certain his cousin, who had given over his life to his duty and the glory of their country, was only being kind.

It still filled him with a kind of rage, sharp and deep.

But that, he knew, was not the true reason he despaired of himself.

How could Lucy have betrayed him in every possible way—ruined him and shamed him, tricked him and used him—and he still wanted her this much? Even now, when betrayal and bitterness twisted inside of him and fused into something darker, something hotter, he wanted her.

It was lucky his cousin was meant to be king and not him—because he would no doubt walk away from a throne for this woman, just as he had walked away from all he held dear, all he’d believed to be true about himself.

He remembered with perfect clarity when he’d realized he was nothing like the man he’d always thought he was. It had been during another meeting in another hotel in another interchangeable city somewhere in Europe. His aide had been reading out his messages in his usual bland tone. The standard petitioners for the Qaderi fortune, the regular communications from people such as the family doctor and the senior housekeeper and the usual sheaf of messages from Lucy.

“It is nothing out of the ordinary,” Safir had said in summary of Lucy’s calls, shrugging.

“Of course not,” Rafi had replied curtly, remembering with searing pain the last phone call he had taken from her, the one where she’d revealed her true nature. “My wife is nothing if not consistent.”

And even then, even as he’d pretended otherwise, he’d ached for her. Ached for all the things he’d believed she was, that he knew she could never and would never be.

Rafi pulled in a breath and turned to look out at the falling snow. Still it came, trapping him. Stranding him. Making him a captive in his own home. Making a mockery of the lies he’d told himself about the distance between him and Lucy.

But maybe he had been seeing this from the wrong angle all along, he thought then, as his body hardened, readying itself. Perhaps he should not have distanced himself when he learned the extent of her betrayal. In the end, what did it matter? There would be no divorce. And one day, there would be heirs. So what was he fighting?